by Vikas Swarup
I have chosen to dress conservatively in an off-white salvar kameez with a fully draped dupatta, which is hardly visible under the collar of my dark-grey overcoat. A small handbag contains all that I need for the trip: some savouries and salted snacks, a Bisleri bottle and a yellowing paperback of poems by Anna Akhmatova.
At platform number 18, I am pleasantly surprised to discover that my bus is a brand-new Volvo, with reclining seats and adjustable armrests. I have a window seat, next to a young lady in jeans and a bob cut who looks to be my age. She’s not pretty in a conventional sense, with her boyish crop and square face, yet she seems oddly familiar. I feel like talking to her, but she is totally engrossed in texting on her cell phone. Not wanting to intrude, I also bury my face in the paperback the moment the bus departs at 09.00 sharp.
It is slow going while we are in the city, but once we are onto the stretch of the Grand Trunk Road, the Volvo picks up speed. The four-lane highway snakes like a black ribbon through the sparse, flat landscape dotted with small farms, brick kilns and patches of urban sprawl. The ride is so smooth it almost lulls me to sleep.
Eventually, the woman sitting next to me tires of her phone. That is when I turn to her. ‘Pardon me, but have we met before?’
She smiles. ‘I don’t think so, but you might have seen me on TV.’
‘Are you an actress?’
‘I’m an investigative reporter for Sunlight TV.’
‘Of course,’ I respond in slow recognition. I don’t watch Sunlight TV all that often, but the news channel is well known for its daring exposés (‘Like the sunlight which enters a dark room and brightens it, we uncover hidden facts,’ goes the channel’s tagline).
‘Hi! I’m Shalini Grover.’ She extends her hand, and I gladly accept it.
I learn that Shalini is on her way to Panipat to cover a story about an honour killing that took place six months ago. She tells me that a young couple – Mahender and Ragini – were murdered by their respective parents and thrown into an irrigation canal simply for defying the taboo against love marriages between members of the same subcaste.
‘Honour killings in India?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘I thought this kind of thing happened in tribal Afghanistan.’
‘Haven’t you heard of khap panchayats?’ she asks.
I shake my head. Once my civil service aspirations went out of the window, I had stopped honing my general knowledge.
‘Khap panchayats are social structures in Haryana, U.P. and Rajasthan who dole out their own form of rough justice. These caste-based councils consider themselves guardians of a medieval morality and one of their priorities is to prevent love marriages between members of the same gotra or subcaste. Young couples defying their fatwas have been ostracised, beaten up, forced to live like brother and sister, and even killed. They are worse than kangaroo courts.’
‘Yes, but how can parents kill their own child?’
‘They can, when honour is seen as more important than the life of a son or daughter. These khaps have had too much of a free run. They are composed of murdering goons, intent only on perpetuating a feudal and patriarchal order. Even the Supreme Court has asked for them to be stamped out ruthlessly.’
‘You said the couple were murdered six months ago. So what’s the interest now?’
‘There are many Raginis in our villages, but their stories are unseen and unheard. I want to highlight the terrifying oppression that an ordinary village girl faces in rural India if she chooses love over fear.’
Hearing her speak so impassionedly, I begin to experience that dull, leaden sensation I used to get in school whenever the teacher asked me a question I did not know the answer to. Somehow my eyes always seem to skim over the grisly stories of battered wives, burnt brides and raped schoolgirls in our newspapers.
To change the subject I look around the bus. ‘Where’s your camera crew?’
‘I don’t have one,’ Shalini replies. ‘This is just a research trip, for background.’
‘But what if a TV journalist like you suddenly comes across an unexpected story?’
‘Then this becomes my camera.’ She waves her cell phone. ‘It has a twelve-megapixel CMOS sensor that allows me to shoot 640-by-480 video at 30 f.p.s. What’s more, I can stream directly from my cell simply by connecting over the Internet to our dedicated website.’
Now she is speaking my kind of language. We get into an animated discussion on the merits of the latest smart-phones. A little while later the conversation shifts to Hindi films. By the time Panipat arrives, we have settled into a comfortable rapport with each other.
