Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  There was a massive turnout. Durguja had been at the centre of a huge 're-conversion' attempt four years ago. Weird Hindutva outfits -- all offshoots of the IJP -- had descended and taken possession of the church. Armed thugs had patrolled the boundaries while a 'yagna' was performed inside the building, the padres were bundled out, and about two thousand terrorized tribals were forcibly reconverted through some random 'ghar waapsi' or 'homecoming' ritual.

  Amma had been very hassled about it, especially since Bauji loved the tribals of Durguja - the two of them had shared a rather me-Tarzan you-Jane type honeymoon here, some sixty years ago. She'd protested that the Pragati couldn't stand by and let something like this happen - but the morphed photo scandal broke out right after, and she got distracted. Still, her outburst had drawn the attention of journalists, NGOs and international experts to the problem, and a parliamentary committee was set up to look into the matter. Since then, things had quietened down, the church had been reconsecrated, cleansed and blessed with holy water, and the tribals had re-re-converted.

  'See, didi,' Munni told me above the din of the inevitable welcoming tribal drums, as we walked towards the church, 'the missionaries believe in educating the tribals. And they provide them with basic healthcare also. And the district administration doesn't like that. If the tribals get too educated, too organized and too healthy, they start demanding their rights and protest that their forests are being looted and want a bigger cut of everything. That's why they wanted them to become Hindu again! To kick out the missionaries. It is not about Ram at all, it is only about Rupees.'

  This was true. Amma had told me that if you map India's richest forests and mineral reserves and then map India's poorest tribal areas, you will get a perfect match. The tribals have absolutely no access to the riches beneath their feet, and are constantly booted out and shifted around instead.

  At the moment though, things looked peaceful. The biggest issue here now, I remembered, sneaking a look at the FUCT written with a ballpoint pen on my palm was U - for Unemployment and everything that went with it.

  You wouldn't have thought it, looking at the church. It was sparkling and everybody had neat, combed and oiled hair and scrupulously clean clothes. We hadn't come for the Mass, though, I realized as I looked around. Rocket Singh had got it wrong. We had come for the Stations of the Cross.

  There were fourteen stations in all, starting with the first, where Jesus is condemned to death, and continued inexorably, with horrific, graphic gruesomeness, to the fourteenth, where Jesus is laid in the tomb after being crucified. Munni got more and more upset by the vividness of the depictions and even I had to admit that the tribals were enacting the scenes with a raw, powerful relish I had never seen in Loreto Convent. They actually had a thin, tragic looking kid in a loin cloth, wearing a crown of thorns, who kept moaning realistically as he was bashed up and dragged along. The high point of the whole show was when they 'nailed' him to the cross. They banged a long, rusty nail into his palm with a large, showy hammer and all this 'blood' came gushing out. Munni totally freaked, even though I whispered to her that the kid was obviously holding little balloons filled with red-coloured water in his hands.

  Besides, all the standing, sitting, turning and kneeling during the stations really confused her. 'Uff, why can't they make up their minds?' she grumbled, shifting her bulk between the pews on creaky knees. 'Up and down, stand and sit, bend and kneel. These Muslims and Christians are all the same. Why can't they just sit and clap? Like us? Poori PT karaadi...'

  The singing was lovely, though, just as Rocket Singh had promised, and the scent of frankincense and the swinging of the chalice hypnotic. Afterwards, we had tea with the priests.

  'We can't thank your grandmother enough, Miss Pande,' the chief padre, a short, earnest dude, bespectacled, clean shaven, with slicked back, black hair and a slight lisp, told me over Parle-G biscuits and chai. 'She has a very long association with this church.'

  I nodded, feeling a warm glow at this glimpse of the Amma I used to idolize - the one who didn't kowtow to anybody and who just wanted to serve the 'pure' people in the best way possible. We had an unofficial public meeting after tea, where I talked about Amma and Bauji spending their honeymoon here and then shamelessly went on to compare IJP rule in the state with the darkness and suffering of Good Friday, and urged the tribals to claim a glorious Easter resurrection by voting for Pragati.

  Then we played some Pragati Party versions of the latest soulful Bollywood songs. Nothing flashy, it was Good Friday, after all. They gifted me a really cool woven basket, the kind Bauji had learned to weave in prison. We handed out our usual goodies - stickers, T-shirts, scarves - and moved on, hoping we had retained Durguja.

