by Anil Menon
She stared out the glass windows until the car pulled up at the station. The train was soothing and she snoozed for most of the journey. Her neck developed a crick and by the time the rickshaw dropped her off at Social Weather’s office in Hapur, she’d also developed a throbbing headache. Perhaps a cup of chai would help.
Social Weather didn’t believe in wasting money on fancy architectural exteriors. The interior philosophy was much the same. The interior was simple and functional, with an emphasis on basic comforts like regular chai service and coin-operated snack machines. When she had first arrived, she had been intimidated by the staff. So busy, so purposeful. Now she’d come to realize that much of it was just show. People found hazaar ways to dawdle, gossip, flirt, waste time on someone’s else rupee. But if she asked to leave an hour early, then immediately, ‘this is not a government office, Shabari, you have to be a team player.’ Stern talks, marks on her annual review, tight looks.
Everyone was surprised she’d come to work. They registered their surprise by noticing her. But why was it so surprising? What else would she be doing? What else was there to do now?
‘I really like the office, Ma,’ said Sudhir. ‘Where is your desk?’
She pointed to a large desk. Hers was twice as large as most of the others, but that was only because it was the configuration supervisor’s desk, not hers. Positioned safely to one side was a very large display, almost twenty-seven inches diagonally, and truth be told, the desk belonged to the display. She started the machine, logged in, placed her palm on the fingerprint reader and the screen cleared to display Social Weather’s logo.
All this security had been so intimidating the first day. Now, she could see the protective measures for what they were. An admission of weakness. Of defeat. As Durga-ji had once said, a security system was always the first sign that the system had given up on humans. How perceptive Durga-ji had been. An offhand comment here, a throwaway statement there; why hadn’t she written all his wise words down? It would have helped many confused people. Now it was too late. But it didn’t matter.
She pulled up the installation list. It had taken her three weeks to figure out what her job was and what the Maggie Noodle soup of arcane commands, scripts, and makefiles she ‘executed’ actually did. The configuration specialist’s job was easy but there were many details to worry about. She had to verify Q&A had cleared each and every file on the Jadoo, that the resources the programs needed were available, and that the core content—movies, songs, pictures, talking encyclopedias, knowledge bases—had all installed correctly. She had to make sure the Jadoo was ready to be used ‘out of the box’. Once she signed off on the release, the master install program would ready 5,400 tablets for the so-called Vayuputra distribution.
She hadn’t understood why she had to be in Hapur to issue the commands to load tablets currently in Delhi. Why not do it from Delhi itself ? Tanaz had explained that it had symbolic value. The process enabled people in the field to make the decisions that affected their work. That was only fair, wasn’t it?
In another life, perhaps she would be like one of these people, smart, college-educated, possessing that strange expectation—no, arrogance—that life would always treat them fairly.
She knew better.
‘I’m so proud of you, Ma.’
‘You should have been one of them.’
She looked up to acknowledge the flock of ladies by her desk. She listened patiently, accepted their shoulder presses, their well-meant words of comfort. They seemed embarrassed, vaguely guilty, and she wanted to say: feel nothing for me, for I feel nothing for you. You are all nothing to me, your words are nothing to me, life is nothing to me. Eventually, they left.
At three, she went to get a cup of coffee from the machine. It was cheap, only one rupee. Some months earlier, she had overheard Anand-ji complain about it to his uninterested wife. He had wanted to charge for the coffee; it was the principle, there was no free lunch. But Eshwar-ji’s employees had become used to free coffee in their workplaces and they had complained bitterly. Such small-small things could become big-big things. The compromise had been heavily subsidized coffee.
A shout of laughter from one of the cubicles. A fellow in a white shirt, dark-blue tie, a smartphone in hand, company badge on a loop tucked into his shirt pocket. He was surrounded by other college types. She heard a rapid patter of Punjabi-accented Hindi mixed with English. Sudhir could have been such a charmer, working in some posh office, firing off phatta-phut English, surrounded by admirers. Nobody would have to know his mother had started out cleaning houses. They wouldn’t believe it even if he told them. Sudhir? You, a maid’s son? What, man! India is progressing like anything! They would show their decency by making him one of them, a decent middle-class fellow.
