by Sudarsan S
Encouraged, the bearded man ventured further. “Into whose pocket does the remaining tea go?”
“Sir, the cup itself costs 50 paise”. The vendor was looking away.
“You are telling me that you are recovering the cost of the cup by giving me less tea?” The bearded man was not relenting.
“Sir”. The vendor was getting impatient.
“You will give me full cup. I will drink, wash and return the cup to you. You will recover the cup itself”.
“Sir, that is not how it works. If you want to drink, drink. I have other customers who will take what I give”.
The beard was not willing to give up. “You are mistaken, friend. None of these people will take tea unless you serve full cup. Will you, folks?” The bearded man looked around brimming with confidence. The others in the section, including his neighbour who had muttered, ’Yes, yes’ a few minutes earlier, avoided his eyes for fear of missing out on the afternoon cuppa. The tea-vendor smirked.
Ramanujam spoke up. “I agree, sir. I will not drink that tea if it is less than 200 ml and nor will my neighbour here”, pointing to Ananta. Ananta, unamused, pinched Ramanujam on his thigh, but it was out of sight for the people below.
Ram continued, “Take these five rupees and give me a full cup”.
No one took his proffered hand, but the act was sufficient for the bearded man to let out a cry of victory. “See? Let us see the full cup”.
“Full cup, my job. Get lost”, murmured the tea-vendor as the train jolted from its nap and slithered out of the short platform.
“Rama, you don’t even drink tea”.
“Yes”.
“Why did you...”
“Why did I offer to buy tea? I felt the beard had a point and no one was supporting him. Besides, the vendor wouldn’t have given tea anyway”.
“In a way, you robbed the people of their afternoon tea, Rama”.
Ramanujam laughed. “Maybe. But railway tea is no good. I just did everyone a favour by giving them a brief respite from bringing harm to themselves”.
CHAPTER 10: Full Moon Ascendant
“Looks like your chap has taken a brief respite from bringing harm to himself, Yadav”, the politico intoned slowly.
“What do you mean?”
Pyare Mohan liked to deliberate over answers, as if his companion would hold him to ransom over an impulsive response. Here he was, meeting his old friend in person after a long time.
He had shown a mild tendency to put on weight even in his days as a student. Years later now, he looked prosperous around his middle. “My men tell me that he has left his village with his cousin”.
“Really?” Dr. Yadav queried in a flat monotone.
The politician neatly adjusted his thinning locks grown long to spread across his receding hair-line. His smooth and chubby face showed a faint glimpse of a smile. “You don’t sound surprised, Yadav”.
“A clever chap, if there was one. If he had only remained focussed on his studies...”
“...we would not be having this conversation now”, smiled Pyare Mohan. He continued: “And his excuse about his grandfather’s death?”
“What of it?” posed Dr. Yadav hoping it would be false.
“True. His grandfather died, the last rites over and the boy has gone to Mumbai with his cousin”.
“Mumbai? What on earth...? Pyare Mohan, is it possible that you know someone in Mumbai?”
“Surely, Yadav, you underestimate me.”
“My apologies. Can we find out where in Mumbai he is?”
“...And finish him off?”
“No, no. Just curious to know what he is up to. I don’t want blood on my hands.”
Pyare Mohan raised an eyebrow at that statement. “Fine, give me a week, Yadav. And a picture of his.”
“A picture?”
“A person who skips town apprehending danger may as well swap his name.”
“That is smart thinking”.
“It takes a thief to catch a thief”.
Dr. Yadav let it sink in. It was difficult to reconcile the two faces of a politician – candid in private, smooth talk in public. The man was here for a reason, his own, not to solve Yadav’s problem. Courtesy demanded that he enquire.
“What brings you to the capital, Pyare Mohan? Business or pleasure?”
Pyare Mohan removed his rimless spectacles and blew an imaginary speck of dust on it. “Both”.
“Both?”