  ***

  Ballot Boxing

  Number 19 in a continuing series of reports from

  Lok Sabha constituencies across India

  Marigold Wilts in Bittora?

  A poll conducted by this paper reveals that while Zain Altaf Khan is still clearly ahead of his nearest rival Sarojini Pande, granddaughter of maverick politician Pushpa Pande, the gap seems to be narrowing, and that too, quite rapidly.

  Two close contenders, Vir Singh of the KDS, and Pandit Dinanath Dwivedi, who is standing as an independent, are tied in third place.

  Khan has stated that he has been preparing for this election for at least a year, but Sarojini's last-minute nomination seems to have upset his careful calculations.

  The Pande offensive, though haphazard (itineraries change at the last minute, the rattletrap-white Sumos break down almost every day and the giveaways are tacky) seems to be gathering momentum.

  This could be because grandmother and granddaughter have split forces, with Pande senior covering the urban areas while Sarojini tours the rural areas, thus doubling their impact.

  It could even be because Sarojini exudes a certain candid, heartwarming, womanly sympathy that seems to be charming her constituents. Her campaign managers have been quick to cotton onto this and are setting her an exhausting pace. 'We want didi to visit every single village in Bittoragarh,' declared Pappu, a member of her crack campaign team. 'Anyone who meets didi wants to vote only for her.'

  According to our poll, the Pragati Party seems poised to retain its traditionally strong bastions of Doodhiya, Sujanpur and Durguja. Khan will probably sweep the predominantly Muslim urban areas of Purana Bittora, Jummabagh and Champapul. The Brahmin area of Begumbagh will most likely plump for independent candidate, Dwivedi. The eighth assembly segment, Tanki Bazaar, is undecided and could swing to anyone.

  The IJP camp, however, scoffed at our poll findings. 'Your so-called poll features 2077 people across the eight assembly segments,' a spokesperson told this journalist. 'The total number of registered voters here is almost eleven lakh. How can you call this a representative sample?'

  Morale is still high in the ZAK camp, where a convoy of black Scorpios works on a tight, almost military, schedule. The campaigning is high-tech, with video-conferencing and walkie-talkies and the giveaways are glitzy, toy cellphones with 'Sarkar genda phool' ring-tone. Khan himself, with his intense good looks, aristocratic background and seemingly earnest desire to do good, appears almost Bollywood-heroic.

  At the time of going to print it does seem that the Marigold's days in the sun are numbered. But stranger things have happened. Either way, the Battle for Bittora seems to be heading towards a photo finish.

  I woke up early the next morning, and walked downstairs to ask Munni and Rocket Singh what the plaan for the day was. We'd all taken to saying 'plaan', Pappu style. To rhyme with darn and yarn and barn. It was a kind of tribute to Our Pappu's enthusiastic approach to everything.

  I found Our Pappu in the flesh downstairs. The moment he saw me, he leapt to his feet, saying, 'Anything, didi, anything! I will do anything you ask, anything for you! Your wish is my command!'

  'What're you doing here, Pappu?' I asked, blinking a little at the suddenness of this assault.

  'Didi, Z
ain bhai is doing Sujanpur today... So we thought, instead of clashing, we could go to Tanki Bazaar instead.'

  Hello, there were seventeen people contesting this election! Obviously, we would all keep clashing into each other. Was I supposed to make my campaigning plans after checking with Zain's gang?

  'But what about the Sujanpur meetings?' I asked. 'Won't those people get hassled if we don't show up?'

  Our Pappu shook his head. 'Didi, they are very loyal people!' he said. 'They won't mind! They always vote for us.'

  Hmmm... an urban area would make a nice change actually. They might even have electricity. And clean loos.

  'How far is Tanki from here, Pappu?' I asked.

  'Two hours' drive, didi!' he said. 'The road is smooth as butter.'

  Yeah, right.

  Tanki Bazaar... what was Mr Urvashi's abbreviation for it? I frowned. There had been no abbreviation for Tanki Bazaar. Odd.

  'Okay,' I nodded. 'But that isn't really one of your areas, is it? Who will take us around, organize meetings and all that?'

  As if on cue, a large lady with muscular forearms, clad in a printed nylon sari, strode in and grabbed my hand in a business-like manner. 'Hasina Behenji,' she said crisply.

