Diwali in Muzaffarnagar

by Tanuj Solanki

  Mahesh called, but Gunjan didn’t pick up. She did not want to talk to him right now. In front of her eyes, in the backyard, the white fog settled slowly like a viscous thing. Owing to the silence in the house, Gunjan sometimes felt that the fog was making a sound. She felt a gnawing emptiness otherwise. She could not, however, attribute this mood of hers to the fact of her father’s death. It wasn’t that simple. Perhaps it was something that was adrift in her own self that was forming these thoughts. But how could she know whether these perceptions were shared by the others as well? Yes, she strongly sensed the desolation of the house, but there was no objective way to communicate it to, or discuss its possible causes with, her mother or her uncle.

  She opened the gate to her left and went into the backyard and inhaled the fog. Then she sat on her bicycle and pedalled forward. She made a tiny circle, and then another. She kept circling, enjoying the silly idea that her movement was cleaving the fog.

  The morning of the next day, 7 January, Gunjan and Jagvir Chacha went to the branch of a private life insurance company. Gunjan’s mother, a nominee in one of the policies, was with them. Gunjan made her take the rear seat so that she couldn’t see the word scrawled on the front.

  The operations person at the branch asked them for the doctor’s note along with the death certificate.

  ‘But that note was taken by the municipal office,’ Jagvir Chacha said.

  ‘It is normally needed to show that the death was natural,’ the man said.

  ‘We can get a new note from the doctor,’ said Gunjan. She smiled briefly at the man, who seemed her age. ‘But it would be great if you can spare us the trouble.’

  ‘I’ll file the claim,’ the man said, smiling back. ‘Sometimes, the head-office people decide to do an investigation. These policies are of a small amount; so they likely won’t care. But it’s also true that there have been a lot of frauds in Muzaffarnagar. So the company is cautious.’

  ‘That’s why we are giving two original death certificates,’ Gunjan said. ‘They will be convinced there is no fraud.’ Gunjan had realized the importance of those documents just before saying that.

  The man then collected the identification documents, along with the bank account information, from them. He filed the claims in the system. Gunjan’s mind was stuck on how easily this man had called the policies ‘of a small amount’. It occurred to her that she did not have life insurance. Then she wondered how big Mahesh’s insurance policy must be.

  ‘How long will it take to get the money?’ Gunjan’s mother asked the man.

  ‘If there is smooth processing, Auntyji, the money should be in your bank account in seven working days.’

  After the claim-filing, they went to drop Jagvir Chacha to the railway station. He was to catch a train to Ambala, where he lived with his wife (both his children were in college). At the platform, he took Gunjan’s mother’s hands in his, touched them with his forehead, and sobbed a couple of times. His train was late, but he insisted that Gunjan and her mother not wait with him. ‘Go to the tehsil office,’ he said to Gunjan just before they left.

  Gunjan dropped her mother home and then drove to the tehsil office. There was a main building in the centre of the compound, and all around in the open ground surrounding it, countless shops and shacks and desks had been set up. The din of the numerous typewriters at work was adding a busy music to the air. Apart from the odd woman trailing behind her husband, the place was full of men. The small and big establishments belonged to lawyers, stamp sellers, notary officers, and hangers-on – all of them making a living out of giving this or that service to people caught in administrative tangles, the kind Gunjan and her mother had found themselves in with respect to the bank accounts. Half of the shops were operated by Muslims, the others by Hindus, and the crowd distributed itself accordingly. As Gunjan stood at a spot, stunned by the hustle-bustle around her, she wished she could avoid this bureaucratic excess.

  At random, she picked a tiny shop, a Muslim lawyer’s place, and stood at the entrance. Inside, four men sat on a single bench, facing a desk, behind which the lawyer sat working on a computer.

  ‘Hi, Mr Syed,’ she said in English. She had read the name on the board above the entrance.

  The lawyer looked up from his keyboard, crinkled his eyebrows, and went back to his typing for a second. Then he looked up again and said, ‘Please, Madam, come inside.’

  Gunjan entered the place, which was not more than sixty–seventy square feet of space. She stood next to the bench and inside half a minute the four men vacated it and stood outside the shop.