“Yes. It will be my pleasure to be doing business as the new Union Minister of Health”, smiled Pyare Mohan.
A pang of jealousy swept through Dr. Yadav’s mind. It always hurts when a peer does better than oneself and will possibly get to dictate terms. However, it could also be a key to greater prosperity. The good doctor overcame his envy in a moment and offered his hand in congratulations. Pyare Mohan continued.
“You might be following the news that the regional party from Purab Pradesh is likely to pull the carpet. Our party president, that is, my father, has sent me as an emissary to the PM to offer support to the government. Our party has always been clamouring for the right man for the right job and when we enter the government as its supporting pillar, we will remain consistent to our earlier refrain: right man for the right job”. Pyare Mohan paused. In a public speech, his followers would wait with bated breath for the next word. But, not the good doctor.
“Which is, a qualified doctor to head the Ministry of Health”.
“Exactly. My comrades will force me to take the job”, said Pyare Mohan, chuckling.
“An offer you cannot refuse”.
“Of course. Who would say ’No’ to a government job? Together, Yadav, we will achieve a lot. The banks need to be taken care of.”
“The banks, Pyare Mohan?”
The politician flicked his tongue and opened his mouth when a sharp double-knock was heard at the door.
“Come in, Ghafur”.
Ghafur silently placed two cups of tea in front of the two seated gentlemen.
“You were taking about banks, Pyare Mohan.”
“A little tea to refresh myself and we will resume.” He leant over and picked up his cup. Ghafur placed a bottle of mineral water and two glasses.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Like to have snacks, Pyare?”
“No, no. As a Health Minister, I forbid snacking between meals”.
“Very well, then”, laughed Dr. Yadav, “that will be all, Ghafur. You may leave”.
Ghafur quietly made his exit with his tray.
“What do you think you were doing, Yadav, asking about the banks in a stranger’s presence?”
“Pyare, trust me, Ghafur wouldn’t speak to anyone even if he understood what we were talking”.
“If you say so. In my enthusiasm, I believe I have been indiscreet about announcing myself as the Health Minister in his presence.”
“Let us drop the non-issue, I say. Tell me about the banks, Pyare Mohan”.
“Right. We politicians care about two banks – the vote bank and the Swiss Bank. They will take care of you. Life is simple. Have a Swiss Bank account yet, Yadav?”
“What would I know about Swiss banks, Pyare? What would I do about them?”
“You will need them. Pyare Mohan is not a thankless person. The Minister of Health will need assistance from the head of FADRA”.
“Head of Food and Drug Regulatory Authority? You will have to talk to him then, Pyare.”
“I am speaking to him, Yadav.”
“You mean, ...”
“The old crone Dr. Shirish Karve is retiring soon. FADRA will be looking for young blood to run the organisation. The Health Ministry will make appropriate recommendations at that time. You need to be more than an advisor to FADRA.”
Dr. Yadav flushed with excitement. Exercising remarkable control, he said, “A remarkable friend indeed”.
“At your service, Yadav”, grinned Pyare Mohan, with a twinkle in his eye.
Before lo
ng, the politician departed, promising to meet again for a celebration of their growth. After the door closed, Dr. Prakash Yadav quietly sat down in his swivel chair, swung around to face the window and ruminated. Darkness was falling outside, but the full moon was in ascendancy.
CHAPTER 11: Wait Until Dawn
The full moon was in ascendancy, but it did little to battle the darkness outside. The train had been terribly late. Train journey in an unreserved coach is bad enough, in a crammed coach with passengers itching to get out was worse. Irritation showed at every move and in every word with every one.
Ananta had never been through hardship and definitely not this type. Ramanujam was worried that Ananta’s mind might get into hysterics as it was a time of unusual duress for him. He had kept talking to Ananta to keep his mind occupied on what to expect in Bangalore. With the journey behind them, they were free to think of the future, which looked half as bright as the dysfunctional street-lights.