Bastards, each and every one of them. Decent people! She knew first-hand how decent they were. And their wives, their fat lazy stupid wives. She hated the wives more than the men. The day would come when such decent people would be hacked to death. Hacked into bloody little pieces, stir-fried and then fed to the mangiest of mongrels. There would be no mercy. The wives would be brained on the marble tiles of their decent homes. Their wheatish-complexioned high-class pelts would be hung on their laundry lines. But their eyes would be preserved, science could do that now, their eyes would be preserved so that they could see what had happened to their decent world. All would be cleansed.
She saw that the cluster around the hero had fallen silent. She smiled at the group, walked back to her desk, exhausted from the tsunami of hate. Why was she still filled with hate? She hated no one, forgave everyone. Let it be. Let everything be. It didn’t matter.
Back at her desk, she saw that the bitch Tanaz had called to check on her progress. Always snooping, always checking, always monitoring. She would get her comeuppance soon. Very soon. She would make sure of that. They would learn, as Valmiki had, that there was no justice in the world.
Valmiki had been a forest bandit, preying on travellers. Once he had spotted a group of pilgrims passing through. Valmiki had attacked the party, but instead of the fear he’d expected, he had been met with compassion. The leader of the party, a sage, had asked him if his wife would share in the karmic punishment for his actions. Of course, Valmiki had replied, laughing. After all, his wife and child survived because of what he did for a living. Upon being urged to confirm this expectation, an expectation based only on a reason, Valmiki returned to his shelter, asked his wife the question the sage had asked him. She was puzzled. How could she share the karmic consequences? The actions were his, so were its consequences. It was his duty to feed his wife and child. How was she or their child responsible for how he chose to do so? Valmiki had realized then how the world worked.
When the world heard Durga-ji’s story, they would come to the very same realization.
‘Don’t do this, Ma,’ said Sudhir.
You do not understand, beta. You did not have to die. You had been unwell. I should have been at home, taking care of you. Tanaz, that decent English-speaking bitch, did not care. She had only cared about getting the job done. At every step, where women should have understood, should have helped, they had failed her.
Not everyone. She thought of Kannagi, her smiling face, her compassion. But it did not matter. Didi would pay for her kindness, the way Durga-ji had been made to pay for his kindness; it was the way of the world. Those who were good, they suffered. Those who were sinful, they prospered.
Once again, she marvelled at Durga-ji’s ability to face the truth and yet choose to remain good. She lacked his strength. She’d been in the presence of a deity and failed to realize it. It had taken a stint in hell to recognize she’d once tasted heaven. Unlike other men she’d had the misfortune to encounter, happiness hadn’t made Durga-ji restless. He’d known how to enjoy happiness. Such wonderful evenings. After the first ten minutes of listening to his narration, she’d known she needed to preserve the telling for posterity. Yes, it was a betrayal of his trust, bu
t the karmic consequences were hers to bear, not his. She was glad she had recorded the telling.
She took out the USB stick she’d kept hidden in Sudhir’s Omnipod case and started to upload the audio file. It had a very small footprint, it wouldn’t be noticed.
Sita and Surpanaka. Ram and Lakshman. Shabari and her Lord. Here was a story that understood love and justice. Oh, what a story, what a story. The world would have been so different if it’d had this story. Well, it would have the story now.
If, from what she did, even a few people changed their mode of thinking, perhaps other mothers would be spared her grief. If even one was so spared, then it was reward enough.
Oh how she missed him, my baby, my darling, the light of my life. My reason for living, my sun, my moon. How she ached for the daily rituals of their mornings and evenings, even the worries, the anxieties. How she had prayed for Sudhir to be cured. Now he was cured, and she had to be mad that she wanted him returned, but she did. She ached to soothe his fevered brow, kiss the shadows under his eyes, cradle him in her arms.