‘Well, good luck,’ I wish Shalini as she prepares to disembark. We exchange telephone numbers, promising to remain in touch, but it is one of those casual promises fellow travellers make to each other in full knowledge that their paths may never cross again.
After Panipat the road is congested and plagued with traffic snarls till the bus reaches Karnal. With its bustling markets and luxury apartments set amid lush greenery, Karnal has the air of a prosperous provincial centre. I have no time to explore the town or check out the hollow silver-bead jewellery it is famous for, as I have to catch another bus to Chandangarh, forty kilometres away. This time the vehicle is a rusty old Ashok Leyland and the road is a rutted dirt-and-gravel track, full of potholes. The jarring one-hour ride to Chandangarh makes me nauseous and headachy. But, at the stroke of noon, I am in Mr Kuldip Singh’s village.
The big man himself is waiting at the bus stop. ‘Come, come, beti,’ he says by way of welcome. ‘Your arrival has filled my heart with happiness.’ He is dressed in his usual shirt and dhoti and his handlebar moustache is magnificent as ever. We get into his chauffeured Toyota Innova and drive off, trailing a cloud of dust behind us.
‘Have you ever been to a village?’ Kuldip Singh asks me.
I shake my head. Having been a city girl all my life, I have caught only fleeting glimpses of villages from train and bus windows. My idea of rural life is still anchored in the idyllic villages depicted in Bollywood films, where beautiful maidens sing racy folk songs in lush green fields and people live happy, uncomplicated communal lives. This is the first time I’ve set foot in an actual village.
‘Chandangarh village has three thousand inhabitants,’ he informs me.
‘That’s less than a tenth of the number of people in Sector 11 of Rohini alone,’ I remark.
‘I still don’t understand how you city people can live in multistoreyed buildings, hanging between earth and sky,’ he chuckles. ‘We villagers cannot imagine living in a place where we don’t have a roof over our heads and solid ground under our feet. This is what we call land, what we call home. Home is our land. Land is our home.’
We drive past a series of farms, fully equipped with tractors, tube wells and threshers. Even the road is not all dirt: there are sections paved with granite bits. A farmer waves at us as we pass him on his scooter.
‘So when exactly did your village get electricity?’ I enquire.
He looks at me with a slightly cross expression. ‘Don’t you know that Haryana was the first state in the whole of India to give electricity to each and every village, way back in 1970? And every village is now connected with metalled roads. The only thing our village doesn’t have is a hospital, and that might also come in a few years.’
I catch a glimpse of a temple spire peeking out between the trees and electric power lines in the distance. ‘That is Amba Temple, dedicated to Goddess Durga,’ Kuldip Singh says. ‘She is our village deity.’ My respect for Chandangarh goes up a notch as I dip my head in obeisance.
Kuldip Singh’s house, it turns out, is located quite close to the temple. A pucca brick-and-cement construction, it is a rambling ancestral compound with plenty of rooms. I enter through a sunlit courtyard where a group of halwais are busy making sweetmeats. In the left corner is the kitchen, where another set of male cooks are cooking in large pots over an open fire. The women, dressed in glittering Punjabi suits, are huddled on a ch
arpoy. They give me coy, curious glances. The entire house is suffused with the festive atmosphere of a traditional wedding.
‘When is the wedding?’ I ask my host.
‘Just tomorrow. In fact, you should attend it as our honoured guest. Why are you in such a hurry to leave today itself?’
‘Work,’ I say matter-of-factly, as if it required no further explanation.
I am conducted into a large, whitewashed room, with just a bed and a dresser. An army of servants then serves me an elaborate vegetarian lunch in a steel thali with six different kinds of dishes. It all tastes finger-licking delicious. The missi roti is the best I have ever eaten. I wash it all down with a couple of glasses of sweet lassi.