From the first floor of the railway station’s waiting room, Ramanujam was looking through the peeled patch of a sun-visor stuck window. Whatever view of Bangalore it offered, it looked good. It was quiet and colourful. It was past mid-night. Not the time to knock at someone’s door and ask for the neighbouring flat’s key. Ram’s friend Honnappa’s family was out of town and had left the keys with the neighbour. Ram and Ananta were allowed to stay for a week or so until they made alternative arrangements.
Ramanujam felt tired. But, sleep wasn’t easy. Maybe a bath would help, he thought. It seemed like a long time since his last dip in his village. In fact, it was a long time. He could not afford to go to the bathroom now leaving the bags. Ananta was turned over to the other side sleeping still. A peaceful mind, Ram thought. He sat down on the floor, stretched his legs and leant against the wall. Before long, his head was nodding off.
A few paces away, Ananta was lying on the floor of the waiting area, a blanket under him and a bag for his pillow. He was silently weeping. The euphoria of leaving village to be on his own was replaced with the sense of loss of all things he had held dear – the comforts of home, the sounds and smells of his household, the care and love, the camaraderie of the villagers, the cacophony of birds at dusk and the stillness of the night. He wept for his mother, thinking of her sadness. He smiled at the thought being self-referential. Be a man, Ananta, he told himself. Six months will go by as if they were six minutes. But the six hours as a homeless man in a filthy railway station waiting area seemed longer.
Ananta slipped gently into a disturbed sleep. Short dreams seemed vivid, but distant. A woman was wailing near a well. She looked like his mother. Ananta in a car. Suddenly, he is driving it. The car goes out of control and runs over a person sleeping on the pavement. The pavement-dweller looks familiar. He is Ananta himself!
Ananta woke up with a start. Still groggy, he sat up, determined not to sleep lest a few more bad dreams plague him. His cousin was slouching over and was about to fall over to the side, when he jerked himself awake. He would have gone back to sleep, as in previous occasions that Ananta had not noticed, but seeing the figure of Ananta sitting, he opened his eyes fully.
“Ananta”, he hissed.
“Time?”
“Almost 3:00. Slept?”
“Badly, Rama. Should we sit till day-break?”
“Take a bath, Ananta”.
“What? At 3:00 AM?”
“At 4, people start getting up to use the bathroom and clean up. Bathing at 3 will help you beat the crowd and give you something to do. And, don’t take too long, people will start banging on your door”.
By 4:00 AM, both boys had showered and dressed in fresh clothes and ready to start the day. But, Bangalore wasn’t.
“I am hungry, Rama”.
“So am I. But all we can do is wait until the shops open, unless you want to...”
“No, the jar of pickles will be undisturbed”.
“Good, then”.
“I have heard that tea shops open at four at our town’s bus-stand”.
“Bangalore is not the town near our village”.
“You are not making me feel any better. I will prefer your silence”.
Both spent the time sitting groggily with the silence between them. The rest of the waiting area was abuzz with people wanting to get ready before getting out. Queues formed outside the two bathrooms. A few people were carrying mugs.
Ananta was glad he didn’t have to be in the queue. Rama had been right. Ananta inched closer to the window and spotted some activity in the dim light below.
“Auto-rickshaws are moving, Rama”.
“They are designed to do that, friend”.
“Rama, please spare me your pithy revelations. Does this mean we can leave?”
“I feel it may be too early to knock at the neighbour’s door. I have heard that Bangalore rises late. We will leave at six”.
The auto-rickshaws kept trooping out in endless numbers like ants and they seemed to be the only denizens of the wide roads – no pedestrians, no other public transport. Ananta sat fascinated by the clockwork precision with which the three-wheelers were being disgorged from the pre-paid stand.
The place was getting brighter by the minute, and the two boys lifted their luggage and stepped down slowly. There was one thing they wanted to do before leaving the station: place a long-distance call. Ananta left his bags outside, went into a booth and placed the call. The phone rang thrice.
