Exile

by Akhilesh

  Chacha replied, ‘Food procured and prepared with black money is always tastier. Corruption by itself is quite an admired and desired flavour.’

  ‘And we just had it.’

  ‘I think I know how to pay for our redemption.’ Chacha salvaged himself and Suryakant by giving the children of the pradhan’s house two thousand rupees for sweets while leaving Gosainganj. But that happened later. After lunch, the two went off to get some rest. Lying down, Suryakant wondered aloud, ‘The issue is now so complicated that it is almost impossible to get irrefutable proof that would make Ramajor Pandey trust my theory. We also agreed that I should write a book on his grandfather and his Indian clan, but I won’t be able to write a single page. It is not that the truth is a needle in a haystack. I can perceive it in Jagdamba’s house, but Jagdamba of the potter caste and those that belong to Ramajor Pandey’s caste possess only gossip, fraud and greed. Will my efforts come to nothing now?’ He had quite forgotten that his job was in danger and in spite of all his attempts, he had not been able to land a new one. He was riven with anxiety at the moment.

  He thought he would take a nap, but sleep evaded him. Failures, questions and depression pressed down upon him. He felt like he was sinking. When he was unable to bear it any longer, he got up and called Bahuguna.

  Bahuguna listened to each word and account solicitously and responded finally, ‘This has turned into one big mess.’

  ‘This is the limit, yaar! Everyone here is eager to connect with Ramajor Pandey’s Baba Bhagelu. They tell such gripping, realistic but phony stories as proof – I am really at my wit’s end! I feel like banging my head against a wall!’

  ‘Listen, if you want to present a false story to Ramajor Pandey, I’ll back you up. My only request is that you add this one to the bag of fabricated stories and present it to Pandey as the only credible one: one of the children Ramajor Pandey’s Baba Bhagelu had deserted by going to Surinam became a sadhu when he grew up, and went to the Himalayas for meditation. He practised such steadfast penance and merged into God so completely that he forgot who he was. He forgot which village, caste and religion he belonged to and eventually forgot his name. After twelve years of penance, when he was returning from the hills, he met Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore, who explained the quintessence of religion to him and also recited several poems from his immortal work, Gitanjali. It influenced him so much that he soon took to writing poetry. He sent some of his poems to Tagore for review, poems in which he had articulated his amnesia that had divested him of his identity, name and village. Tagore liked the poems and convinced him to settle down and raise a family. He encouraged him to seek out the truth and enigma of the world, its luminosity and the mist, immortality and mortality. The young man was so profoundly affected by Tagore’s words that he married a girl from the hills in the next marriage season. She bestowed a name upon him and so, a Pandey from the Gosainganj village became a Bahuguna of the hills and I, the modest man, am the descendant of this dynasty.’

  ‘I’m in trouble and you are making fun of me!’

  ‘See, I was simply trying to put across a serious issue through the literary device of humour. I would really be delighted to be the heir of the issueless Ramajor Pandey. After all, such a huge empire of prosperity would not trouble anyone. Still, if you don’t want to do it, even for friendship’s sake, take my advice,’ Bahuguna said. ‘Spin a fantastic yarn. Vivid, emotional and credible – claim that you are the descendant of Ramajor Pandey.’

  Suryakant swore colourfully and Bahuguna grew serious instantly and said, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll take care of things. Come back, and I’ll put a senior correspondent at Sultanpur on the job. He’ll prepare a right-or-wrong, true-or-false report and mail it within a couple of hours. You correct the language and expressions and hand it to Pandey. And then scribble a book on Bhagelu and his clan on its basis.’

  ‘To hell with your senior reporter! You and your journalism have really fallen!’

  ‘You’re right, but that’s nothing new. Your statement is true, but not original,’ Bahuguna chuckled.