The job I have come for begins after lunch. A Mahindra Scorpio arrives outside the house and a man wearing a black sweater over a white shirt and black trousers steps down. He seems to be in his mid-forties, with a stocky build, a clean-shaven face and squinty eyes. ‘This is Badan Singh-ji,’ Kuldip Singh says, introducing him, and begins leading the way to the rear of the house, where the cowsheds are located. There are more than a dozen cows and buffaloes masticating their cud. Detached from the cowsheds is a hut made of brick, but with a thatched roof. Inside the hut, stored alongside bales of hay, are all his purchases from the store. A fluorescent rod glows brightly overhead, providing the only illumination in the rather gloomy room. The appliances have been opened and displayed neatly. A long extension cord runs from an electrical outlet, pooling at the base of the television.
‘I understand head nor tail of these newfangled machines,’ my host says sheepishly, grinning. ‘Even Chhotan, our local electrician, has no clue how to operate the clothes washer. So we had to trouble you. Please explain their operation to Badan Singh-ji. I have to attend to the decorators now.’
He exits the hut, leaving me alone with Badan Singh. The air inside the shack feels oppressive, thick, permeated by the odour of hay, and I cannot breathe for a moment.
‘You came from Delhi?’ Badan Singh asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘All these goods will eventually come to our house, so I thought it best I came here myself. I drove from Batauli village, about thirty kilometres from here. Our house is just across the canal.’
‘Are you the father of the groom?’ I ask.
He looks at me askance. ‘I am the groom. Do I look old to you?’
‘No, no,’ I say quickly, kicking myself for this blunder.
‘I have called my workers. Now you just tell us how to hook up and run the gadgets. Chhotan, Nanhey,’ he hollers and immediately two men appear. From their dusty clothes, deferential air, nervous expressions and low-slung tool belts, I guess them to be electrician and plumber respectively.
‘Should we begin with the TV?’ I insert the plug of the Samsung 42C430 into the extension cord. The plasma screen comes alive, snowing softly to the sound of static.
‘I know everything about TVs,’ the electrician declares. ‘I am the cable operator for the village. It’s the washing machine that I find complicated. Can you show us how to use it first?’
‘Sure.’ I shrug and plug in the Whirlpool washer. The moment I press the start button, the tube light above me begins stuttering. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Kuldip Singh-ji still has the old electricity meter, which cannot handle too much load,’ Badan Singh sniggers. ‘There’s no problem in our house. We can run four ACs simultaneously.’
‘Voltage is bound to be an issue in the villages. You must run all these appliances with voltage stabilisers,’ I say, yanking out the plug.
Over the next hour, I explain to them the programme cycles on the washing machine, the functions on the music system, the HDMI connection between the DVD player and the television, the correct settings on the fridge. Badan Singh and his two minions keep nodding, but I doubt that they understand everything. Throughout my briefing they maintain the slightly dazed, sheepish expression of men who are unable to deal with the fact that a woman knows more about electronics than they.
By 2.30 p.m. I am done. I want to leave instantly. There is nothing holding me back in this hick village, but my return bus to Karnal is only available at 4 p.m.
Kuldip Singh is still trying to persuade me to stay the night. ‘Babli is my only daughter. Her wedding will be an affair to remember,’ he says proudly as he escorts me back to the guestroom. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to participate in the festivities?’
‘Positive,’ I reply. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just rest for an hour and then your driver can take me back to the bus stop.’
I lock the room, take off my coat, and lie down on the bed for a short nap. Outside, the women are singing what sounds like a rousing wedding song. It makes me drowsy.
I am woken up by muffled sounds coming from somewhere close to the room. I sit up and look around. It is only then that I notice the wooden door on the far side of the room. The sound is coming from behind it.
I hear a latch being pulled down and the door opens a crack. A young girl peeps out. She has a delicate, beautiful face, with big, almond eyes, shapely pink lips and thick black hair. ‘Didi, didi,’ she whispers to me, ‘Can you do me a favour?’ There is the furtive look of a caged animal about her.
‘Yes,’ I react cautiously, getting down from the bed. As I approach her I notice a dark bruise on her left cheek, like an angry rose blooming on her fair skin. She is alarmingly pale and her eyes are all red and puffy; I can tell she has been crying.
