Exile

by Akhilesh

  ‘Yes, but was there something interesting about him?’

  ‘There is.’ Suryakant pulled out his laptop and opened the Pandey folder. It held pictures of Pandey’s Baba. ‘Look at these carefully.’

  Chacha examined the pictures that were taken before Ramajor’s Baba had grown old.

  ‘Now look at these three particularly,’ Suryakant pointed out.

  ‘Hmm, these three,’ Chacha examined the photos carefully.

  ‘Now try to recall Jagdamba’s great-grandson, the one who came to call him home for dinner – this is the one.’ Suryakant pointed at the photograph.

  ‘Yes, their faces have a resemblance.’

  ‘Chacha, it is quite possible that Jagdamba is a descendant of Pandey’s Baba’s family. But the complication is that Jagdamba is not from the Pandey caste.’

  ‘What is his caste?’

  ‘I am not sure – I think he is from some backward caste. But I am confident he is not a Pandey.’

  ‘Why these pointless arguments then? This does not prove anything.’

  ‘What about the resemblance in their faces?’

  ‘One reason may be that the great-grandson is an illegitimate child of somebody in Pandey’s Baba’s family. Another possibility is that some woman from Jagdamba’s family had an illicit relation with some forebear of Pandey’s, and the characteristics have now appeared in the great-grandson.’

  ‘What should I do now?’ Suryakant’s zeal deflated.

  ‘Did Pandey furnish any information to help you get to the bottom of this?’

  ‘Pandey gave me a group photograph besides these pictures – this one.’ Suryakant showed him the photo on the laptop in the manner Ramajor Pandey had done in Lucknow – by placing his finger on one of the men in the photograph. ‘This is Baba,’ he said.

  ‘This is worthless. Anything else?’

  ‘A painting was made at Baba’s instructions. A beautiful village with a beautiful house, but it is of no value because it is not a real village but an imaginary one.’

  ‘Did this Ramajor Pandey tell you anything else? Anything that was transmitted to him from his Baba and his father?’

  Suryakant envisioned the hotel room – the memory of Ramajor, Bahuguna and himself enjoying liquor flashed, and a scene finally materialized in which Pandey was telling him something and he remembered it all of a sudden. ‘Chacha, Pandey told me that everyone in his family has a sweet tooth, and look here – Jagdamba and the great grandson also are very fond of sweets!’

  ‘Me too. Even in Sultanpur, a small town, at least two to three thousand kilos of sweets must be sold every day, not counting the jaggery, batasha, gatta, imarati and jalebi. By that standard, everyone who loves sweets would turn out to be Ramajor Pandey’s relative.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that …’

  ‘What conclusion would you arrive at with regard to Ramajor Pandey’s assignment? Will you tell him that Jagdamba belongs to his family simply because he and his great-grandson fancy sweets? You can take my word that Ramajor will hit either your head or his own against the wall.’

  ‘Where should I start then?’ Suryakant sounded tired.

  ‘You must substantiate your results, get proof.’

  ‘But you don’t consider the resemblance between Pandey’s Baba and Jagdamba’s great-grandson proof enough?’

  Chacha stared at Suryakant. He looked as if he longed to say something, but was not really sure. Finally, he spoke almost in a murmur, ‘How does it matter if there is a resemblance? Your chachi’s face is identical to Balwant Kaur’s, but who knows better than me that she is not really Balwant Kaur – not even remotely.’

  ‘Chacha, you’re being absurd. I expect you to guide me but you are misleading me.’

  ‘Look, if you really want to do it – find the truth – give up your tendency of rushing into everything. The assignment you have undertaken is not a morsel in your fingers to be gobbled directly. It is a twisted and complicated issue. The moment you saw the great-grandson’s face, you started building castles in the air. If you really want to exploit this likeness, it is possible only if Jagdamba’s face is similar to Ramajor’s Baba. Nevertheless, the element of doubt will be there. Still …’

  Suryakant had already thought about this. He had also tried to discover similarities between Jagdamba’s pictures and Pandey’s Baba, but had achieved nothing except the pressing rock of futility. There was not the slightest resemblance between the two. Another idea flashed in his mind – Baba had enjoyed the gift of longevity and Jagdamba was now over a hundred; Ramajor Pandey himself was quite old too. But two contradictory facts immediately refuted the evidence.

