Mr Iyer Goes To War

by Ryan Lobo

  ‘One must conform desire to the truth and not the other way around, my king. One must be the truth to let it flow through you. Otherwise what flows through you is contaminated, and one would be destined to be reborn a cockroach, or worse.’

  ‘You are afraid of change, my friend,’ says Jayachandra. ‘You live in fear of the new. My duty is to ensure progress, my dear Bhīma. Spiritual satisfaction is not my problem. My job is to give them what they want – factories, movie theatres, malls, restaurants and cars. Come, progress is not be feared, my friend. It can make life easier.’

  ‘I do not wish for an easy life, sir, I wish for a good life.’

  ‘Tell me brahmachari, may I ask you a personal question?’ Jayachandra says, beginning to tire of the conversation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is this woman Punchi ... Pancha …?’

  ‘Her name is Panchakanya, of Kashi.’

  ‘Panchakanya? I sent my people to Kashi but there is no Panchakanya at the ghats. Inspector Sharma has checked.’

  ‘She has been bewitched, like much of the world today. Only I know her true self, and that is more divine than anything you can imagine.’

  ‘I remember the days when I was like you. I am honoured to have you as my guests. Show them to their rooms!’ Jayachandra says.

  The duo turn to depart, escorted by various helpers who materialise from the entrance.

  ‘One minute,’ Jayachandra says as they are led away. ‘Bencho, is there something I can do for you?’ catching Bencho unawares as he fills his face with cashew nuts from a bowl on the table.

  ‘I want the chance to join politics,’ Bencho says, his mouth full. He doesn’t risk waiting to swallow them first, recognising that this is his time. ‘Without paying ten lakhs,’ he adds, trying to swallow and not choke to death. ‘Sir, I have the whole of Benares in my hand. People know me, they trust me, I am one of them. Ask anyone who Bencho is, they will tell you.’

  Jayachandra looks him up and down, smiles at Ranjana and turns to The Lover, ‘Show Mr Bencho his town tomorrow morning to begin campaigning for the upcoming elections. I think you’re just what we’re looking for, Bencho.’

  Bencho freezes, cashew nuts falling from his mouth and fists in equal numbers.

  ‘Sir? Sir? Are you allowing me into your party?’ Bencho says incredulously, spraying nuts with every word.

  ‘No, I am not. You will run as an independent in a rival party’s constituency. Let’s see how you do. Iyer will stay here in the meantime.’

  ‘Thank you, king,’ says Iyer, bowing. ‘Thank you, queen,’ he says, bowing to Ranjana. ‘Thank you all!’ Bencho says, bowing to the room. ‘I will do his utmost, my UTMOST! I only want what’s best for my city, for all you, my people …’

  ‘Thank you, Bencho,’ Jayachandra says, cutting his speech off. ‘I will help you with the funds. The worst that will happen is that you will eat into my candidate’s competitor’s vote bank. Let’s try you out. OK?’

  ‘Sir. Thank you,’ Bencho says, his eyes filling with tears as he bends to touch Jayachandra’s feet. Cashew nuts fall from his pockets, scattering all over the floor.

  ‘Get up, Bencho, this isn’t necessary.’

  Bencho bursts into tears and falls to his knees, grabbing at both Iyer’s and Jayachandra’s legs. Jayachandra steps back and out of reach, wondering if Bencho’s hands would leave marks on his trousers, while Iyer steps forward and places his hand on Bencho’s head.

  ‘See, Bencho, I told you,’ says Iyer, a tender smile on his face. ‘The world is yours.’

  ‘Jaya hai, Jaya hai, Jaya haiii,’ sings Jayachandra under his breath, mimicking the national anthem.

  They are led from the room, Iyer feeling happy for Bencho, and Bencho still sniffling with joy, tears streaming down his face.

  The Lover smiles, too.

  25

  The preparations for the Kumbh Mela are in full swing. Krishna sits in the guts of a disembowelled truck, lost in thought. For some reason, he’s been reminiscing about his time in America a great deal more than usual, recently – from the frozen streets of Columbus to the filthy ones of Kashi, from big silences to a constant soundtrack. Finished with his education. Finished with his brief stint at the clinic. Just like that. All those walks with snow crunching under his feet and the sound of tyres on asphalt – so far away now. The Olentangy River flowing under the frozen surface, dead squirrels and branches pressing up against the ice. Like it never happened.