CHAPTER 12: Mother Sentiment
The phone rang twice. They were single rings with a long pause in between. Someone shouted “Long distance call” as the phone was picked up after the third ring. Half the household had gathered near the phone.
“Hello. HELLO!”, shouted Ananta’s father. It seemed natural to shout on a long-distance call even if one could hear well. It also seemed natural to shout when one cannot hear well. Nevertheless, the receiver had anxiety in his voice and relatives breathing down his neck.
“Is it the boys? I think it is”, someone asked.
“Shh! I can’t speak to two people at the same time”, growled Ananta’s father. “Ananta, we had been worried about you guys. Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“What is he saying?”, asked grandmother.
“Out”, shouted Ananta’s father, “I want all of you out of this room till I finish this call”.
“But,...”.
The angry man glared at his wife and made a move to hang up the phone. The others beat a hasty retreat and entered the nearest room.
“Go ahead, Ananta. What happened?”
Everyone was trying to make sense of the responses. Grandmother was standing against the door. She was angry. She was angry at her dear departed husband. All her sons had taken after him in the niggardliness of words. Her son’s conversation on the phone gave no clue as to what the topic of conversation was. That the boys called was itself a breath of fresh air. Will have to wait for the conversation to get over.
“Mother”.
“What?” grandmother growled,
“Ananta wants to speak to you”.
“That is grandmother’s boy, I say”, she said, stepping up to cross the doorway.
Grandmother gently nudged Ananta’s mother. The latter took the cue. She stepped forward to assist her mother-in-law.
“How are you, child?”
“Doing well, grandmother. Just wanted to say, your pickles reached safely with us. Rama says they will last longer than us”.
“That fellow is still making fun of me, eh? It is so good to hear you. Your mother will talk to you”.
“Ananta...”, the mother stopped talking for fear of letting her son know she was close to tears. She was also scared of her husband, who was glaring at her.
“What are you staring at, my son?”, grandmother asked, “haven’t you ever seen a mother talk to her son? Take me yonder. I want to sit on that slab. You know what I pray for everyday? No, you don’t. It is too late to change you or your brothers and I pray that at least my gr
andchildren not suffer from constipation of words”.
“What?”
“What ‘what’? Now that she has hung up the phone, tell us what the boys told you. Get angry if you want and if that is the only thing you can do, but remember that that there are other people in this house who have a right to know”.
“What do you want me to tell you?” growled the impatient man, incensed by his mother’s diatribe.
“Well, this is how you do it. You start at the beginning. When you have reached the end, stop,” grandmother looked up to see her elder daughter-in-law suppress a smile. “Now, why didn’t they call earlier?”
“There was an accident on the route and all trains were delayed. They reached at mid-night and stayed in the station’s waiting room”.
“Why?”
“They didn’t want to knock anyone’s doors at night like thieves”.
“Thieves knock?”, grandmother interrupted much to the irritation of her son, “Never mind, go on”.
“There is nothing. They bathed, waited until morning and called us. They are leaving for Rama’s friend’s house now. If you remember, Rama said they will stay there for a week or so until they find a place to stay.”
“Yes, I remember. Tell me again, why can’t they stay at this friend’s place for the next 6 months that Rama wants to be in Mumbai?”
“Mother, it is because it is their house”.
“Suppose a friend of Rama comes to our place on work. Would you accommodate him or will you ask him to stay somewhere else?”
“Mother, things are different in the city”, said the exasperated man.
“In ways I don’t understand. Did you tell them about what the postman said about some guys looking for Rama?”
“Yes. Rama wanted to know if they were from our village. I told them that the postman thought they were strangers in these parts. Rama said they were probably people who brought the things he had left behind in the hostel and must have wanted to hand the stuff to Rama personally.”
“What else did they say? Go on.”
“There is nothing else to go on. They will call after they settle down. For them, it will be a new phase of life.”