by Akhilesh
Additionally, it is proposed that the Tourism Department will draft a new scheme at the earliest to take the tourism industry to its acme. In this regard, a meeting has been scheduled in my chamber on Friday, the sixteenth, which must be attended by the director and all other officers of the department.’
The blister rattled the door-shackle of Suryakant’s gill to make an entry at this precise moment. He felt something awful was happening inside his mouth. Instantly, he got the heebie-jeebies. He had a tendency of growing skittish at the most piddling discomfort and being overwhelmed by anxiety and ominous thoughts. The panic thickened by nightfall. But his safety valve mechanism was that sleep erased or lightened his fears considerably. He went to bed in the hope that his jitters would have vanished by morning, and the blister too would have forsaken him.
When he woke up and called out to his wife, Gauri, his jaw writhed in pain. He was unable to open his mouth wide. He was unable to pronounce all the words. For example, instead of saying ‘Gauri’, he had said ‘Auri’, and instead of ‘newspaper’, he said something like ‘ewspaer’ or ‘ewsaer’.
Gauri was busy readying Gaurav for school, so she did not notice Suryakant’s altered mode of expression. She heard ‘Auri’ as ‘Gauri’ and ‘ewspaper’ as ‘newspaper’. She came to him with some tea after Gaurav boarded the school bus.
Suryakant released his mouth like the beak of a bird to sip the tea – rather, he was able to open it like a beak only. The sip flowed inside.
‘See, this is something about your office.’ Gauri held out the newspaper to him.
The news under the caption ‘Sacrifices of 1857 Martyrs Consigned to Cold Box’ reported that the Tourism Department was going to drop the previous government’s Mukti Path project due to the pressure exerted by Sampoornanand Brihaspati. The reporter had also included the reactions of the public: most of them had dubbed it a slur and insult upon the memory of the revolutionaries. One social worker had called it ‘supremely intolerable’. The leader of the main opposition party demanded that the chief minister resign immediately, while a drunkard bard called Sampoornanand Brihaspati a ‘lethal idiot’.
The news gladdened him but the pain inside his mouth choked the gladness. The rest of his gladness vanished when he tried to use the toothbrush. His mouth opened hardly a whisker. He called out to Gauri. The call held a flood of pathos.
‘What’s your problem?’ the doctor asked him.
‘Dotor sab, e can’t oen mou, ee ees vei ainul.’ He meant: ‘Doctor Sahib, I can’t open my mouth, it is very painful.’
The doctor pulled out an instrument to measure the angle Suryakant was able to open his mouth to. Then he shoved in another instrument to widen the opening and examined with a flashlight. It was like peering down a long, dark tunnel. Meanwhile, he noted down something on Suryakant’s prescription.
‘Do you chew tobacco?’
He shook his head vigorously in a ‘no’.
‘Paan masala or something like that?’
‘NO.’
‘Smoking?’
Silence.
‘It’s better if you consult a specialist like Dr R.S. Sahgal or someone else.’ He then scribbled down the names of medicines and ointments.
Suryakant trembled in fear. He asked, ‘Is it cancer?’
‘No, no! It’s nothing like that, but you should see Dr R.S. Sahgal.’
When he stepped out of the clinic, he was unable to decide whether he should be chirpy or mourn that he was in the grip of a killer disease. When he thought of being spared, he also thought another thought: if everything is fine, why is this fellow sending me to Dr Sahgal? Simply to confirm the diagnosis?
His face was covered in perspiration and his legs turned leaden. The firmament appeared to be shaking. He flopped down and used an aside, ‘Am I going to die? The world will go on, but I will be there no more.’ He remembered Gaurav and Gauri and felt himself sliding into a bottomless pit. ‘I won’t be with them.’ He was unable to decide. He could not spend the rest of his life at this spot, but he had neither the desire to get up nor the will power to move. Feeling weak, he pulled out the mobile from his pocket. But he recalled no one he could talk to. Does one feel severed with the world before leaving it? He decided to replace the mobile in the pocket when it started ringing. It was Bahuguna. ‘Brother, if you wanted to leak the chairman’s news, why did you shy away from our newspaper?’
He tried to say, ‘I didn’t’, but all that came out was a howl. Bahuguna grew anxious at the other end.