  He had fervently hoped never to be the Indian who went abroad and then struggled with his return, and he hadn’t been one until now. Perhaps this was not dissatisfaction, but a sloughing off of a past life. Still, all these details played on his mind – how tyres on the road sounded different in America. The welcome back home, where skinny taxi drivers at the airport were clawing for his baggage, insisting he take their taxis. His new sneakers dirty within minutes of arriving, a fleck of paan on his sleeve like a welcoming teeka. He had enjoyed the peace of the clinic, the pace of life here, the slow vanquishing of the sort of control he had had over his life in the States. He didn’t have control over much here, and he had found it relaxing. He had felt more connected to people here, where everyone was more at each other’s mercy. Still, his mind threw up images of great big oaks changing colour in the fall, and of neat houses filled with large, white people.

  The truck’s organs are spread out over the floor in pools of grease. Salim, his hands blackened from a lifetime of working on the insides of a truck, squats on his haunches, a dented welder’s mask covering a greasy face and a blowtorch licking at a part of the fuel tank, held in place with his bare feet. Around him lies a suit of armour made up from various pieces of the truck.

  ‘Krishna, this is the first time I have been asked to chop up truck parts to make a costume. Why couldn’t you just have something stitched? I don’t understand.’

  Krishna lifts a freshly made black helmet and tries it on. It fits.

  ‘Well, they don’t make truck parts like they used to,’ Salim says, his blowtorch cutting through a section as if it was butter.

  ‘Make sure the suit can withstand a beating, that’s all,’ Krishna says, his voice muffled from within the helmet.

  ‘I thought this was for a drama production!’ Salim says.

  ‘Every day is drama for the theatre enthusiast!’

  Krishna is distracted at the sight of a group of urchins arguing at the entrance of the scrapyard.

  ‘Get lost!’ Salim shouts, waving a jack at them.

  ‘A new leader has arrived!’ shouts one of the urchins, running towards a commotion further up the road.

  ‘A donkey has arrived,’ shrieks a second child, running in circles like a helicopter.

  Curious, Krishna leaves the scrapyard and walks down the road towards the sounds of chanting and a village brass band belting out ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to a Bollywood beat. He is alarmed when an unmistakable name filters through the chatter, ‘Bencho, Bencho, Bencho!’

  Breaking into a run, Krishna pushes his way through the crowd and bursts onto the main road, gasping out loud when he sees what everyone else is looking at.

  Trishala, decorated with garlands arounds her neck, is leading a motley procession, brought up in the rear by a scruffy and energetic brass band. A grinning Bencho sits on the donkey, wearing a monkey cap that leaves only his eyes and nose visible, a flowing red cape dragging on the street behind him. A procession of paid beggar sadhus recruited from Kashi by Jayachandra’s party walks alongside Bencho, while behind them walks The Lover accompanied by several of his flunkies.

  ‘I have come, dear people. I have come to save you,’ Bencho bellows as benignly as one can bellow, waving to the crowd, his way cleared by the flunkies. Behind the brass band, two monkey trainers hold aloft a banner of Bencho’s party symbol – a donkey.

  ‘He’s on a donkey. He does not even have a car!’ shouts someone, and the crowd roars with laughter.

  ‘If I travel at high speed
, I will be removed from you people! It’s good to be in close proximity to you, no?’ Bencho says.

  ‘Who speaks? The donkey or Mr Bencho?’ The voice is coming from a long-haired sadhu wearing a chastity belt, his dreadlocks touching his calves. The crowd roars with laughter.

  ‘When the leader sits on a donkey, it is very funny. But when a donkey sits in the leader’s seat, it’s no joke,’ Bencho shouts back, the crowd roaring its approval at the quick retort.

  ‘For more than sixty years you have not got the joke. I am happy you get it now,’ shouts Bencho, goading Trishala forward as the band strikes up a marching tune.

  A passing pilgrim garlands Trishala, and the crowd loves it. They start chanting, ‘Bencho, Bencho, Bencho,’ once again. Trishala has sufficient sense of occasion to behave for once, and walks in a straight line.

  A large woman rushes into the street, dragging with her a trembling, dishevelled man wearing the uniform of a postal clerk. His shirt is torn, and he’s holding broken spectacles.