  As I shook hands with her, Munni hissed into my ear, 'Watch out, didi. Hasina Behenji is Hard Core. When her husband died, ten years ago, his younger brother raped her in front of her small-small children two days after the funeral so she would leave the house and not ask for a share in the family property. But she fixed him good. Now he is behind bars and she owns the whole house and works tirelessly to improve the lot of the underprivileged women in Tanki.'

  Wow.

  But Munni wasn't done.

  'She doesn't go to any parlour-shalour to have her underarms waxed,' Munni whispered. 'She just lifts up her arms, aisey, and bites the hair off with her teeth...'

  Again, wow.

  'Tanki Bazaar mera ilaka hai!' Hasina Behenji announced with aggressive bonhomie, flashing large, white, armpit-hair-biting teeth.

  Our Pappu piped up with, 'Yes, yes, Hasina Behenji does excellent work in Tanki, didi. Her NGO is very well known. She has brought even Akshay Kumar and Ashlee Simpson to Tanki Bazaar; people love her there.'

  I smiled, genuinely awestruck, at Hasina Behenji, and meekly let her lead me to the back seat of the Sumo.

  ***

  Tanki Bazaar turned out to be a massive water pump market. Huge black Sintex tanks, motors and pipes were stacked high on both sides of the main street. Traders sat around, sweating profusely and gesticulating loudly, swatting at flies, and occasionally raising one bum cheek slightly off their gaddis to let fly long, loud, hopefully odourless farts. I peered at them from the car as we drove into Tanki and parked the Sumos in a highly illegal manner, inches from the traffic policeman's island, bang in the middle of the main chowk.

  Hasina Behenji emerged from Jugatram's Sumo, elbowed past the garland-bearing party workers milling around me and grabbed my arm hard.

  She led me to the dais, a wondrous thing of gleaming steel, rexine chairs and red shaneel carpets. Mouldy looking rajnigandha flowers stood at attention in brass vases on a plastic tablecloth. Our Pappu and Jugatram went to sit in the front row, while the EC crew set themselves up at the back of the shamiana.

  I sipped a glass of water and looked around at the crowd curiously. For such a business-like neighbourhood, there seemed to be a lot of women in the crowd. The split was practically eighty-twenty.

  There were cries of

  How should aawar leader be?

  Just like Sarojiniji!

  and everybody cheered lustily. It was a brightly dressed, rather giggly crowd, and it looked all set to party. The intezaam was really good too. Red cardboard boxes loaded with fat, yellow, black-pepper-pod-encrusted boondi ka laddoo and chunky, greasy kachoris were being handed out at the back. My mouth started watering instantly.

  When Our Pappu brought a trayful of goodies to the dais, I nodded graciously and grabbed a laddoo. Biting into the heavenly, crunchy, sugar-coated boondi, I slid back into my chair and tuned in slowly to what Hasina Behenji was saying.

  'And so, ladies, I would like to tell you, once again, how the march of ill health has been stopped cold in its tracks in this ancient area of Tanki Bazaar by the work done by the Samaj Sevika Forum! Before I hand over to the honourable Sarojini didi who will tell you about the Pragati Party's plan for you, I would once again like to remind you that Health is Wealth, ladies, especially for you in the social service that you do. If you are not a Healthy, you cannot be a Wealthy. Today, I would like to give you a revision lesson on how to ensure Health and Wellness in your daily business. Sarojini didi, please will you do the honours...'

  I looked up, startled. Opening addresses were usually much longer than this. My mouth was still full of laddoo. I swallowed mightily, got to my feet and staggered to the mike, where Hasina Behenji stood, beaming a friendly muscular welcome.

  As I approached hesitantly, wondering what I was supposed to do, as there was no lamp-to-be-lit or ribbon-to-be-cut in sight, she reached into her capacious black rexine handbag and, with the air of a skilled magician, whipped out a wonderfully lifelike, flesh-coloured wooden penis, complete with scrotum and foreskin.

  I choked.

  The ladies in the crowd didn't seem too put out or anything, though. Hasina Behenji held out the model invitingly, obviously expecting me to take it from her. I reached for the contraption - there was a smooth brown handle attached to its base - and grasped it gingerly. The ladies of Tanki Bazaar giggled a little and I heard whispers of oh, look, sharma gayee... she's blushing!