  ‘What I can do for you, please?’ the lawyer asked.

  Gunjan switched to Hindi and explained the bank account situation to the lawyer. The four men standing outside were joined by a few more.

  Having understood the situation, the lawyer said, ‘Heir certificates are granted by the magistrate. It can take up to six months.’

  ‘Six months!’ said Gunjan.

  ‘Yes. If you go by the normal route,’ the lawyer said. He then looked to the small crowd that had assembled outside his shop. The men began to shift away. After the last curious person had left, he said, ‘The file goes through four levels. And there are rates decided at each level. It can happen in a month; but it would cost thirty thousand rupees.’

  Gunjan nodded. After a second, she said, ‘I will discuss with my mother. There are also other affidavits. For other things. Like my mother’s application for a job in my father’s department. On compassionate grounds.’

  ‘Yes,’ the lawyer said. ‘You will need to sign an affidavit saying that you don’t want that job.’

  ‘How long does that take?’ Gunjan said.

  The lawyer laughed. ‘You have no experience of these things,’ he said.

  ‘My father can only die once,’ Gunjan replied curtly.

  ‘No, no, please don’t take it badly. I mean you don’t have any experience of signing affidavits, etc. I will arrange the stamp papers and get the language ready for you. If you can give me all details right now, it will be done by four in the afternoon.’

  Gunjan gave him a paper with the details of all tasks that required affidavits. ‘Still, how much does it take?’ she asked.

  ‘Fifty rupees per affidavit,’ the lawyer answered. ‘I will also need passport-sized photographs – yours and your mother’s.’

  ‘Here,’ Gunjan passed on the photos. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and stood up from the bench. ‘I will be back at four.’

  ‘Okay, Madam,’ said the lawyer.

  As she was moving further from the shop and into the general pandemonium, a man of about forty years, dressed in a white kurta–pyjama, approached her. ‘Madam,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I heard that you’ve some trouble with your father’s money,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, apparently there are bribes needed,’ Gunjan said.

  ‘Yes, thirty thousand is the going rate here for all such requests,’ the man said.

  ‘Can you help?’ Gunjan asked.

  ‘You don’t know this, Madam, but branch managers have a monetary limit up to which they can accept such transfers without seeking the heir certificate,’ the man said. ‘Your money can come to you inside a day.’

  ‘I talked to four branch managers today. Not one told me of any such limit,’ said Gunjan.

  ‘They won’t because they want money,’ the man said.

  ‘But if they want money, they’ve to at least suggest that such a way exists,’ Gunjan said. Then, after a moment, ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘Madam, this is the thing I do,’ the man said. ‘For five thousand rupees per account, I will talk to all your branch managers and they will transfer the money without any problem. Just that the money in each account should be less than five lakhs.’

  The money in each of his father’s accounts was less than five lakhs. Gunjan was impressed with such entrepreneurship. This man was offering her a deal better than the thirty thousa
nd that Mr Syed had offered. And it would be faster.‘I can’t pay before I get the money,’ Gunjan said.

  ‘Okay, no problem,’ the man said.

  ‘I will come back around four,’ she said. ‘Can I tell you then?’

  ‘Okay, okay, you will meet me around this area only,’ the man said.

  ‘Yes. Thank you for the offer. What’s your name?’

  ‘Madam, Mr Syed anyway won’t give you the best advice,’ the man said. ‘My name is Jairam; it’s my duty to help women like you.’

  ‘Women like me?’

  ‘You came in a big car, Madam. Jetta. Surely you can’t be bothered with five–six lakh rupees for too long. And why should you go to a Muslim lawyer?’

  A heat rose from her throat and suffused her whole face. She looked away from the man and moved away from the conversation. He had been following her right from the parking lot, she realized.

  ‘See you at four, Madam,’ the man said behind her back.

  Walking towards the parking lot, Gunjan felt a clenching of her jaws. The car didn’t fit with what this town was. It gave people wrong ideas about her, about who she was and what she could afford. And it vexed her further that the Hindu–Muslim card should be pulled on her.

  At home, Gunjan explained the situation to her mother.

  ‘We should give the money to this Jairam fellow and get everything sorted quickly,’ her mother said. ‘The insurance money will come soon, right?’