  The first was that longevity was not a core tenet for Pandey’s family because his father had passed away at quite an early age, and Jagdamba’s father, Balesar, too had left for his heavenly abode early. The second fact was more noteworthy: there was no similarity between the pictures of Baba in his old age and Jagdamba’s present ones. Even if they were identical, Jagdamba would not have appeared like Baba at this age at all because childhood and old age are two periods when one’s face changes constantly. Besides, Baba’s later life had been spent eating well in a lavish house with top-class medical facilities. He had possessed the armour of wealth. On the other hand, Jagdamba’s life was spent in indigence, tramping around for two square meals. His sons and grandsons also had failed to provide financial security for him. Thus, fate had drawn such a fiscal rift between the two men that they were not what they ought to have been. One was transformed by prosperity and the other by penury.

  A stubborn restlessness burgeoned in Suryakant. Maybe it was an intuition or an epiphany or maybe it was just shooting in the dark, but the feeling that there must be a connection between Pandey’s genes and Jagdamba’s family gnawed at him. Impatient, he said, ‘Chacha, you may not believe me, but I believe Jagdamba’s family is somehow linked to Pandey’s forefathers.’

  ‘Ask Ramajor Pandey to match his DNA with Jagdamba’s.’

  Suryakant replied, ‘It is possible.’

  ‘Even if the report is positive, Pandey may not accept it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the real issue is Brahminism. Jagdamba is not a Brahmin, but Baba was a Brahmin. Even if the DNAs match, at best people will go along with the idea that Jagdamba is the illegitimate child of one of Pandey’s ancestors.’

  ‘The reverse too is possible – Baba might be the illegitimate child of some progenitor of Jagdamba’s.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a possibility, but it doesn’t help you.’

  ‘What should we do then?’ Suryakant inquired.

  ‘You should extend your search in two directions. First, get incontrovertible proof of a Pandey family in which an ancestor went to Surinam as Ramajor’s Baba did, and second, if Jagdamba is the descendant of Ramajor’s baba, you must find conclusive proof to establish how a Pandey tumbled to a lower caste. To do this, you must visit Jagdamba’s house to go over each issue thoroughly. Perhaps you will find a clue, perhaps you will return empty-handed.’

  Chacha and Suryakant headed to Jagdamba’s house on foot. They had asked the pradhan for directions to Jagdamba’s house. They walked the trail silently.

  Chacha broke the silence, ‘If co-travellers talk, the road becomes easier.’

  Suryakant replied, ‘Hmm.’

  Chacha asked, ‘Tell me Suryakant, is the memory of our village overwhelming you?’

  ‘How did you know, Chacha?’ Suryakant was a little surprised.

  ‘It has overwhelmed me.’

  The clouds of their village poured in them. It had been a long time since they had last visited the place. Suryakant had joined his own family – let alone his village – after a gap of many years. Chacha had disposed of his share of the fields and the orchard in the village to construct a house in Sultanpur, and had also purchased a car and acquired a trendy lifestyle. There was no reason for him to visit his village any more. Moreover, he was also a little shamefaced after hav
ing sold off everything. Obviously, he had distanced himself from the village for quite a few years. The village had slipped away from their lives, but had sought refuge in their memories. The images, colours, sounds and most of all, the imprint of the village had not been erased by time. However, the dust of the intervening years swirled around them incessantly and the images were now almost strange, masked. Today, as they rambled around under the guise of a visit to Jagdamba’s house, the pouring from the clouds brought all the memories alive, fresh and familiar. The breach of time did not let the dust mask it any more, now there was the quaint fragrance of the soil.

  When Chacha and Suryakant studied in Sultanpur, they went to their village in this season every year because they had vacations. Once the harvest was done, the fields would be bare, but the trees would be laden.

  They lost their way before reaching Jagdamba’s house.

  ‘Chacha, I think we are lost.’

  Chacha, instead of looking for the right path, presented a sombre analysis of getting lost. ‘Every time we lose our way, we are enriched by a new experience. The role of the people who have lost their way is no less significant in the evolution of mankind than the role of those who have reached their destination.’