  20

  LABYRINTH OF RELATIONSHIPS

  It was an amusing day made of a series of dramatic events. It began thus: Gauri was scanning the newspaper as usual with her morning tea. She went through the main, detailed report at the bottom of the first page for the third time which mentioned that the ambitious Tourism Department Satyug project had been sanctioned. Under this project, several ancient religious and holy spots would be restored and put on the map of tourist destinations. To implement it in the best possible way, the advice of renowned historians, writers, archaeologists, architects, the Shankaracharyas of all the maths and distinguished holy men was sought. The project estimate was around 15,000 crores. During the press conference, the chief secretary said that the government would carry out the project on PPP basis – public-private partnership – inviting tenders to encourage investment from the private sector.

  Gauri wondered if Suryakant had read the report. Gosainganj was merely a village and it was hard to say whether the newspapers were distributed there or not. She thought Suryakant should know. In spite of everything, it was due to his refusal to go along with the project that he was fated to wander in Gosainganj. She knew Suryakant intimately, exclaiming to herself – poor guy! Her resolve diluted and she felt like easing her obduracy, fury and reticence that had come to the fore after Surya’s departure to Sultanpur. Her love for Suryakant surfaced. She picked up her mobile phone to talk to him, to inform him about the tourism directorate news, to find out how he was and to tell him she had forgiven him, and show him that she could not remain angry with him any longer. But before she could call him, the mobile phone rang.

  ‘This is Sampoornanand Brihaspati.’ She could not have been more surprised by this call.

  ‘Greetings, sir,’ Gauri replied.

  ‘What day is it, my daughter?’

  ‘Brihaspativar. Thursday.’

  ‘Brihaspativar is always a good day but some people think it inauspicious.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My daughter, your husband considers me a bad person and has stopped coming to the office in protest.’

  ‘It is not that – he is on leave, indisposed.’

  ‘I know, he is receiving medical treatment in Sultanpur and Gosainganj …’

  ‘Oh! In fact … he …’

  ‘When is he coming back?’

  ‘Soon, sir.’

  ‘Tell him to come back to the office. There will be no inquiry or proceedings – and there is absolutely no conspiracy against him.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Gauri! Isn’t that your name? My daughter, I’m an old man. I have a short temper and I have grown irritable. I suffer from anxiety. But does an old man not have a right to make mistakes? Even the government provides facilities to senior citizens, but your husband did not have the simple courtesy, and he just left in a huff. Tell him that he should try and understand me. I am not such an evil person. How long will I survive? Devi Ma is pleased with me, and I am not afraid of death, but I don’t want to cause anyone any unhappiness. I don’t want my soul to be saddled with curses when it leaves this mortal cage.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. I’ll inform Surya … he will come and see you soon.’

  Gauri did not call Suryakant immediately. She was rather hesitant to reach out after remaining taciturn so long. However, it was necessary to inform him about the developments. Finally, she decided truce was the best option. This way she could retain her pride and still convey the crucial messages. She switched on the computer.

  Gauri’s inbox was crammed with Surya’s messages. It appeared that after failing in his endeavours for peace, he had resorted to sending innumerable emails to Gauri; it was a different matter that Gauri had not gone through a single one. By ignoring the messages, she had tried to nourish the memory of the brutality and rudeness she had suffered in Sultanpur. Her silence was not a punishment for Sury
ankant but merely her revenge for the abuse she had suffered on that icy night.

  She focused on a string of unread emails from Suryakant, but not on those sent from Sultanpur. This calculated neglect also was a sort of protest. She opened only the mails Surya had written after arriving in Gosainganj. Surya’s initial mails were ordinary: he was trying to please his irate wife, saying something sweet to gratify her, something emotional or a joke or a couplet from a poem. But as he was immersed in his search for Baba’s descendants, his language and expressions changed. For instance, he wrote in one email: ‘There are several legends connected to Gosainganj’s name and foundation, both fascinating and arcane. However, I shall tell you these Gosainganj stories when I come back to Lucknow. For the moment, know that names too have a sociology and past.’

