by Akhilesh
‘But I want to stop, there’s a famous shop here.’
This was the shop of Bhagawati Halwai who had left this world seventy years ago, and twenty years ago his only son too had passed away, leaving behind three of his own sons. One of them was now running the shop. Around seventy years earlier when the father of the deceased Bhagawati Halwai, Gokul Prasad, had set up this shop under a tree. Thursday was the market day. It was a busy day – vendors, utensil makers, bangle sellers, cobblers, carpenters and ironsmiths would exhibit and trade their wares on the streets. Two or three Koiris used to sell vegetables, and a butcher hung the carcass of a goat upside down close by. There was great demand to buy the neck, front ham and liver portions of the goat.
In this market, Gokul Prasad would display pedas in a large brass dish under a peepul tree. This was his practice in the summer. In the winters, he sold pedas in the sun, away from the peepul. Later, his son Bhagawati Prasad, put together a hearth under an awning of earthen tiles, and would make chotahi jalebi in the morning, along with pedas. He would tuck a towel around his waist and shoo away the flies with a dirty rag. Sometimes, a bed sheet was spread out on a cot in front of the shop on which Bhagawati made batasha.
In time, Bhagawati started whipping up laddu and balushahi on market day. Wasps hovered over the sweets with the flies and often stung customers, who would writhe and holler with pain. Bhagawati used to drive away the wasps along with the flies with his filthy duster. Currently, the shop also sold samosa, khasta and gulab jamun. And now dogs had joined the hordes to be driven away. Usually, customers kicked the dogs as they sipped tea or enjoyed their samosa, and a servant would chase away the more insistent canines that did not run away with a stout bamboo stick.
Standing outside the shop, Chacha was busy breaking the samosas to cool them. Suryakant did not find the place hygienic enough to eat anything, and he was scared to even drink water at the shop. Finally, he walked to a fruit seller and bought a banana. He finished the banana, but Chacha’s samosa was not at the right temperature yet. Suryakant began to work to utilize time. He took the camera off his neck and clicked photographs of the places around. Then he switched on the tape recorder and started interviewing people. He asked many questions, some of which were:
‘Is there a legend behind the name Gosainganj?’
‘What is the population of Gosainganj?’
‘Which families here have someone settled abroad?’
‘Did anyone leave this place as a girmitiya labourer?’
‘What is the degree of poverty here?’
‘Which castes are dominant here, and which ones are suppressed?’
‘What about education? Are the schools good?’
‘Around one hundred and twenty-five years ago, which post office distributed money orders at this place?’
‘How many Pandey families are there?’
‘Do you know if a Pandey went abroad by ship around one hundred and twenty-five years ago?’
‘Do you know of any story from those times about someone from a Pandey family who went away and never returned?’
‘Are the development projects doing well?’
‘Is there a very poor Pandey family in the village? Are there many such?’
Chacha had already put the samosas and tea into his stomach. Wiping his mouth with the cotton towel around his neck, he got into the car and honked to summon Suryakant.
Suryakant returned. He had discovered nothing worthwhile. People had neither been able to provide a clue about Pandey’s ancestors nor could they tell him anything accurate about the social condition of the village. Rather, they came up with such absurd replies to his questions that Suryakant was bewildered. For example, the answers to the question ‘What is the population of Gosainganj?’, ranged from fifty thousand to three hundred to twenty-five hundred and to millions. Someone even came up with his own question in response – ‘What do you mean by “population”?’
There were diverse opinions regarding the name Gosainganj also. Most of them asked, ‘How do we know why Gosainganj is called Gosainganj?’ Another one retorted, ‘If you have drunk your mother’s milk, why don’t you tell me?’
When Suryakant wanted to know how many Pandey families there were in the village, the reply was ‘Do we count them on our fingers?’ Another asked, ‘Are the Pandeys governors that we should bother about them?’ The third said, ‘Go ask the Pandeys about the Pandeys.’
