Exile

by Akhilesh

  Chaubeyji replied, ‘You can take it up on his behalf.’

  Chachi put on a coral ring and started performing the water obeisance to sun god every morning. She carried out other rites as well. She used to donate mustard oil on Saturdays and started feeding jaggery to a black cow. She was already fasting on Thursdays. But it all led to naught. Chacha did not reform, and he grew more quirky and his detachment from the family multiplied correspondingly.

  There was a thick pile of complaints against Chacha. Some of the charges have already been mentioned, following are the other major complaints:

  Chacha was a frustrated soul, and he was unable to tolerate the happiness of his wife and children. It was obvious he was jealous even of his own dear ones and did not miss a single opportunity of insulting them. For example, when the children said that the internet was full of information, Chacha would ask, ‘Do you have the slightest clue what knowledge is?’ When his children would ask him to explain what he meant, Chacha would talk nonsense and say, ‘The knowledge that is bereft of pity and diligence is nothing but a mirage.’ Once, Chachi, sitting at the computer, exclaimed in delight, ‘Look … look! The internet can show where your fields in the village are!’ Chacha, instead of encouraging her, sulked, ‘Can it tell you that the person ploughing, sowing and cultivating them is the plough bearer Ramadhar?’

  Chacha’s family was fond of using words and expressions like ‘enjoy’, ‘masti’, ‘hojjay’, ‘chak de’, ‘this is my life’ or ‘I don’t care’ – but Chacha frowned on the use of these. Not content with this, he had begun to draw on a rustic vocabulary. For instance, when he was peeved, he would say, ‘You people have made my life hell; akichhed my life!’ He would call the brinjal ‘bhata’; jaggery ‘bheli’; lying down ‘alorana’; the toilet ‘pakhana’; the leg ‘gor’; underwear ‘janghiya’. If somebody was talking on a mobile phone, he would sneer and ask, ‘Doing hello-bello?’

  Chacha also taunted the family when they mentioned exciting incidents from films or cricket. ‘So, are you trying to improve your general knowledge?’ If Chachi went to the beauty parlour, he would snigger and tell the children, ‘She’s gone out for denting-painting!’ One day, the son was dancing to a song for Chachi, and Chacha said cuttingly, ‘Seems like you have been coached by Michael Jackson!’ Chachi countered by saying, ‘Just wait and watch, he will be selected for Dance Dance and win all the prize money!’ Chacha ranted back, ‘Go ahead! You can buy the Koh-i-noor diamond with his earnings then.’

  He hounded the family even if he was in a cheerful mood. For example, he detested the TV and barked invectives at some of the shows. If the children or Chachi changed the channel when ads were aired, he got infuriated and left the room in a huff. But he stayed put when he was happy, content to ask whether a character was upright or wicked. Irritated, the kids would blurt out, ‘We don’t know!’ and Chacha would taunt them, saying ‘You don’t know? Hey, I thought you were the ultimate authority on the soaps!’

  If somebody demanded money or some expensive thing from Chacha, he replied bluntly, ‘Do I have a money tree?’ Or he would say, ‘Do I cart around money in trucks?’ He developed a peculiar strategy, using a single statement as the ultimate weapon – ‘There is a stink here.’ And he would scowl and frown as if he really was offended by the horrible stink. He felt it anywhere he wanted, but it was always stronger at cleaner places such as a temples, good restaurants or high-end showrooms. But the stench was strongest whenever he was asked to do something or whenever the family expected something from him. The family would request him to join them for a picnic and he would start feeling the stink. They would ask him to sell the fields in the village to invest in a plot of land, bond or gold and his nostrils would be assailed by the miasma. Once, he was invited to dinner at Chachi’s cousin’s home. There were quite a few dishes on the dining table. The cousin joked while serving him, ‘Jijaji, enjoy yourself!’ Chacha’s nostrils shrank, ‘How can I? There’s this horrible stench!’ Chachi, irriated, had announced last week, ‘The stink exists not outside, but inside your mind!’ Chacha replied stoically, ‘Whether it’s there or not, it is surely in someone’s sharp tongue’, and pinched his nostrils with his thumb and the index finger.