  ‘Is that is why you always say, “Never come back the way you have gone forth.”’

  ‘That was said by our elders, not me.’

  Since they had lost their way, they had walked around almost the entire village, feeling disillusioned. In fact, they were trying to catch a glimpse of their own village in Gosainganj. But it was different. Every time they tried to relive it, they were disappointed.

  Finally, they reached Jagdamba’s house. He was lying on the cot, on which he had been carried to the pradhan’s house, under a neem tree outside the house. Jagdamba’s eyes were closed but his mouth was open. He looked dead but he was alive, and this was evident when he coughed. Jagdamba turned over. Chacha and Suryakant could see Jagdamba’s back to which neem leaves were stuck.

  It was around 5 p.m., and the branches of the neem swayed in a gentle wind. A few children were passing by, they stopped when they saw Chacha and Suryakant. Soon enough, all the adults passing by stopped as well, and a crowd began to form. Obviously, a few people came out of Jagdamba’s house too.

  On the way there, Chacha had told Suryakant that they should discuss something substantial with Jagdamba instead of inquiring about his life. Suryakant had wondered, ‘What do you want to ask?’

  Chacha had said, ‘Find out his caste first.’

  People kept emerging from Jagdamba’s house. Suryakant spoke to Chacha in a low voice and asked, ‘How can so many persons live in the same house?’

  ‘If you have travelled from Lucknow merely to explore this, go ahead and ask.’

  Right then, Jagdamba’s great-grandson materialized, the one who resembled Pandey’s Baba. Suryakant waved heartily to him, and when he came close, he asked him his caste.

  ‘We are Prajapatis.’

  ‘Prajapati?’ Suryakant was not familiar with the word.

  ‘We are potters, kumhar as is known here. We mould earthen pots.’ Someone else replied, perhaps he belonged to a generation before the great-grandson’s and after Jagdamba’s.

  When Suryakant heard the word ‘kumhar’, he recalled the first book he had studied in his school that contained the phrase ‘Ka se kumhar’. Another image that appeared in his mind was of the potter he had seen in his village several years ago. He used to make pots on his potter’s wheel, and always had pots drying in the sun around him.

  Suryakant glanced around, but amongst the kulhar, pitchers, surahi and cups, there was no wheel to be found. He examined his surroundings once again and then he saw it – the wheel lay supine against the wall in the corner of the house. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, on which a child had traced the outline of an apple with his finger.

  Once, Jagdamba’s family had made earthen pots, but it was not enough to earn a livelihood from. They did not have much property – only a few fields – and they also worked in other’s fields. Life was not easy. This was how most families in the village lived, but it was more difficult at Jagdamba’s house because they were afflicted with the malady of hunger.

  Balesar used to mould earthen pots enthusiastically, and he moulded them well. Jagdamba too had inherited the skill. The only drawback was that he would fart loudly at work. Sometimes, his fart was so loud that a canary sitting in the tree would take flight in fright, and the cattle would break into a stampede with their tails upright. However, Jagdamba and Balesar were proficient in making pots, and people appreciated this and paid well for their wares. Their earthen pots, bhorkas and cups were used during last rites. Whenever someone organized a Satyanarayan puja or a reading of the Bhagavadgita or had to feed the community as penance, his pots were utilized. When Jagdamba grew older, four individuals including Bhagwati Halwai’s descendants set up tea shops that used earthen cups supplied by Jagdamba. There were also several other occasions for business: the small earthen cups for dispensing charnamrit during a puja were prepared on his wheel. The ice-ball cart sellers used to offer the ice balls in the earthen cups shaped on Jagdamba’s wheel. The summer was a profitable time. Pitchers and surahis were sold only in this season. Then there was the sahalg, a golden period for the sale of earthenware. Dussehra and Diwali, the best time for the sale of earthen lamps, bhopu, earthen bells, toys, and kajal in the kohl holders would arrive soon after. But this does not mean that Jagdamba was minting money as a potter or that he had plenty of work. Only the summers – when marriages were solemnized – were gainful. The rains and the winters were days of penury. Things improved during Dussehra and Diwali.