  Hasina Behenji proceeded to pull out a pack of lubricated PP state-supplied condoms. She pinched the top firmly (to avoid air bubbles, which could cause rupture during rapture, she explained) and with an expert flick of her wrist, proceeded to roll it snugly over my (as in, because I was holding it) penis.

  I held the sheathed model high up in the air for all to see as she called out, 'Okay? Everybody understood? Any questions? Health is Wealth, after all!'

  One of the ladies, a pretty, young, slightly oriental-looking girl, raised her hand.

  'Yes?' I smiled at her encouragingly.

  'Didi...' she asked hesitantly, pointed at the sheathed phallus. 'It is all suited-booted now and looking very smart, but can you tell me... because I am very innocent... where do I put it?'

  Raucous laughter broke out. My questioner laughed the loudest, tears in her eyes. 'Put it in your ear,' I told her sweetly, demonstrating by pointing the model at my own ear. They shrieked with mirth.

  'You must make sure they keep it on right through,' instructed Hasina Behenji seriously. 'And afterwards, make sure their tanki does not overflow or spill! If there's no spill, HIV can't kill!'

  The women nodded, accepted the free condom packets that were handed out and then, finally, I was allowed to make my speech. That bloody Pappu, I thought, as I put down the wooden penis and picked up the hand mike testily. Why didn't he just tell me that Tanki Bazaar was a red light area?

  After the meeting, I went to the houses on top of the water pump shops, where the shady ladies lived. They were really hospitable, pressing extremely sweet tea and more boondi ka laddoo on me, turning the table fans to face me, and exclaiming admiringly at my heavy gold earrings.

  A number of snotty babies were playing about in the flimsy balconies upstairs. They all seemed very fond of Hasina Behenji, crawling into her ample lap and yanking at her lower lip so that her pink gums flashed in the afternoon sun.

  'Where are your children now, Hasina Behenji?' I asked curiously.

  'Oh!' She tossed her head. 'They are big now - sixteen and fourteen. I can leave them alone at home.'

  'It must have been awful for all of you when your husband died,' I said awkwardly.

  'Oh, no, it was quite a relief,' replied Hasina Behenji unexpectedly. 'You see, my husband was not a good man. Always wanting to consume.'

  'Really?' I as
ked, intrigued.

  She nodded. 'Sometimes, he would consume seven-eight times in one day!'

  'Wow,' I breathed, my eyes now as round as saucers.

  'Then one day he consumed so much he died of it.'

  'He died of consuming?' I asked in disbelief. 'Is that even possible?'

  She looked at me in surprise. 'Of course! Cirrhosis. Excessive alcohol consumption can do that to you.'

  Oh.

  'So, how did you get interested in politics?' I asked her next.

  'Bhai, after the haadsa at my husband's funeral,' she looked up enquiringly to see if I knew what she was referring to; I nodded, giving her large hand a heartfelt squeeze, 'I became very sympathetic to the plight of girls like these. Once my problems were sorted, I decided I must help them.'

  I looked at her a little blankly. 'How could helping girls in a red light area get you interested in politics?'

  She smiled. 'Many different different party workers come here to Tanki. And they like the girls to role-play'.

  'Like wigs and stuff?'

  She shook her head. 'No no, they want the girls to pretend to be real people. Celebrities. Bollywood actresses. That old Doordarshan newsreader, the one with a rose in her hair, she was very popular once. They like Draupadi's cheerharan too. Then they like girls to dress like Missionaries of Charity in white-and-blue saris--'

  'No!' I cried out, revolted.

  She nodded. 'But I got interested in politics because the lady impersonation they found the most exciting was...' she leaned in and whispered into my ear.

  'No!' I gasped in horror. 'That's like, blasphemous!'

  She giggled a little. 'Oh, ya,' she said. 'And they didn't stop there - they like the girls to dress up as all the lady political leaders. Like...' She whispered into my ear again.

  'No!' I said weakly. 'Eww.'

  She nodded, her eyes dancing.

  'Also...'

  I gasped again.

  'And international lady leaders too - like Hillary Clinton and Candee Rice. So I helped the girls find recordings of the speeches made by these ladies. And then I got interested in the things they said.'