  Sometimes, he came up with such absurd replies that the person asking the question was terribly embarrassed. For instance, when Chachi suggested, ‘You should rejoin your job’, Chacha replied in searing tones, ‘Does everyone do a job all his life?’

  Chacha always swam against the current. He would favour the lower castes and not the Pandits and the Thakurs. He favoured the Muslims, Sikhs and Christians instead of the Hindus. He favoured girls to such a great extent that he blessed every pregnant woman or her husband that they would beget a daughter. Around five to six months ago, he visited the neighbourhood, Mrs Yadav was peeling pea pods and she found nine peas in one. Her mother-in-law was thrilled, ‘Nine peas are the good omen that we are going to have a new entrant in our family!’ Chacha did not miss the chance, ‘May God bless you with a girl child!’ Contradicting everyone had become his habit. If someone felt cold, he would say it was hot that day. And if someone was feeling hot, he reduced the speed of the fan.

  After hearing the full story from the children and Chachi, Suryakant said, ‘I’ll try my best. I’ll try to convince him to behave normally.’

  But the trouble was that Chacha was not to be seen although Chachi said he was at home. He asked diffidently, ‘Please, call Chacha.’ Suryakant realized the request had unsettled the children and Chachi. But he could not go back without meeting Chacha. He also carried the burden of persuading him to turn into the family pet once more.

  ‘Papa is not in this house,’ the daughter told him.

  ‘Not in this house?’ Suryakant was surprised.

  ‘Not in this house, but in his own,’ Chachi said. ‘He is in the house, but he does not stay with us. He has constructed two rooms at the back of this house and lives there.’

  ‘Show me the way,’ Suryakant said, very confused. The entire affair was beyond his comprehension and imagination. The son led the way in his T-shirt and Bermudas, swaying to the rhythm of the music blaring in his earphones. The path to Chacha’s house was at the back of the house. The boy left him alone at the door and went back, swaying. Suryakant looked at the door with a bit of surprise. Things appeared surreal to him. In fact, the doors were old-fashioned double doors.

  Suryakant searched for the doorbell but found it was missing. He rattled the iron door chain which hung on the wooden door. The rattling sound filled the gap between the wooden door and the iron hoop.

  Now fiftyish, Chacha’s hair had thinned with streaks of grey but he was still robust physically, slim in spite of ageing. His stomach was flat. However, he wore glasses now. And he stood tall – the total effect was of ageing gracefully.

  Suryakant surveyed the house as he stepped inside. His wonder grew as he inspected the surroundings. He had not imagined in his wildest dreams that Chacha’s house would look like this! The first room was quite large; it was furnished with a hand woven chatai unrolled on the floor. There was also a pillow and a hand fan on the chatai. There was a shelf filled with books, a few magazines were kept in an open bamboo casket and some letters in a container, woven out of straw. A long-necked surahi stood on a small wooden stool to store drinking water. The mouth of the surahi was covered with an earthen lid. On the other side of the room, two low stools, locally known as machiyas, were placed across each other with a stool in the middle. There were three shelves in the large room. On one there was a small oil lamp, on the second, a lock and the key and on the third, a few strips of medicines. The antique ceiling fan was revolving slowly.

  The second room was a bedroom, and a bed sheet was thrown over a mat on a chowki. The pillow and the hand fan were exact replicas of the ones in the first room. There was a bookshelf with books, magazines in a bamboo casket and letters in a container, woven out of straw. An asani had been placed on the floor at the other e
nd, by which there was a low chowki against the wall. This was Chacha’s study table, and had sheaves of paper, pens and pencils, a table lamp as well as a lantern.

  Chacha offered Suryakant water from the surahi. It was accompanied by sugary batashas in a small plate. The nephew dropped one in his mouth, ‘Not done, Chacha. I’m hungry.’

  Chacha smiled, ‘Patience, patience! I have just put the adahan on the stove.’

  ‘Adahan?’ The nephew was astounded; he had heard the word after a long time. He had heard and seen the adahan during his childhood! In the years when there were no gas stoves or pressure cookers in the kitchen, his mother would put water in the batuli on the clay stove – it was called adahan. When the water was boiling, it was said that the adahan was hot and lentils were poured in for cooking. Was Chacha using the same method to cook lentils and rice? ‘God!’ He stood in front of Chacha’s kitchen.