She fired up a Tor browser. Yes, a Tor browser. She not only knew how to secure an anonymous link, but she also knew how to make mistakes so that the attempt would fail. The blame had to fall on Tanaz Chikliwala’s shoulders. Shabari had already opened a Youtube account. She uploaded the movie, then the audio files. She next went to the Wikileaks website. That took more time.
What difference did a story make? It was no longer an age in which a story, any story, could make enough of a difference. Actions made a difference. Science made a difference. Business made a difference. But a story, what difference could a story make?
Perhaps none. But if she didn’t act, then it certainly wouldn’t make a difference. That slim bridge of possibility was enough. Let a story find its listeners. Perhaps one, perhaps all, perhaps none. Her work was done.
Her cell rang. It was Tanaz. How were things going? The install is almost done, Tanaz-ji. I’ll shortly send it to you for approval. No problems, a few discrepancies in file sizes—
What discrepancies?
She had been ready for this question. She rattled off a list of files, mostly system files; new versions had come from the office, and in the hurry, the changes hadn’t been properly registered. A short movie had also been added to the entertainment core list. It was just under a gig or so, a spiritual saga about the life of a robber who had fallen into an ant-heap and become a saint.
‘Okay, whatever; sounds good,’ said Tanaz. ‘Email the release form and I’ll approve. I’ve too many things to do Shabari; I’m going to rely on you. Everything’s okay, nah?’
‘Tanaz-ji, everything is okay.’
‘Good, good.’
Her boss seemed to be on the edge of something. A confession? An apology? The next task to be completed? It didn’t matter.
Shabari started on her confession. She had thought over what to say the whole week. It would be brief but it would be hypoglycemic with reasons.
She then spent the next thirty minutes, checking and re-checking that everything would install as planned. Software, she had discovered, was the most unreliable of products. She checked and re-checked, finding an old familiar comfort in the need to control for the unexpected. She prepared the email, attached the release form, initialed with her signature, the last in a long line of signatures. Engineering, QA, marketing, sales, Eshwar’s people. But Tanaz’s approval would set the bullock cart moving.
It took another two hours before Tanaz sent an email affirming the release and thanking Shabari for her hard work. Shabari had grown as an employee, the evaluation report would certainly mention that progress.
Nothing remained to be done at the office. She took her test tablet, ran through the install, selected the movie, made sure it played. But her mind could no longer focus, as if her consciousness sensed that its time on this earth was drawing to a close. The final hour was sheer torture. She sat still at her desk, staring at nothing. She noticed a colleague nudging another as they walked by her desk.
4:45 PM! She could leave. She looked around for Sudhir. It was time to go home. But he was nowhere to be seen. Then she remembered he had gone on ahead. She fired off the last email of the day, one to Kannagi. Just a thank you note didi, wish you well, didi, please be careful. She took the ladies’ van at five o’clock to the railway station, staring out the van’s window to avoid conversation. The office was only a short distance from the station and she reached in fifteen minutes. The train was scheduled to arrive at five-thirty.
Whew! She was exhausted, she had to admit. She waited a short distance from the platform clock, watching the long hand of time. The trains ran on time now. She waited and waited. Then, just like that, as if it had materialized out of thin air, she saw the shield-like front of the train turn the corner. She walked slowly to the very edge of the platform, staying well behind the yellow line. No one must suspect anything, no one should attempt a rescue. The time for rescue was over. Her stomach was tied in knots, a fierce excitement drove out all the grief, the sadness. I’m almost there, my baby, my darling. We’ll be so happy together. How implacable the train was, how mighty, how inexorable. Like life. Shabari had expected a terrible pain, readied for it, thought about it, not thought about it, but in the end, it didn’t matter.