Certain stories surfaced, of course. One legend said that around three hundred years ago, there were no houses in this area. For a long time, there was nothing but trees and a large area was submerged under water. One day, a sage started living under a tree there, and his name was Tulsidas. He possessed a lota, a rope and a few seeds. He also possessed a hoe, a dhoti to wear and a majira to play. It is said that he was the third reincarnation of the composer of the Ramcharit Manas, the poet Tulsidas. His title was Goswami, which was shortened to Gosain in the popular parlance.
Gosain Tulsidas planted paddy seeds in the spots where there were no trees or water and came back and lay under his own tree. He also dug a well before doing this. The ground water level was so high that hardly had he dug a little with his hoe than water seeped out. As he was digging the well, several animals from the forest arrived and watched him silently.
Gosain used to eat the fruit from the trees and drink the water from his well. He made a sump by the well where the water drawn from the well collected. A few animals and birds quenched their thirst with this water. Although water was plentiful there, they probably found the water from the well sweet. One bird or another would always be dipping its beak in the sump. Whenever Gosain Tulsidas sat at leisure, he would sing the Sunder Kand from the ‘Ramcharit Manas’ to the accompaniment of the majira. He also sang his own songs, which he claimed had been composed by the original Tulsidas. He laid claim to creating ‘Kavitavali’ and ‘Vinay Patrika’ that had actually been composed by the great poet. This sort of confusion, however, occurred only when other people began settling here, or when they started visiting the village.
Once you could only see Tulsidas, some animals, trees, water and birds here. But the village was transformed within a couple of months: the combination of jarhan paddy and plentiful water wrought a miracle. It is said that there was such a bumper harvest of paddy and wheat in a single season, it was more than enough for two hundred persons for the entire year. As a result, families from other villages came to live there. They brought cows, oxen, pots, saws, chisels, hammers, and so on. The bamboo groves were cut down to erect houses, and to make cradles and bullock carts. A village emerged. Later, whenever someone visited another village, and if someone inquired where he was from, he would instantly recall Gosain Tulsidas and exclaim, ‘Gosainganj!’ At first it was called Gosainganj or Gosainpur or Gosaingarh. In the course of time, ‘Gosainganj’ caught on and this is how the village got its name.
Another legend said that it was once a huge village, the equivalent of four villages today. The most powerful landlord in the village was Mahendar Dev. Regardless of the season, he used to bathe twice every day. He would wear a new dhoti after each bath, and thus, he discarded two dhotis every day and never put them on again. The happy result of the chore was that every day, two new dhotis were distributed to the servants. Each of his servants was finally in possession of around a hundred dhotis. They bartered food grains, things of use or labour with these. Mahendar Dev did not have a son but he had two daughters. After their marriage, the sons-in-law came to live in the village. Mahendar Dev divided his zamindari into two parts. The younger son-in-law was given two villages under his jurisdiction, and he named one Gosainganj after his guru Pooran Gosain.
The third story was fraught with several implications: there was a person named Moorkheram from the Chamar caste in a village. He had a wife, five sons, three daughters-in-law and four grandsons and granddaughters. Two of the sons were married, but the gauna ceremony had not been performed yet. All the men, women, children and adults in the family w
orked in Lahuri Singh’s fields. Their livelihood was dependent on these wages. They were able to muster enough food for two square meals. But destiny had other plans. There was some cause but no one was certain about it – someone suspected him of theft or else the lustful eyes of Lahuri Singh landed on his younger daughter-in-law or maybe there was another reason rising from their poverty – but Moorkheram and his family were turned out of the village. This happened around one hundred and fifty years ago. One dawn, Moorkheram left the village with his family and a few belongings. He travelled three days and three nights to arrive at a desolate spot, Gosainganj, which was not actually Gosainganj then since it had no name.
These fourteen persons carved paths, ploughed fields and constructed a house. They looked for water and burnt fires. It was the result of their toil that the birds of this village had the fine fortune of savouring food grains – the village still reverberated with the chirrupings of innumerable birds. There were so many that even in such awful times when the environmentalist concern for the falling number of sparrows is published regularly in newspapers and when voluntary organizations have surfaced with gigantic budgets to augment their numbers, sparrows keep hopping in the rooms of the houses in Gosainganj. However, it must be revealed how Gosainganj became Gosainganj in the third story. It is said that when Moorkheram reaped the rabi and kharif crops in the first year, the yield was like gold. The fields were so thick with crops that a huge number of men were required for harvesting, winnowing, taking out grains from the pods, etc. It was impossible for Moorkheram and his family to do this on their own.