  It looked almost like a film set. The adahan for the lentils was boiling in a batuli on an earthen stove oven within a kitchen of earthen walls and floor. The pots were from a past age, rescued from a locked room in their native village. Chacha had liberated them to decorate his unique kitchen. There were rotund batulis, a brass container, an iron cauldron, bronze plates, a large platter, thaar, brass ladles, big and small bowls, a sandsi, a chimta, a blow pipe, glasses, lotas and lutiyas for drinking water adorning the kitchen. Flames burned in the oven. Before the oven lay a low seat or pirha, where Chacha would sit to bake rotis. There was an almirah on one side with three wooden shelves.

  On the top shelf were empty vials of medicines, salt in bottles and spices, etc. In the middle shelf were containers of ghee, dals, etc. And pickle jars. On the bottom shelf were canisters for storing flour, rice, sugar, etc. A little to one side was water in an iron bucket, the grinding stone and the grinder were adjacent to it. The sikhar, a rope contraption, was suspended from the roof in the middle of the room, and it held an earthen pot filled with milk to keep it safe from cats. The sikhar was covered with a mauni. In the alcove on the rear wall there was an extinguished dhibri. A lantern dangled from a nail by it. On the opposite wall was a soop on another nail. The hansua was under it on the floor.

  ‘Stand here!’ Chacha said, joining him. ‘If you’re really hungry, you can eat some mangoes until food is ready.’ Chacha slid down the catch of the wooden almirah and drew out a basket of mangoes, ‘I brought them today, native ones.’ Chacha dropped the mangoes in the bucket of water. ‘I know you like Dusshari mangoes, but would you eat these ones?’

  ‘Chacha, how have you collected all these things that one doesn’t see any more?’

  ‘They have not vanished actually,’ Chacha laughed. ‘They have simply been displaced. These local mangoes, these utensils, the dhibri, the lantern, the sikhar, the grinding stone and the grinder, they all belong to our own country, but they’ve been dislodged. They have been flung into the dark and no one sees them – but they exist.’

  ‘Chacha, I want to explore your house methodically. It’s possible that many other dislodged objects have alighted at this spot.’

  ‘Nobody is allowed to tour my house without eating first.’

  As Suryakant was going to put his hand in the bucket of mangoes, he suddenly recalled Chachi and the kids, and said, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I know what you want to say because I’m aware you’ve already met them.’

  ‘So what do you plan to do?’

  ‘Do you really think that I am crazy or cranky?’ Chacha sounded angry.

  ‘Yes, I think I do,’ Suryakant grinned and Chacha laughed. The nephew joined in his laughter, and the house was filled with the joyous guffawing of the two men. Perhaps they would have laughed for a long time, but the ring of a mobile phone held their hilarity by the collar. Suryakant glanced at the phone screen – it was Bahuguna.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Suryakant replied, ‘Absolutely fine. I’m at Chacha’s house and plan to enjoy some mangoes. Genuine, native mangoes!’

  Bahuguna fumed, ‘Eat and drink and do everything else except what you are there for!’

  Suryakant mollified him and said, ‘I’ll start on the task once I take leave of my Chacha.’

  When he finished talking, Chacha asked, ‘What task?’

  Before Suryakant could enlighten him, the phone rang again. It was Amma, who was expecting him back for dinner.

  Chacha snatched the phone from him and said, ‘He is dining here.’

  Amma said, ‘Send him back, please. I have cooked dal pooris, kachoris and a few vegetables. Brinjal kalaunji too. And some kheer. Everyone is waiting for him. Why don’t you join us, Devarji?’

  Chacha refused and said, ‘No, Bhabhi, my rice and dal will go to waste. And my nephew will take supper at my place.’

  Suryakant got up and said, ‘Chacha, I’ll leave now. But give me my share of the mangoes. I’ll enjoy them at home.’

  Chacha handed the mangoes in a bag to him. ‘Here. And don’t forget, you are joining me for dinner.’

  ‘Relax, Chacha, you’re alone, why sweat over it?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you simply come over.’

  ‘What are you cooking?’

  Chacha pushed him out with a chuckle, ‘Go savour your meal, it will go cold.’

