“What does a pen write in the setting of Simring?”
After a protracted discussion a conclusion was reached: a pen in Simring either writes letters to those who have traveled to India to work as servants, or it writes promissory notes to money lenders.
“Alright – let us write a promissory note,” Sheshkant proposed as he paced about the room. “Let us assume for a moment that I am the village chief. I have lent both Somey and the brother in the corner a hundred rupees each in their hours of need. We need to write promissory notes, don’t we? Should we write them?”
“Immediately,” Katwal said, trying to quell the excitement of his tongue.
In no time Sheshkant finished writing a promissory note on the board. After finishing it, he turned towards Somey first. “Somey – is this note correct according to the amount of loan you took out and the interest rate you promised to repay?”
Somey scrutinized every word with squinted eyes and said, “I find it alright, sir.”
“What was the amount borrowed, and what amount is written down?”
“Hundred rupees were borrowed, and the amount written down is also a hundred.”
“And, the interest?”
“Five percent per month.”
“Is that the amount promised?”
“That is, after all, how much the lenders charge us.”
“The promissory note is accurate, then, according to the terms agreed upon?”
Before the question was articulated, Katuwal, who thought of the arrogant Somey a pilferer, barged in to answer. “Absolutely alright, sir.”
Now Sheshkant’s eyes turned to the corner of the room. To begin with, he casually edited the wording of the note, and then asked, “Brother Kaudey, sitting in the corner – is this note right about the money borrowed and spent and what payment was promised in return?”
Kaudey stared at the promissory note on the board with bewildered incomprehension. Then he spoke, “Sir – I am but a blind man. How does a blind man tell apart what is honey and what is poison? Since my eyes lack any light, I am forced to accept the note as it is, sir.”
“So, you agree that the note is alright, don’t you?”
Kaudey took a long, defeated breath. The pupils of his anxious eyes trembled. He tried to say something but his lips didn’t move. He now vividly recalled the deception played on him through the game of promissory notes when Gopilal relieved him of his remaining two strips of paddy-rich land. He didn’t speak – he didn’t speak at all!
“You approve of the note, don’t you?”
“I have no other choice. To misfortunate ones like us all blobs of ink are like dark beasts...”
“Mangaley – your eyes have the light in them, don’t they?” Kapil called the attention of Mangaley, who had been watching the proceedings with the utmost attention and bated breath.
“No, sir,” Mangaley spoke in defeat.
“So – is this note correct?”
“But the blind don’t have the choice of saying no. We nod and grunt and agree, no matter what the moneylenders say.”
“Somey,” Sheshkant drew the conversation towards Somey.
“Just as I watched, sir, Kaudey walked into the snare laid for him by the moneylenders.”
“How is that?”
“How can you even ask that, sir? Because the loan amount on the note has already changed from a hundred to two hundred rupees. The interest rate has jumped from five to ten percent.”
“Kaudey – seems to me that we’ve lost grasp of the issue!”
Kaudey, didn’t speak. His face appeared pocked with the marks of hardship and calamities.
“What can a blind man like me say, sir!” said Kaudey from his corner and hid his face behind his hands. And, in the quiet air of the classroom spread the cold sighs from numerous men whose chests had been rent apart by the saws of deception and cunning of other, better-off men.
Now began the game of alphabet. Slate boards and pieces of chalk were distributed to the aged students. Then Kapil and Sheshkant held each person’s hand and guided them in drawing lines and curves and tails and necks, encouraging their wards to write the letters Ka, La and Ma to spell ‘pen’. The skinny man, who had been quietly observing with folded hands, also came forth to assist the teachers. Once the mature students had learned to write the assigned letters, the two bearded tutors started the game of moving the letters around.
Kapil spelled out Ma, La and Ma, the letters for “balm”. Then he thrust his eyes towards Mangaley and asked, “What might this be?”
Mangaley craned his neck and tussled with the letters on the board. It was torturous for him to recognize the letters. He counted one by one the three letters that had until just now been spelling “pen” and grappled with the new word with his gaze and with great difficulty tore apart each letter – “Ma, La, Ma”.