  Another thing: if Jagdamba earned well in the bazaar or in a fair, he purchased gatta, batasha, pera, laddu and other sweets, and the children, happy after enjoying the sweetmeats, massaged Jagdamba’s hands, feet, head for a long time. If a child pressed his back or waist hard, Jagdamba would fart loudly. The children hooted with laughter; Jagdamba joined them and then his back swayed like a wave. The children did not work on the wheel when they grew up. One of Jagdamba’s great-grandsons went to Sultanpur with Girija Shankar and turned communist. Others had their own reasons. But the main reason that kept them away from the wheel was that the art of pottery had started fading in the face of plastic and steel pots. Earthen lamps were beaten by candles in the same manner in which Chinese bulbs wiped candles out later. Earthen cups of the potters were vanquished by glasses and clay toys were annihilated. In fact, the hobbies of the children were now bizarre. Children had started losing interest in toys and they preferred objects that created noise or objects which were glossy or vividly bright.

  Jagdamba kept using his potter’s wheel in spite of the lack of interest in his craft until finally, the wheel was propped up against one end of the front wall. Some of the villagers claimed, backed up vociferously by Jagdamba, that he had spun the potter’s wheel until he was ninety. It was beside the point that he could hardly make a pot now. His fingers were neither as powerful nor as deft now. Still, he grew impatient for good clay as if he had received orders for a huge supply. The sorry reality was that now people did not even give him any clay.

  Haplessly, Jagdamba would keep gazing at his wheel. He regularly fell asleep while gazing at the wheel and tumbled from his sitting posture. However, he maintained a cardinal schedule: every Monday he would mumble the words ‘May Lord Shankar be Victorious!’ to propitiate the presiding god of the potters and squat by the wheel. He would gather enough soil from around him to fashion a symbolic image of Shankarji. After forming his god – it hardly mattered whether there was any clay or not – he spun the wheel.

  As if it was hatha yoga, an interminable passion, a pledge of spinning the wheel all his life, he would oil its axle with kar oil, stick the chakreti in the spoke and rotate the wheel with whatever power he was left with. His feeble hands were unable to give the rotation any momentum. It would turn twice or thrice unhurriedly
and come to a stop. And if it picked up any speed at all, Jagdamba’s heart would be filled with infinite joy and grief. He was delighted that he was fighting a battle against all the odds, and he was filled with grief because he knew he was the last to practice this art in his family. Call it irony or self-satisfaction, Jagdamba performed all the necessary rituals with dedication every Monday. Even when there was no clay, he would behave as if he were severing an imaginary pot from the wheel with the cutting string.

  Moreover, Jagdamba did not let anyone touch the water in the kundi. Once the great-great-grandson, a toddler, had put his hand into the kundi, and he was cross with the child’s mother. He said, ‘There is no water purer than the water of this kundi. Lord Bholenath used to dissolve his cannabis here. Hey you, mother of this brat, control this spawn of yours!’ But finally, Jagdamba’s fingers became so frail that he was unable to sling the spinning stick in the wheel. He was reduced to such a state that he found it impossible to break rotis during his meals. Therefore, his roti was shredded into pieces before serving him. Jagdamba’s jaws and teeth had lost their ability to chew so he immersed the pieces of the roti in the lentils or the vegetable gravy. If a daughter-in-law or great daughter-in-law, peeved with Jagdamba, wished to teach him a lesson, she would prepare the meal without the lentils and plonk a dry fare before him. Jagdamba would shout and grow angry and ask for milk or curds to soften his roti. The daughter-in-law would reply that there was none in the house, ‘The children have finished every single gram.’ Jagdamba would mumble, ‘Everyone is taken care of in this house except me.’ On such occasions, he was forced to soften his roti with water and mash the vegetables to put them in the gullet. Taking advantage of his weakness, a great-grandson, irritated by his obsession for the spinning wheel, propped it against the outer wall in a corner. Jagdamba found himself helpless. The hands that were too weak to tear rotis into pieces were incapable of bringing the wheel back to its original spot. Nobody else was willing to spin the wheel. So it lay stationary and with time, it faded from everyone’s memory. But this day, Suryakant cleaned it up and Chacha snapped a few pictures.