The visit to Dr Sahgal’s calmed his nerves. He was euphoric. Joy made him garrulous. Sahgal was a jolly sort of fellow. After going through the test report, he said, ‘The sort of person you are, I can say that even if you don’t have the remotest shadow of cancer, you will surely conk out from your terror!’ he chuckled. ‘If you have not tasted paan masala, have not chewed tobacco, do it simply to find out their taste. However, you must stop smoking. If the temptation is too strong, you can smoke one cigarette after lunch or dinner. You can be a chain smoker only after accepting the universal truth that you are going die one day finally.’ He wrote down a bunch of medicines. ‘Look, don’t think about cancer. If you’re afraid of a disease, it starts growing in your cells.’ He handed Suryakant the prescription. ‘Have a ball; the blister will disappear in a couple of days.’
He exited Dr Sahgal’s clinic, purchased the medicines and started towards the office. His soul was overflowing with pleasure and love. The world appeared beatific and generous. He found a dove-like innocence in the people moving on the roads, the cars and buses and the buildings, the billboards and the hoardings, advertisements, dogs, pushcarts, the samosas selling in a shop. As if they were all delightful chunks of immortal divinity. He felt that he too was immortal. He looked up at the sky – if there is some unknown power that makes the world run – and he bowed to Him. He felt grateful that He had been generous to him.
The more a man enjoys life, the more he likes to mock death. At this moment, Suryakant was immersed in the elixir of life and a death prank flashed in his mind. He fished out his mobile and called Bahuguna.
Bahuguna sounded worried, ‘Suryakant, you were crying … my friend, what’s the matter?’
Two doctors had unhinged and hinged his mouth with their instruments so many times that his pronunciation had become crystal clear, ‘I have cancer.’
‘What?’
He cut the call. Then he started manufacturing his manuscript of lies, enjoying the fantasy. He resolved that the first thing he would do after entering the office would be to convince Chairman Sampoornanand Brihaspati that he should quit paan masala, gutkha and tobacco or he too would become a cancer patient like him and kick the bucket. He mused that if Brihaspatiji really gave up the habit, he would gain in two ways. One, his health and life would be safe, and two, the clothes of the person and the files in front of him would not be tainted.
When he reached the directorate, he visited the director’s chamber first to explain his delay and to tell another lie. But the director was away at the Secretariat for a meeting. Then, he made a bid to see Brihaspatiji and lecture him on the benefits of renouncing gutkha and tobacco.
He opened the curtains of the door and entered.
Sampoornanand Brihaspati was brandishing a paper knife. Suryakant grew nervous and froze in his tracks. Then he realized the chairman was holding a pouch of gutkha in the other hand. Finally, the ancient fellow plunged the knife into the pouch and tore it open. It was a state-of-the-art method that Sampoornanand Brihaspati – who had lost all his teeth – had devised to access the contents of the pouch. It was then lifted and inverted over his mouth. The paan masala poured down his gullet.
Had he followed his powerful, fanciful script, he would have exclaimed dramatically and leaped forward to snatch the pouch from Sampoornanand Brihaspati’s hand, ‘No, sir! Not this!’ But he simply walked listlessly and stood in front of him.
His masala-filled mouth ground in wrath when Surya
kant came in his line of sight.
‘Whya’ you he’e?’ He did not actually say the words, but his eyebrows jiggled questioningly.
‘Nothing important, sir. I just wanted to have a word with you.’
‘Wha’ wor’?’ He spat in the spittoon below. ‘You have words with journalists only. To publish gossip about me.’
‘You’re mistaken, sir,’ he stammered.
‘I know everything. I have been blessed by Durga Maiya – I can divine everything.’
‘But that’s not the truth.’ His tone turned slightly bitter.
‘I may be hard of hearing but I am not deaf. Lower your voice.’ Particles of gutkha, cloves and tobacco flew in the air and tumbled all around. ‘Leave.’
Suryakant turned around, feeling slighted but suddenly remembered the purpose that had driven him in. He faced him again.
‘What now?’ Sampoornanand Brihaspati was visibly annoyed.
‘Sir, I have something to tell you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I humbly submit, sir, that you must not consume gutkha, tobacco or the areca nut. Sir, health and life are priceless objects, and these addictions can cause lethal diseases. One of these diseases is incurable and fatal. So, I request, with folded hands, that you relinquish gutkha, tobacco, etc.’