  Raising his arm, Bencho signals the brass band to stop and the procession halts.

  ‘What is the matter, madam?’ he asks, motioning for the crowd to fall silent.

  ‘Sir! Sir! I have been paying this fellow bribes for my dead soldier husband’s pension for fifteen years now, and he has increased his rate today.’

  ‘Sir,’ says the clerk pitifully, shaking his head in protest.

  ‘Is this true?’ asks Bencho, glaring at the clerk.

  ‘Beat him!’ someone yells.

  ‘Hang him!’ shouts an urchin, and the crowd roars its approval again, a few boys running forward to manhandle the clerk.

  ‘Hold on! Hold on!’ Bencho says, raising his hand authoratively and getting off the donkey.

  The boys withdraw, disappointed, and the crowd falls silent.

  ‘Pickpocket, you are forcing a widow to pay up half her pension. True?’

  The man is silent.

  ‘Is it true?’ Bencho shouts, sticking his face very close to the trembling clerk’s nose.

  ‘Sir, yes, sir,’ he sobs.

  ‘You’re the worst kind of parasite, targeting a poor widow.’

  Some of the mob run towards the clerk and grab him again.

  ‘Hold it! Keep calm everyone, keep calm,’ shouts Bencho, which they do, looking just as confused as the clerk. Turning with a flourish, he walks towards the woman much like lawyers in courtroom scenes in movies do, his arms clasped behind his back.

  ‘And you, madam. You said that he has been doing this for fifteen years? True?’ he asks, stopping abruptly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then, madam,’ barks Bencho, helping himself to some peanuts from a cart, ‘why is it a problem now?’ Crushing a peanut and extracting the kernel.

  ‘He wants more money now, sir, almost double.’

  ‘Almost double? It’s how much you are paying that bothers you, not paying the bribe. True?’ asks Bencho, helping himself to a peanut from the peanut vendor’s cart.

  ‘Sir?’ she asks.

  ‘There is an ancient saying: if you give the monkey one peanut every day, one day he will want two.’

  Seeing the clerk smile at this, Bencho kicks him in his rear to an approving cry from the crowd.

  ‘Bencho Sir is a corruption fighter,’ screams a voice, and the chant resumes, this time with renewed energy. ‘Bencho Bencho Bencho.’

  Bencho takes the widow’s arm and pushes her hard, sending her flying into a cloud of dust. The crowd falls silent as she rolls forward and bumps into a goat, the chanting petering out.

  ‘And you, madam, should not feed monkeys,’ he shouts, peanuts falling from his mouth.

  The crowd is silent, all except the long-haired sadhu wearing the chastity belt, who claps and roars with laughter. Bencho takes another handful of peanuts from the cart as the woman rises to her feet and runs away, cursing.

  ‘Sir, five rupees,’ says the peanut vendor.

  Bencho searches his pockets, his mouth full. He has nothing. He looks through his shirt pockets, then his back pockets, then his socks. The crowd leans forward, expecting a climax.

  The Lover steps forward and pays the man with a ten-rupee note.

  ‘Jayachandra Sir said to take care of all expenses.’

  ‘Really?’ says Bencho, and grabs another handful of peanuts before mounting Trishala.

  ‘Peanuts for everyone,’ he shouts and throws the handfuls of nuts into the sky. The crowd surges forward, singing Bencho’s praises and grabbing peanuts from the cart as The Lover tries to stop them, his arms spread.

  ‘Guavas for all,’ Bencho shouts by another vendor’s cart, and the mob rushes forward again, The Lover getting shoved in the bargain. ‘Come along,’ Bencho says to The Lover, ‘you’re going to have to learn to do this quicker if you’re going to work for me!’

  With guavas in their mouths and peanuts in their pockets, the crowd surges forward, raising slogans and praising Bencho. Bencho is led on his donkey towards the marketplace, a street child at the reins.

  ‘Bencho Zindabad!’ goes up the cry as he makes his procession through the town, vendors rushing forward with their produce, word of his generosity having already travelled around the marketplace, Bencho helping himself, leaving The Lover to fight his way through the crush to pay the bill.

  ‘Bencho Zindabad!’