‘Can you post this for me, please?’ She holds out a folded piece of paper.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m Babli,’ she says.
‘Oh, so you are the one getting married?’
She nods.
‘Well, congratulations on your wedding.’
She doesn’t reply, but the infinitely sad expression in her eyes conveys more than words.
‘Babli? What are you still doing in your room?’ I hear a woman’s voice call her from the other side.
‘I know you are going back today. If you could just put this in an envelope, affix a five-rupee stamp and drop it into the nearest letterbox, I will be eternally grateful. I’ve written the address on the top. Will you do this for me?’
‘With pleasure,’ I reply, taking the folded piece of paper from her hennaed hands.
‘Please don’t forget to post this, didi. It’s very important to me,’ she says plaintively. Then, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, she pulls her head back, latching the door shut once again.
I am still trying to absorb the shock of this unexpected encounter, when there is a knock on my door. ‘Are you awake, beti?’ I hear Kuldip Singh’s voice. Outside, his driver is tooting the Innova’s horn. It is time for my four o’clock bus to Karnal.
With a last, lingering look at the locked door, as if bidding farewell to a loved one, I put on my coat and walk out of the room. Kuldip Singh is waiting outside with a big box of laddoos, which he thrusts into my hands. ‘Since you cannot stay for the wedding, at least enjoy these sweets.’ He grins. I thank him profusely, make my goodbyes and get into the Innova.
As the vehicle speeds away from the house, I cannot stop thinking of Babli. There is something about her that reminds me of Alka. Her sorrowful, resigned look raises troubling questions about this wedding. This much is clear: that an eighteen-year-old girl is being married off to a much older man, probably against her will. But such marriages happen all the time in the country. There is nothing I can do about it. I am simply a passer-by. I have no right to trespass into a family’s private affairs.
Almost involuntarily, I insert a hand into my coat pocket and withdraw the piece of paper Babli has given me. It is addressed to someone called Sunil Chaudhary who lives in Vaishali, Sector 4, Ghaziabad, and I cannot resist taking a peek at it. I discover a note penned in a schoolgirl’s shaky handwriting on rule-lined paper ripped from a notebook. This is what it says in chaste Hindi:
My dear darling Sunil
They are marrying me off tomorrow.
Marriage is supposed to be about two people loving each other and devoting their lives to each other. But this marriage is about oppression and suppression, because, for my family, prestige is more important than my happiness.
I am being sold to Badan Singh. For Father it is a business transaction. For Mother it is a means to get rid of me. No one in this house has any regard for my feelings. Everybody’s heart has turned to stone.
Forgive me for not being able to contact you during the last three months. After they sent you away from here, I have been kept imprisoned in the house, not allowed to step out even for a minute. But tonight I will be free.
I just want you to know that I was always yours and will always remain yours. If not in this life, then surely the next.
Yours
Babli
My hands turn cold as I read the missive. It is not a love letter: it is a suicide note, eerily reminiscent of the note Alka wrote before hanging herself.
I know that Babli is not making empty threats. She will go through with the act. I have seen that look in her eyes, the look of a girl who has lost all hope. Tonight I will be free. It sends a shiver down my back.
The bus to Karnal is waiting for its last passengers when we reach the bus stop. ‘We just made it.’ The driver wipes his forehead in relief. ‘Hurry, madam.’ He scrambles to open the door, but I remain sitting inside the van, my mind a whirlpool of indecision and anxiety.
It would be the easiest thing to board the bus and forget about Babli and this village. I can choose to post her letter or shred it into pieces and discard it on the footpath like a used bus ticket. But something keeps holding me back. I know it is guilt, preying on my mind like a vulture. Suddenly a vision swims before my eyes of a dead body hanging from a ceiling fan with a yellow piece of cloth. When the body swings left, I see that it is Alka. And when it swings right it is Babli. I close my eyes, but the scene keeps repeating again and again, like a demented slide show I cannot look away from. The searing images are overlaid with a silent scream of agony that fills my senses. It echoes like thunder, reverberating from every pore of my body. When it dies, I open my eyes, and immediately feel like throwing up.