The mental translation of what he had just told Sampoornand Brihaspati would run thus, ‘Hey, rascal! Dump your addiction to gutkha and tobacco! You penny pincher, it will save you money and keep you fit! If you don’t kick the habit, you may get cancer, and then one day it will be your corpse guzzling down gutkha and tobacco. You guttersnipe! Spineless chicken! Tobacco and gutkha are poison, and you’d best steer clear of them!’
Brihaspatiji replied, ‘Thank you. I have been consuming tobacco for the last sixty-five years and gutkha for the last fourteen years. Nothing will happen to me. I enjoy a boon from Durga Maiya to live till a hundred and nine. Maiya has personally assured me.’
‘Where did you meet her?’ Suryakant asked, deflated.
‘How does that concern you? Go on and publish another accusatory report against me.’
‘Believe me, sir, this isn’t my handiwork. I was so deep in my own troubles that let alone publishing the news, it was tough for me to even read it. My wife showed it to me. I didn’t even see it properly … actually, I was in such excruciating pain … that …’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ He opened the lid of the tobacco box.
‘Sir, I have cancer. I am on the brink of death … a dying man does not lie, sir.’
‘You have cancer?’ Brihaspatiji looked at him intently.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May Durga Maiya bless you. Start chanting the Mahamrityunjaya mantra. May Maiya and Baba cure you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Okay.’ His eyebrows danced. It was a cue that Suryakant should leave the room.
Suryakant, guessing now Sampoornanand would get up and pull the key from under his vest to open the cupboard, walked out of the room. The director had come back from the secretariat, and he went to his chamber.
‘What happened, Suryakant? You look like you’re in a state!’
‘Why do you say so, sir?’
‘Are you worried you didn’t get any information to leak to the papers today?’
‘Sir, do you really believe it?’
‘How does it matter what I think? The chairman is furious. He’s certain you are at the root of all the trouble.’
‘Sir, I have my own terrible worries to take care of. I have cancer.’
‘Oh!’ The director looked stunned first and then he grew morose. He commiserated, ‘If you need funds for treatment, don’t hesitate to approach me.’
‘What treatment can pull me back from death, sir?’ He sighed a deep sigh which had the desired effect on the director. ‘God calls all good men to Himself.’
It was the family’s turn now. The story had swept his friend circle without any effort. A revelation to Bahuguna always ensured immediate, unbridled circulation. During their college days, it was said that all the other students would take to journalism but Bahuguna would forge a career in rumour mongering.
Suryakant drove on the road leading to his house, imagining he would put on a defeated, withered, anxious, fragile look, and when Gauri would open the door, he would walk in with feeble steps and collapse in bed. Gauri would ask anxiously, ‘What happened? Are you all right?’
He would not speak, only wave his hand in the air to convey, ‘Everything’s over.’
Gauri would be vexed, ‘What’s the problem? Why don’t you talk to me?’
He would then speak in broken whispers, ‘Cancer.’ Gauri would shriek and break into sobs.
When Gauri opened the door, she saw him standing there holding vegetables, fruits, chocolates and grocery. Finding him so lavishly laden, Gauri realized right away that Mr Husband had no serious ailment. So, instead of inquiring about his health, she merely asked, ‘Such a lot of fruit and vegetables. Do they come free?’
He had no time to put on the act. Neither did he wave his hand to signify all was over nor did he whisper that he had cancer. He only said, ‘From now on we must be health conscious.’
‘What did the doctor say?’ Gauri asked finally.
He forgot his act and replied, ‘Nothing. First, I went to one doctor, he said that it was nothing serious. Then, I took a second opinion, and he also told me things were fine. My pain has eased.’ He brought out chocolates and chips from a bag and asked, ‘Where’s Gaurav?’
‘At a friend’s birthday party.’ He put the chocolate and chips packets on the table, ‘Bahuguna-bhai called several times. He was asking after you. Perhaps your mobile was off.’
‘While I was with the director and the chairman, I had turned it off.’
Hardly had he finished his sentence than the mobile started whining. It was a friend, ‘Dear Suryakant, I am really sorry to hear about this. But you have to grapple with the disease.’ The friend grew emotional. ‘I’ll support you at every single step. My maternal uncle is a doctor at the Tata Memorial Hospital in Mumbai. If you need to go there, let me know. I’ll accompany you.’
Suryakant felt that the world was not really evil. There were still men moved by the suffering of others.