22
RATHOD AND I WERE ON OUR WAY TOWARDS POKHRAN TO FREE an innocent man. The early morning flight from New Delhi to Jodhpur had only taken a couple of hours, the meetings with the local CA staff had taken another hour, followed by a satisfying brunch at the Hanwant Mahal, and by noon we were jouncing over NH 114’s potholes, a couple of smiling Buddhas.
But our smiles soon faded, the conversation flagged, the radio sputtered and even our breathing acquired the shifty stillness of a cat. Our tinted windows revealed little of the arid landscape with its mangy pockets of bleached green. Inside the SUV, the recirculated air was clammy and cold.
I reminded myself the day would soon be over and I could then tell Tanaz that we’d reunited her American friend with her Petrarch scholar. Before leaving I’d called her in Hapur to say I was going to Jodhpur, but didn’t go into further details.
Tanaz, of course, had been to Jodhpur, and normally she would have fired off names of streets and eateries that would all sound wonderful. Wonderful missed opportunities, that is. But she sounded distracted and somewhat quiet. Tanaz said she’d begun reading the letter.
And?
‘I love that you were so honest. When you come back from Jaipur, we’ll talk.’
I had heard her say she loved me hundreds of times, perhaps even thousands of times. The sounds had never lost their potency, never become threadworn, never failed to fill me, if only for a few seconds, with a sweet thrill. Life keeps its promise to Hope with those words.
I was at peace. I had faith in us. Things were working out. I had my letter from Gowda, though it was no use to me now. I would soon be able to reunite Margherita with her scholar. I glanced at Rathod. After this trip, I wouldn’t really need him around anymore. But if he wished, he could continue working for me.
‘Sir-ji, know any jokes?’
‘Jokes? No, not offhand.’
Rathod had another question waiting its turn at the mike.
‘Sir-ji, would you rather spend the rest of your life in prison or be executed?’
‘Life in prison. You?’
‘Death sentence, sir-ji.’
‘So we are both lying, is that it?’
Rathod didn’t laugh, but he threw his head back to indicate I could assume my stab at humour had succeeded. We drove in silence for another thirty kilometres.
‘Sir-ji, do you need to take a piss?’ Rathod pointed to a large banyan off the side of the road.
Which told me he needed to. So did I. We’d consumed excessive quantities of buttermilk at Hanwant Mahal plus gulped bottled water by the gallon since leaving Jodhpur. Rathod pulled over and I got out first. We glanced at each other in some awkwardness. The banyan w
as surrounded by a stone encasement, with steps leading to a small shrine set against the tree’s imprisoned trunk. The shrine was just a stone tablet bearing the image of a headless warrior mounted on a horse.
‘Heh,’ exclaimed Rathod. ‘This is Thakur-baba’s chabootra!’
He explained that Thakur-baba was a local deity whose ‘region’ was to the west of Jodhpur, mostly in the Shahbad district, up to the border of Madhya Pradesh. Thakur-baba seemed to be extending his domain.
Watering the tree was now out of the question, so we relieved ourselves in the burning hot sun on the edge of the burning hot road. The air shimmered in the far distance, and I was reminded Pokhran meant ‘land of the five mirages’.
‘How did Thakur-baba lose his head?’ I asked, bubbling the sand with my piss and enjoying it.
‘Battle against Mughal fuckers, sir-ji. He lost his head but people say Thakur-baba kept on fighting. Now he appears whenever you call for help. These illiterate villagers will believe anything.’
Nevertheless, before we got back into the SUV, Rathod bowed and cringed before the deity, mumbling what seemed to be a multitude of requests. He concluded with a loud shout: ‘kar diyo kaam mera, madarchod!’
I gazed at Rathod, astonished. I had thought myself beyond surprise when it came to matters of Hindu practice, but this final salutation knocked me over.
Better do my work, madarchod! Was that any way to talk to a deity? Who the hell did Rathod think he was?
Then my mind caught fire.
Here was the key to a totalitarian model for the subcontinent!