“What word does it spell?”
“I reckon it spells the word for balm, sir.”
“Mangaley seems to get the drift,” Katuwal said, not without a hint of jealousy.
“The boy has found his footing,” Somey said in agreement.
“How has something that was a pen just a moment ago become a balm now, Mangaley?”
Mangaley was astonished. Truly – how did a pen wriggle away from its meaning and within moments become a balm? To the aged students the letters on the board – which, until a moment ago were but dumb, lifeless beasts devoid of meaning – now seemed speak and shift, gain vitality and meaning. Momentarily, a list was created of the novel and unfamiliar. By moving up, down and sideways the three letters Ka, La and Ma, and by exchanging one letter for another, words like Kalama, Malama, Makala, Mala, Malamala, Lamak-lamak, Kal, Kalkal; words for a pen, a balm, a brazier, dung, muslin, a loping gait, a machine, the onomatopoeic sound of running water. To the aged students it was as if a strange light had entered their eyes and, as if through sorcery, the light flickered there. There are scrawls on the board. Study them intently and the scrawls begin to move and speak. The scrawls say one thing now and in a few moments say something else. Incredible miracle!
“Do you see anything, Mangaley?”
“How can I say anything, sir?” Mangaley struggled in his attempt to string together his sensations of bewilderment and joy. And, with some effort, he said, “Sir, these eyes were blind until now. But I sense in them a dim light, like that coming from a sooty lantern.”
“And you, Kaudey?”
“I’m stunned by your magic tricks, sir.”
Thus ended the game of letters. It was now the stranger’s turn. Sheshkant drew the conversation towards the corner and said, “Our new guest who arrived today would like to tell you a few things.”
“Would be good if we could be acquainted first,” Katuwal said with curiosity, looking at the reedy stranger and Kapil.
“He is a raconteur,” Sheshkant offered.
“What sort of a name is that?”
“It is not a name, Mangaley. A raconteur spins tales.”
“If we could know his name, home, trade and creed...” Somey, who had kept silent for some time, showed an interest in learning everything about the storyteller.
“I am a wayfarer. My trade is to collect and relate life’s tales.” The storyteller revealed his strange identity with a grave and pensive attitude.
“And your caste?”
“I am a Nepali.”
“Nepali of the leather-working caste?”
“No – I have no caste. I am a Nepali from Nepal.”
The students in the Adult Literacy Class found the storyteller’s introduction very strange. This beanpole hides his true name, the villagers thought. When asked about his native home the tall man answered, “I don’t have a home. Wherever I am given refuge, there is my home. Wherever I am loved, there are my kin.”
This was indeed a strange man!
“Now our storyteller will relate a story to you. Tell us – what sort of a story do you want to hear?”
What sort of a story, really? Stud
ents in the shed hesitated. The stories familiar to them spoke of demons and wizards, witches and ghosts, spirits and warlock. And occasionally there were stories of love and lust, the matters of the heart. And the scriptural tales from Satya Narayan.
“What sorts of tales do you know,” it was again Katuwal who spoke.
“Our friend knows all sorts of stories. He even knows the creation story.”
“Alright, sir – let us hear the creation story at this opportunity.”
The storyteller stared into the thick darkness outside the door and seemed momentarily lost in thoughts. Then, scanning the faces of the new students, he said in a soft voice, “Let us ponder this – how might have man been created?”
“May I say something here?” How could Katuwal ever resist seizing any opportunity?
With a nod and a gesture of his eyes the storyteller signaled, “Yes, do.”
Katuwal puffed up like a know-it-all and began, “The scriptures say this, sir. Man was created by the four-faced Lord Brahma. From his mouth he created the Brahmins, from his arms he created the Chhetriyas, from his thighs he created the Vaishyas, and from the soles of his feet he created the Shudras. They say he mixed cow dung and clay and ashes and what not and created man. Brahmins, created from his mouth, became the purest. Chhetriyas, created from the arms, became a little less pure. Vaishyas, created from the thighs, came even lower. And we the people of the lowest castes were created from the soles of the Lord Brahma. They say it is because we come from the soles of feet that step on shit that people of upper castes call us turds, sir.”