At the same time, Moorkheram thought that other families too should settle here and eat, feed, and collect such bounty. But who? At first, he had a strong longing to invite families from the Chamar toli of his village, but the option was riddled with hurdles. The first hurdle was that all the powerful people like Lahuri Singh from his village would find out and grab the land. Even if they didn’t come here, they wouldn’t accept that their ploughmen and field workers had quit the village. How would they manage their fields then?
Finally, Moorkheram decided he would invite no one. His own family of fourteen would grow gradually. But life in a village is not confined to grains, fruits and water. A number of men and cattle were needed. When he ran out of options, he went to his in-laws and told his father-in-law, who introduced him to Gosain Giri Maharaj. A Brahmin by caste, Gosain Giri Maharaj had become a sanyasi in his youth. However, during his days of celibacy, he had developed a carnal relationship with a woman disciple and become a family man again. As punishment, he was ostracized by all the four varnas. Finally, Gosain Giri Maharaj came to this spot with his obedient wife, children, twelve brothers and six brothers-in-law, and soon the place came to be called Gosainganj.
When Chacha and Suryakant entered the village, they found that the air had changed. People stood in groups of four and five. Young women with veils of their saris over their faces, middle-aged women with their faces behind the corners of their saris stood behind the outer doors of their houses. Naked children sprinted behind the car, even in the scorching sun. The car stopped frequently, and they lowered their windows to get directions to the pradhan or the headman’s house.
There was no bustle at the pradhan’s house. There reigned merely silence and absence. A worker, wearing only underwear, a bidi tucked over his right ear, was cutting fodder in a machine. Chacha said, ‘Go, call pradhanji.’
But the worker continued to chop fodder. When he did not reply, Suryakant spoke in a stern voice, ‘I am telling you to call pradhanji, and you are acting deaf?’
What happened after was totally unexpected. The worker stopped his work and fell at Suryakant’s feet, crying, ‘I beg you, huzoor, please don’t arrest me; I’m merely the pradhan’s servant!’
Perhaps it was the cry of the servant that prompted the door of the house to open. A woman, wearing a veil spoke, from behind the door, ‘Pradhanji has gone out, and he will return after many days.’ She paused, ‘And all the registers are with him, what more do you want…’
Chacha and Suryakant stood dumbstruck, unable to understand what was going on. Anxious, they strolled to the outer gate of pradhan’s house. They were trying to figure out the situation when they found a few villagers shuffling behind them. They would head towards Chacha and Suryakant and then move away immediately. Suryakant stopped a couple of them and asked, ‘Do you have to tell us anything?’
No sooner had he asked the question than all of them charged in – most of them got into a contest to touch Suryakant’s feet. Some of them implored, ‘Sahib, please get us a job.’ Chacha was ignored; they paid their respects only to the nephew.
Another of them said, ‘Huzoor, my son is a double MA, we only need your blessings!’
An old woman pulled out a piece of paper, ‘Malik, I too have brought the documents, if you say I will hand it to your dariver.’ She had assumed that Chacha was his driver.
Many of them wheedled, ‘If you get us jobs, we are ready to pay you any amount of a cut.’
Just then, a fellow looking like a petty leader, shoved all such aspirants aside. ‘You will remain nincompoops forever! Nitwits, dunces, bumpkins! Do you know, Sahib has come from Lucknow to examine the pradhan’s wrong-doings, and you silly people are offering him bribes? If you jabber too much, he will make a report against you too. You will spend the rest of your life in jail, grinding corn,’ he said.
Their faces turned ashen, and the man added, ‘Are you blind? Didn’t you see that he has hung such a hefty camera around his neck and tape recorder in his hand to record your voices? Do you know, he has come directly from Lucknow to catch the pradhan? And it is all because of the complaint I sent the chief minister by registered post.’ The man walked slowly to Suryakant and said, ‘One of the pradhan’s flunkies has informed him of your arrival. He has fled, but where he will go? Must be hiding somewhere around.’