  The day passes in a whirlwind, with Bencho touring the town and listening to various grievances and ideas, and finally meeting with a corporator to discuss schemes for the improvement of the town. Bencho’s ideas for manhole preservation go well with the corporator – an honest man who is impressed with him and thinks of him as practical, a man in touch with reality and with a sound knowledge of management.

  Evening descends, and Bencho is filled with a deep sense of civic duty and happiness. He also notices a new attribute in himself that he feels has eluded him for long – courage.

  The Lover has been instructed to install Bencho in the guest quarters, a separate building on the Jayachandra estate, and he does so somewhat reluctantly. The rooms are opulent, the staff subservient, the bed massive with a noisy wall clock over it. Bencho examines the toilet, washing his hands in the health faucet, squatting on the European commode Indian-style, and using a Bisleri water bottle for his ablutions. He saves the plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner to take home, and wraps the expensive Dove soap back up in its paper covering after using it. He smells like a spring meadow, Bencho thinks to himself, his senses singing.

  He makes a cup of tea using an electric kettle for the first time, switching it on and off and on again to see what will happen. Hearing a car pull in, he walks to the window. He sees a truck arrive and then he sees the driver. Is it, could it be…? It’s Aurangzeb, whom Iyer had beaten up earlier! Jayachandra himself has stepped out to speak to him, and The Lover has appeared too. His truck is being loaded with enormous gunny bags. They are the same ones the idols were kept in, which Bencho had seen earlier in the hall. A Durga slips out of her bag and is quickly wrapped up again.

  Taking his new cell phone out, Bencho records a video, making sure to get Jayachandra speaking to the driver and The Lover. He doesn’t know why, or what he’s going to do with it; it’s just an instinct. Bencho crawls into the huge bed, the sound of the wall clock loud and ominous above him. He sinks into the mattress, and after tossing and turning for a while, gets off the bed.

  ‘Sir?’ he says, for no reason, as Iyer is not there to speak to.

  Bencho takes a blanket and pillow off the bed and, spreading the blanket on the ground, lies down on it. It has been an incredible day, but everything seems out of place. The clock seems to grow louder, and Bencho crawls under the four-poster bed, taking his bedding with him – the room a bit too large, the ceiling a bit too high and the bed a bit too soft for comfort.

  26

  As Bencho sleeps, Iyer is otherwise transported. He had been escorted to his room, a large affair with marble floors and velvet curtains,
where he slept into the evening, tossing and turning, beset with auguries, the house of his childhood reappearing, the pool in the garden filled with wounded gods bleeding onto the lily pads.

  In the early hours Iyer awakens to a knock, and an inexplicable feeling of soul sickness grips him from within.

  A flunkey invites him to have tea with Ranjana and Jayachandra.

  ‘Bencho, where are you?’ mutters Iyer as he rummages through his backpack looking for his comb. He finds it and combs his hair, wincing when it drags over a wound. Dressed, he meets them on the verandah, overlooking millions of pilgrims, their settlements stretched for miles, the air humming with their prayers.

  ‘Ah, Iyer welcome’ says Jayachandra and pulls out chair for him. A pot of tea is served.

  ‘Your man, I hear, did a decent job yesterday. I am waiting for a report on his progress. Who knows, your servant might get a few thousand votes.’

  ‘He is not my servant.’

  ‘Really, but he’s a Dom isn’t he? My sources say hes a con man, a drinker and fool,’ laughs Jayachandra.

  ‘He is much more than that,’ says Iyer, suddenly angry, pushing the table away and rising to his feet.

  ‘Don’t feel bad, Mr Iyer. That was just a joke. Come and have a biscuit,’ says Ranjana.

  ‘He is … he is … my friend. And he is far more capable than you think,’ retorts Iyer

  ‘Really, that idiot? Capable of winning?’ giggles Ranjana, unable to resist.

  ‘He is no idiot! The only idiots I see are right here,’ snaps Iyer.

  ‘Relax. Have your tea. Lighten up,’ Jayachandra says, motioning to a bearer who brings in a tray of food.

  ‘You insult my friend. You mock his abilities and you use him,’ Iyer snaps, and walks away, ignoring Jayachandra, who calls him to stay, and almost colliding with The Lover, who enters the verandah.

  ‘It was all in fun. Entertainment!’ shouts Ranjana.

  ‘Degenerate entertainment fills the void when the divine has been replaced. Your entertainment reveals the pathetic nature of discourse in this age.’