  15

  LIKE HIND SWARAJ

  He was back at Chacha’s house again. Although Suryakant had been invited for dinner, he left the house as soon as the sun sank and dusk fell. Kamana tried to keep him at home, insisting that she was making bel sherbet, but he did not, in spite of the fact that he had asked for it.

  It was the hour of the power cut and he was suffering terribly in the heat. He was not used to such situations any more, and his ability to face every kind of weather was now history. When he failed to comprehend how to escape the heat, he walked out of the house. Another reason to leave so early was that he wanted to help Chacha. The problems in his own house had been resolved – everyone had said what they needed to, begged to be forgiven, and he had extended absolution. There was nothing important or new to be said. A small number of past incidents and conversations reappeared persistently, incidents and conversations dripping with sentimentality.

  So he left the house. He thought he should take something for Chacha. He had already given the sweets he had purchased in the morning and the Lucknowi chikan sari to the kids and Chachi. When he had arrived at Chacha’s, he had nothing left. He wondered what he should get him. He decided to take sweets or ice cream, but realized his choice was ridiculous because Chacha had treated him to sweets and ice cream so many times. He wondered if he should buy fruit. Chacha would have offered him fruit in the good old days, but those were the times when only bananas and oranges were purchased on a whim. Superior fruit such as grapes and apples were bought only for convalescing patients. He also thought of buying a bed sheet, a pen, a show piece, a shirt or something like that, but finally decided that the best gift for Chacha would be a bottle of liquor.

  ‘You needn’t have brought the whisky,’ Chacha said when he spotted the bottle. Chacha had not spoken in anger. When the nephew tried to sit on the mat on the floor, Chacha stopped him. Suryakant was confused and glanced at Chacha questioningly. Chacha did not answer. He was occupied in tightening the knot of his lungi that had come loose. He then slid up the sleeves of his kurta and said, ‘Not here, we’ll sit in the backyard.’

  When Suryakant stepped out of the door of the last room with Chacha, he was wonderstruck. He murmured in amazement, ‘O Chacha … Chacha!’

  At the back of the house was a plot of around two hundred square metres, surrounded on three sides by trees. Neem, mango, mahuwa, guava and custard apple trees stood in such intimate proximity that their branches and leaves caressed one another in many places. The fourth side was open, beyond which there was an incline and the river flowed below. There was not much water, but it was enough to call it a river. Children were having a merry time on the river bank. All manners of colourful garments were
spread out on the bank. Two washerwomen were taking them off a clothesline.

  There were more surprises. Vegetables were being cooked in an iron karahi on a clay stove made with bricks in one corner of the garden. The firewood in the oven was dry, and it burnt bright. The heat and light spilled on Chacha, who was slicing ladies’ fingers on a pirha by the oven. Two chairs had been placed close to the neem tree, and a chowki was to serve as a table. There were two glasses on the chowki and a whisky bottle. A surahi sat by the bottle and snacks were kept along with the plates and spoons.

  On a cot under a tree were washed lentils and rice on plates, flour on a small steel plate; other ingredients needed for cooking were in jars and small containers. There were two buckets full of water and a lota close by. Next to these things were the grinding stone and the grinder, which had been used recently for pounding the spices. Two Petromaxes, described as ‘panchlait’ by the renowned litterateur Fanishwar Nath Renu in his story, and dubbed ‘gas’ locally, were on a stool in the middle of the ground. The Petromaxes had not yet been lit and appeared like sad twins in the dusky twilight. Another renowned fiction writer, Nirmal Verma, had perhaps not noticed this melancholy or else he too would have used them in a story.

  However, there was no dejection in the atmosphere. The evening turned dense gradually, everything appeared vibrant and joy swirled all around.

  The nephew was delighted and said, ‘Chacha, this is paradise!’

  Chacha did not answer because he was taking the karahi off the stove, holding the handles with a cloth. The flames leaped up, and he put a handi on it.

  ‘Chacha, are you cooking in a handi?’ Suryakant was agog.

  Chacha replied affectionately, ‘Why are you so surprised? Do you suppose it’s a wooden handi?’

  ‘It’s not that, Chacha,’ the nephew fumbled over his words. ‘This is unique.’

  Chacha pulled out some of the firewood from the oven to reduce the flame and stood up, ‘Let’s start now.’