‘But why is he afraid of me?’
‘Because you will investigate, find him guilty and expose him. He is a real fraud.’
‘But why would I conduct an inquiry?’
‘Sahib, don’t be so secretive with me! I heard you asking about Gosainganj in the market earlier today.’ The leader grinned and said, ‘I came here as soon as I could to ensure that the pradhan did not escape, but his stooges are everywhere.’
However, when the real reason for their visit came to light, everyone broke into peals of laughter. As if a bomb of hilarity had exploded. As if this was a suspense-filled drama with an entertaining, happy and funny end. Everyone breathed sighs of relief. The leader sort fellow slipped away with a very visible effort, and another charade commenced. The woman with the papers said, ‘All that effort for nothing!’
A young man rubbed some tobacco on his palm, ‘Chacha, you were taken for a dariver!’ He tried to share the tobacco by offering his palm, but Chacha refused politely and asked, ‘Can anyone tell us where the pradhan is?’
Nobody had to make any special effort because soon enough, the pradhan jumped out from behind the banyan tree and toppled on the ground. He shook the dust off himself and said, ‘I, the dolt, was really taken in.’ Standing in the same spot, he made a bullhorn of his palms and shouted towards the house, ‘Bring some tea and water.’
Chacha and Suryakant explained their objective briefly, and expressed their desire to meet the two most elderly people in the village for information. One of them was Jagdamba and the other was a woman who was considered to be around one hundred and five. She had been known as Dhenpi before her wedding, Jokhu Bahu after her wedding, and after some years, as Bire’s Mai and after the birth of her grandson, as, Vijay’s Aji and was called the old hag by Vijay’s grandsons and granddaughters.
Chacha and Suryakant wanted to go to Vijay’s Aji’s house, but the pradhan would not let them. He still suspected that they were government employers, who intended to find out about his chicanery in the garb of visiting houses in the village. He set up chairs outside his ho
use and invited them to sit while he dispatched a man to summon Jagdamba.
‘Jagdamba will be here in a little while,’ the pradhan assured them again.
‘And Vijay’s Aji?’ Chacha asked.
‘She will come as well, but if Jagdamba is here, she won’t – even if the deluge was here.’
‘Why?’
‘Jagdamba accused Vijay’s Aji of disrupting his great-granddaughter’s engagement. Ever since, she starts ranting at him as soon as she sees him.’ This information was dispensed not by the pradhan, but by his wife, standing there with buttermilk in a jug.
The pradhan clarified, ‘Vijay’s Aji also hurls abuses at everyone Jagdamba sees. Moreover, it is virtually useless to see her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she came to this village much later – with her second husband. Jagdamba was born here.’
Jagdamba was on his way. They soon noticed four men carrying a cot on their shoulders. The silent bier-like procession erupted in chaos when a posse of children materialized from nowhere and started yelling, ‘Ram naam satya hai, murda saala mast hai.’ (Ram’s name is the final truth, Mr Corpse is in mirth.)
Jagdamba groaned from his cot and said, ‘You grandsons of dahijar! May you be get cholera, may Sheetala Mai blind you … you bastards!’
Chacha said to Suryakant, ‘His choice of swear words reveals that this man is pretty ancient. They indicate that they were constructed in a time when village after village was ravaged by cholera; there were endless rows of corpses and the curse of Sheetala Mai, small pox, was a real danger, an epidemic.’
‘Chacha, you can sing paeans of any bygone age.’
‘What about the age for which you sing paeans? Every year more than one lakh deaths occur in road accidents alone.’
The cot had been lowered, but Jagdamba was not taken off it. He was made to sit up with the help of the people around. It was not exactly a sitting posture, he was half-leaning against the wall. Two pillows were brought from the pradhan’s house and tucked behind Jagdamba’s back and neck. Both were grimy with oil spots, and one pillow bore the words ‘Jai Hind’ embroidered on it, and the other ‘Swagatam’.