  In another email, he wrote: ‘The fields have been harvested and people do not have much to do. I feel that the use of machines has made cultivation easier, but the labour and the time that is saved is not drawn on properly. Most men waste their time at tea shops in the market, conspiring against one another and in sitting idle.’

  Gauri paused and thought, Is this a replica of Surya’s habit of writing in the Mayfair notebooks or a substitute?

  She opened the next email and read: ‘There was a virulent peasant revolt between 1919 and 1922 in this area, spreading to four districts of Awadh – Pratapgarh, Sultanpur, Raebareli and Faizabad. It was led by a Marathi, Baba Ramchandra. What an irony it is that Pandey’s Baba went to Surinam as a girmitiya mazdoor when the pangs of poverty became unbearable, and Baba Ramchandra, who went to Fiji as a girmitiya mazdoor, returned to Pratapgarh. He realized that the peasants here were in dire straits because of penury and food shortages. Many of them, perhaps more than a lakh men, launched a revolt against the zamindars under Baba Ramchandra’s leadership. It was an intense, unique battle by the rural community, one they felt was taken up for the emancipation of the backward and Dalit castes for the first time. Do you know, washermen stopped washing clothes, barbers refused to shave people? People from the Teli caste were not ready to extract oil, potters were not ready to craft pots and the Kevat caste refused to operate boats. What had pushed forward this tide of rebellion? The exploitative machinery of zamindars and the poverty of peasants. A peasant received a seer of food grains from the zamindar for a long day of hard labour. The seer of grains was mixed with at least a pau of pebbles. The energy and the fire of the movement came from indigence and helplessness. Perhaps this is what we call the curse of poverty. Really, there was such abject poverty and helplessness in Awadh in those days that many people, crushed by hunger, sold off their daughters. One family from Gosainganj traded a two-month-old infant – a girl child. Moreover …’

  Gauri did not glance further, perhaps she was unable to read them because a curtain of mist covered her eyes and a wail rose in her soul. A doubt gripped her: Was the infant girl child put on the market in Gosainganj my maternal grandmother? She was born around 1919-1922. Is my blood also related to Gosainganj? She had a strong urge to dash to Gosainganj and learn which household had become so penurious that the child was put on sale. The other option was that she would stay put and ask Surya to hunt for the house of her ancestors the way he was doing for Pandeyji – discover the past and the present of their penury. The foundation stone of a family is pegged not only in the paternal line – the other end comes from the mother and her ancestors.

  When she pondered over the issue, Gaurav’s face appeared before her. She held Gaurav in her heart, with utmost fondness, and thought: I am within Gaurav and Gaurav is within me. He has dwelt inside me – he was formed in my womb. From the very beginning of his existence, he received breath from my soul and nourishment from my sustenance. His blood formed from mine, and I feel affection for him when I feel this blood flowing, surging in him. If the girl sold off in Gosainganj was my maternal grandmother, can the region that Gaurav’s ancestors inhabited be considered an origin … or will it be only Sultanpur?

  But Gauri felt bitter and thought: Is only the father important? Denying all rituals and legends, tracing identity only through the paternal line – was that superstition or a conspiracy? She concluded that the quest for the childhood of her grandmother in Gosainganj was not only personal, but also a social issue. It would be the anti-quest of the quest for Pandey’s Baba’s family in the village. Each opposition, each anti-world, each anti-discourse is not only an opposite, but is also a complement. The story of her nani would not cancel out the story of Pandey’s Baba, but would be constructing a stronger legend by coming together because the origin of both the narratives was the same – penury.

  She felt like running to Gosainganj. After reading Surya’s emails, she felt someone was calling out to her. She felt compelled to go to Gosainganj. She was so obsessed with the idea that any other thought refused to take hold in her head. A village, an old woman, a small child rattled the door chain of her heart constantly. It was a weird fixation since all she had was the report that once upon a time, a family in Gosainganj had peddled their two-month-old child. And she suspected it might be her nani although beaten by hunger, quite a few people in Awadh had sold their girl children during those days. Her nani might be one of the kids. And she did not even know if Awadh was where her nani had been born; she might have been born anywhere in India. Still, Gosainganj exerted its pull over Gauri. If there was a stumbling block, it was Sultanpur.