Next, he received a text message from another friend, ‘The disease can be treated through Ayurveda. There is a vaidyaji in Panchmarhi in MP – he has cured many.’
He responded: ‘Thanks! But I need not visit Panchmarhi now – there is a centre called Lawanya Naturopathy Facility in our own city, it claims it has treated several patients successfully. Its website is www.lawanya.com.’
He got another SMS: ‘God is all powerful. He will look after you.’
He replied by saying, ‘Now I can survive on God’s mercy and your prayers.’
2
PPP
‘Gauri, where’re the keys to my chariot?’ Suryakant asked, inquiring about the car keys. He had been indulging in such banter since early morning. Going to the office this day was akin to going to war. That’s why he had called his car his chariot and his shirt and vest his armour. His pen was his Brahmastra, the ultimate weapon of destruction and the bag was christened his quiver. When he was ready, he called out to Gauri, ‘Now anoint my forehead and bid me farewell.’
Gauri chuckled.
As soon as he entered the office, the PA said, ‘Sir, Chairman Sahib has already inquired about you thrice.’
Suryakant glanced at his watch. He was not late. Perhaps the chairman had arrived early or his watch was ahead. Brihaspatiji was not alone in his chamber. A few officers and the director were also there, and one of the officers held out a bag. ‘Sir, my wife had gone to Vaishno Devi, and this is the prasad.’
‘Why didn’t you join her?’ Brihaspatiji asked, accepting the bag.
‘Sir, I went last year, and will now go next year. There was a lot of work in the office this year.’
‘It’s not y
our fault. Only when She summons you can you visit Ma’s court.’ He picked up the bag and tried to judge its weight, ‘So much prasad?’
‘On her way back, she also shopped for walnuts, almonds and a pashmina shawl in Jammu for you.’
‘These are all Ma’s blessings,’ he replied tenderly.
Another officer threw a challenging look at the first one and pulled out a packet from his bag. He stood up and offered it to Brihaspatiji with the utmost reverence.
‘What’s this?’ Brihaspatiji asked.
‘Sir, this is a very rare object. If you please, this is a figurine of Panchmukhi Hanumanji.’
Brihaspatiji took the statuette out of the packet. ‘What a wonderful person you are!’ he waxed ecstatic. ‘Panchmukhi Hanumanji …’ The folds of fat on his face quivered in delight. ‘My very own Bajarang Bali!’
Suryakant looked at the officer who had come in with almonds and walnuts, his face ashen. Suryakant glanced at the others, each one of them was carrying gifts for Brihaspatiji. It was apparent that the scramble to cozy up to Brihaspatiji was already underway.
I have brought nothing for Brihaspatiji, he mused. He is already angry with me but the idiot that I am, I have barged in empty-handed. He had a strong urge to rush to the paan-seller and obtain a garland of 101 pouches of paan masala and put it around Brihaspati’s neck. But just then, two young men turned up, wearing sparkling shoes, alabaster attire, fine-looking sunglasses, carrying expensive leather bags and brimming with confidence.
‘These men are from a firm in Mumbai. We can learn from their valuable opinions and experiences.’ Brihaspati faced the director and said, ‘Please introduce your officers to these gentlemen.’
After the introductions, Sampoornanand Brihaspati’s blather began. ‘We have assembled here to discuss a new project for the tourism department. After Uttarakhand was carved out of our state, UP has been on an unremitting decline. An important factor is that the land and the mountains dear to the gods – the abode of the deities – are no longer a part of our state. There are other reasons too. For instance, the previous government was corrupt. Imprudent. All its projects and programmes were motivated by only one objective – plunder of government coffers. The corruption of the previous government exploited new proposals, and its lethargy unleashed such chaos at our tourist hubs that their ambience was thoroughly vitiated. The rest of the destruction was taken care of by the politics of appeasement. People belonging to a particular religion – one that has always been at loggerheads with our religion – were protected to such an extent that they grew bold enough to adopt terror tactics. If the government, the administration and the police do nothing in the name of appeasement, terrorism is bound to flourish. These heinous terrorists attacked important tourist locations like Ayodhya, the birthplace of Lord Ram, and Varanasi, the city of Baba Bholenath. How can anyone ever forget the explosion at the Sankat Mochan temple in Varanasi? Naturally, tourist activities diminished and consequently, the revenue generated from tourism has fallen behind.’