A razor-like tongue, a clear voice, speech fluent as a stream rushing downhill, and a tireless zeal – Katuwal recounted the creation story superbly. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t already heard the creation story many times before. But when Katuwal so skillfully told the same story, the mature students in the Adult Literacy Class became spellbound. Yes, Katuwal is immensely clever. That is why he is in the good graces of the higher castes in the village and enjoys their favor.
“Sir, is your story of a similar sort?” Somey opened his mouth wide to yawn and show toothless gums and asked without enthusiasm.
“My story is a bit different, Somey.”
“The creation story can’t differ from the one I just told, sir,” Katuwal insisted eagerly. “Can there be two versions of something written by the gods into the scriptures?”
The men in the class thought – Katuwal has caught tight the beanpole’s tongue in a vice of words. The beanpole is in trouble, for sure!
“We just now discussed the issue of promissory notes, didn’t we?” the storyteller laid the four cornerstones for building the plot of his story. “And you faced some troubles regarding the issue of promissory notes, didn’t you?”
A few men clamoured, each adding to the voice of another, “Yes, sir, great many troubles.” Here, too, Katuwal’s voice clambered above the other voices, galloping roughshod over everyone else.
“Do you remember who wrote the promissory note in the story about it?”
Answers jostled to come to the fore.
“Well-off and clever ones.”
“Village chief and upper castes.”
“Village conmen and scoundrels.”
“Backstabbers.”
“Ever in your life, have notes written by such people been true and without deceit?”
“What are you saying!” Katuwal drew out the phrase. “Never! Not once!”
“Tell me, then – if those very men write the creation story, for whose profit will they write it?” Now the storyteller attempted to strongly grasp at the heart of the matter. “For poor folks like you and I, or for cunning liars themselves?”
“They will write for their own profit, sir. If they would ever write with our benefit in mind...” said Mangal, who had been listening intently.
“Just like the promissory note earlier?”
“Yes, sir. Exactly like that.”
“The creation story must be similar, don’t you think?” the storyteller laid his snare; the people in the classroom became ensnared. But Katuwal wasn’t going to be moved by a hair’s breadth from his stubborn beliefs. On the one hand is the creation story written by the gods, and on the other hand a promissory note! On the one hand is Gopilal the moneylender, and on the other hand Kaudey the tailor! Tsk! What a thing to say! Katuwal nearly jumped up and screamed as he muttered these thoughts.
“Didn’t the gods write the creation story?” Katuwal asked, vigorously sharpening each word.
“Aren’t the money lenders and village chiefs gods too?” The storyteller firmly drew the strands of his logic. “Do we not fall prostrate before them as we do before the gods? We sing their praises like we sing hymns, don’t we? Don’t we hold them high in our esteem and worship them as gods? We think of them as the most pure and mark our foreheads with the dirt beneath their feet, don’t we?”
“This much is true, sir.”
“And that is all I understand,” the storyteller, too, sharpened each of his words. “Today’s gods write false promissory notes, just as the gods of the past wrote a false creation story. Isn’t it so.” The storyteller’s words fell like heavy hammers upon the minds of the listeners. Now, isn’t this beanpole a shrewd one! He calls the creation story a forged promissory note! And, the four-faced creator Brahma he calls a trickster and a forger! A quick anger stirred through the men in the classroom. How dare he talk as if he knows more than the four-faced Brahma!
“We don’t quite understand you, sir,” Katuwal said, puckering his mouth, as if ready to attack.