  The alchemy of opposites endured within her. When she recalled the abuse she had faced on that fog-filled night in Sultanpur, her yearning to trace her grandmother’s history grew more insistent. After all, the reason she was insulted was her nani’s untraceable origins – her parents. She thought, When Surya’s father was abusing me that night, shoving me out of the house, it was actually happening to my nani. On the other hand was her revulsion of the fact that the road to Gosainganj passed through Sultanpur. She found it insufferable that she would have to cross Sultanpur to reach Gosainganj. Eventually, the expected happened: she was sheathed in hatred, vengeance and sweat the instant she recalled that night.

  At last, instead of packing a suitcase, she sent Surya an email. She scanned the report of the tourism department project and emailed it as well. She also wrote down the details of her talk with Sampoornanand Brihaspati. She related these facts comprehensively. If anything was brief, it was the articulation of her intention to visit Gosainganj. In brief sentences, she said, ‘It is quite possible that the girl child sold in Gosainganj many years ago was my nani; I want to come to Gosainganj in search of her origin. Nani’s past will heal my present sore.’

  Suryakant replied to Gauri’s message: ‘I can sense your restlessness acutely and I understand that discovering Nani’s past will heal your existing wounds, but if you make a patient effort to understand – I must say – it demonstrates a perfect liaison between the past and the present – in the hope that the past would cure the wounds of the present. But the reality is quite different. This should be the ideal role of the past – a healing action – but somehow the past has always mauled the present. Ideally, this should be history’s role in the context of the present, but time stands witness that yesterday has mauled today on most occasions. It has turned wounds green instead of healing them. Also, there is no proof that this girl child was your nani. The fact is that in your nani’s story, she was sold off in her childhood, but during that period around seventy girls had been sold off by families hounded by hunger …

  ‘This sale of girls is a chronicle of the indigence and poverty of the common people, but it also highlights the lower value of daughters as compared to sons in our society, along with the fact that daughters are seen as burdens, deemed a transaction of loss. This is perhaps why there are no stories of boys being disposed of. Besides, your nani herself had no idea where she was born. Gauri, it is true that you have suffered terribly because you do not know her origins. The society, including my family, has heaped injustice upon you – but just think, the anonymity of your lineage
has safeguarded you from various social evils. What does the knowledge of our family tree or its antiquity endow upon us? An indomitable, perpetual fanaticism stitched with religion and caste. If you think about it, you will realize that you have been safe from several ills of a society – you are a modern person in the real sense.

  ‘You have a unique identity – a person free from caste, religion, rituals, superstitions, conservatism, someone I love madly. Why do you want to erect a prison for yourself for the sake of a historical origin? If you are so deeply attached to the past, forge one through your imagination and the necessity for one. You may wonder, how can history be imagined? All history is a kind of fiction manufactured by nation-states and institutions with the help of a few real names, places and dates … You, who have no history of your own, should manufacture your own truth with a couple of true names, places and dates. Those who have been displaced from history can exact their vengeance in this manner.’

  Suryakant sat motionless after sending his reply to Gauri. Then he typed another rather lengthy one to Ramajor Pandey. He realized it would be appropriate and ethical for Chacha to read the letter before it was sent. After all, Chacha had been with him since the beginning of the assignment. He also thought it a good idea to show him the email he had sent to Gauri. He explained the situation to Chacha, and then spoke about Gauri’s desire to come to Gosainganj, and finally showed him the Mayfair notebook category writing. Chacha said, ‘It is between you two, why are you showing it to me?’

  ‘Chacha, these are not sweet nothings or divorce documents. It contains a handful of sombre thoughts, and I want you to read it and share your opinion with me.’