“And you are right, Katuwal,” the storyteller said quietly and politely. “For thousands of years our heads have been stuffed with this story. The frauds of today stuff the same nonsense into our heads. Their fathers had stuffed the same falsehood into the heads of our fathers. And, similarly, their fathers’ fathers had filled the heads of our fathers’ fathers with the same lies. For generations upon generations, their kind has been battering and stomping on and dragging through the mud the minds of our kind and rendered us dumb, as senseless as a corpse. And we run blindly after them, accepting their every command, don’t we? Tell me – haven’t we been doing that?”
The mature students in the Adult Literacy Class at Simring, a village of the tailor-caste, found themselves mired in hesitation. If they agree, the creator Brahma joins ranks with frauds like Gopilal. If they disagree, the clever beanpole leaves them no space to talk back. The mature students searched each other’s faces; helpless pairs of eyes met other helpless pairs of eyes. The two bearded men sat under the board, scratching their beards, observing the classroom.
“We still don’t understand what you are saying, sir,” Katuwal scratched his temple and showed his dissatisfaction in a bewildered voice.
“Sir – I have seen fifty winters, and worn through many, many a shirt. But here you speak of things nobody had ever spoken of before this. It feels as if you have struck an axe-blow upon all of my beliefs. I feel lost, like a crow in a fog.”
“Mangaley – did you have anything to add?”
“I am also struggling to understand, sir”
“And Kaudey?”
“Let me not pretend to be clever and talk about this, sir.”
“Is the issue settled?” The storyteller interrogated each face, moving slowly through the classroom.
Drat! This beanpole, who volunteered to recount the creation story, now asks if his story is finished even before he begins to tell it! What kind of a man does that? What is he trying to do? Is he trying to show everybody how dull they are, so that only he seems sharp? He has no name, no home or caste to speak of – but just listen to him! What is he getting at? The dalit men were stupefied. Neither a branch to hang from, nor the ground beneath to stand on. The beanpole seemed intent on hanging them like gourds suspended over a cliff!
And, even as he hesitated between speech and silence, these words escaped Mangaley’s lips: “You did promise us the creation story.
”
“Yes, I did.”
“If we could hear it, just the once...”
The storyteller glanced at his watch and turned towards the two bearded tutors, who signaled to him to continue. The storyteller thought about where he should begin. And, clearing his throat with a cough, he started: “I have listened to the creation story with which you are familiar. Should I now tell you the creation story that I know?”
“Tell us, sir,” said a chorus of curious voices.
The storyteller continued, “As far as I know, the creation story you told me is a forgery, just like the promissory notes nowadays. It is a fraudulent tale told by defrauding forefathers of the frauds around today, created to serve their line.”
“Sir,” Katuwal protested with irritation, “How can we call fraudulent a story created by God himself?”
“If you don’t mind, Katuwal, may I ask you a little question?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From where did Brahma create you?”
“The soles of his feet.”
“You are a turd, created from the soles of feet that tread upon shit, aren’t you?”
“That is what the upper caste folks tell us, sir.”
“And, according to your scriptures, the story of creation by the four-faced Brahma is unassailable, isn’t it? Undeniable and unchangeable?”
“Yes, sir. That is what they have told us.”
“And therefore you’ll forever remain a turd? Never changeable, incapable of changing. Isn’t that so?”
“The upper castes say just that, sir.”
“And haven’t you have followed them, agreeing with everything they have said?”
Here, Katuwal found himself in a bit of a fix. And so he bowed his head and scratched his forelock.
“You are the dirt beneath the feet, and you are a turd. You were born a turd, with the purpose of dying a turd. An immutable piece of turd, aren’t you?” The storyteller paused. When Katuwal bowed his head further, he continued speaking, “Why do you keep up your worthless complaints about how the upper caste folks give you one kind or another kind of trouble, or how they keep you in serfdom, how they cheat you and how they walk all over you? A piece of turd belongs on the ground, does it not? If feet that walk on the ground don’t step on pieces of turds littered over the ground, what else is the fate of turds? To be picked from the ground and smeared on the head as blessing? According to the scriptures you are a piece of turd in an alley. Why shouldn’t those who claim to be from the upper castes step all over you?”
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