  ‘Mummy, I have the amount we need for Jairam,’ Gunjan said.

  ‘I can pay you back from the insurance money, then.’

  ‘You don’t worry about it, Mummy,’ Gunjan said. ‘Don’t.’

  Her mother smiled, and then proceeded towards the kitchen to prepare lunch. Gunjan noticed how her hair was unkempt, dishevelled. Her mother had aged inside a week. She’d been a beautiful woman, and still was, but it was as if she had committed herself to the image of the widow. For a moment, Gunjan wondered if her parents had had a sex life. And if they did, what all of this meant for her mother. In India, and more so in Muzaffarnagar, it was not possible for her to seek a male companion at her age.

  With her daughter working in Delhi, visiting her frequently at first and less and less over time, would this woman be condemned to a loneliness extending right till her death?

  Now, sitting alone in the living room, Gunjan speculated about the future. Her mother would be asked to vacate the bungalow in another three months. But the mess with the documents and the money would clear much before that. So her mother would get a clerical job on compassionate grounds and would move to a small flat in the farm residential colony. Another year or more down the line, she would leave Mahesh and start living by herself. None of these outcomes seemed desirable to her: her mother becoming a working woman after thirty years of homemaking; her mother moving to a much smaller place; and she herself, thirty years old, tired of men, dealing with a hostile Delhi alone – a Bridget Jones in a rapacious city.

  She thought of all the harassment she had faced in Delhi as a woman. With her first boyfriend, getting groped on a DTC bus in his presence left them both feeling helpless, and that was part of the reason why they separated. She learnt driving from her second boyfriend, who owned an old Maruti Alto. But her weekday commute was still something she had to manage on public transport. Then came Mahesh.

  She sometimes wondered if she had accepted Mahesh’s affections because of the safety implicit in his company, whereby she seldom had to take public transport and even otherwise stood behind an invisible wall of class, with the lecherous side of Delhi denied access to her. There were, however, notable reminders even on the right side of the wall. A couple of Mahesh’s friends had slapped her behind in parties, in a manner so nonchalant that she had wondered if this was a casual way of acknowledging someone among the rich and had not, therefore, told Mahesh anything. Once, at a reception party they had attended, the drunk groom had danced so suggestively with her that the bride had had to intervene. It had been particularly embarrassing for Gunjan, for the bride’s accusing eyes had blamed her for not abstaining from the dance.

  Gunjan went to the kitchen and hugged her mother from behind. ‘How will you manage everything, Mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘Things will work out,’ her mother said, and turned to face her.

  ‘I wanted to ask you how … how do you feel about working?’

  ‘I don’t know what it’ll be like,’ her mother said. ‘I’ve only read Grihshobha and Kadambini after my B.A. Not even the newspapers. The last time I dealt seriously with books was when I could still help you with homework.’

  ‘Does it scare you?’ Gunjan asked.

  ‘A bit. But I’m more scared about you.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mother said walking towards the sink to wash some carrots. ‘Whose car is it?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Gunjan. ‘My friend’s.’

  ‘Such a big car. And he’s given it to you for so many days. Must be a special friend.’

  Gunjan shrugged.

  ‘Someone scratched something on it?’

  ‘Yes, some loafers at the municipal office. Chachaji was there.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to have to pay for this?’

  ‘I’ll manage, Mummy,’ Gunjan said. ‘It’s something I can manage.’

  The pressure cooker gave a whistle. Gunjan could sense her mother’s discomfort with the car, and she herself had seen how it created problems. ‘I’ll stop taking out the car from now on,’ she said.

  ‘What sort of life do you have, child?’ her mother asked, as if the question flowed naturally from the context of their conversation. ‘Do you realize,’ she added, ‘that I don’t even know where you live in Delhi? Your father never knew that either, and it used to make him anxious.’

  ‘I live in Vasant Vihar,’ Gunjan said. ‘With a roommate.’

  Her mother just kept looking at her.

  ‘And I have a good life,’ said Gunjan, evading her mother’s eyes.

  Her mother nodded, sighed. Then she said, ‘Good that you won’t take the car. But what will you do? The scooter doesn’t start easily. You’ll have to hail rickshaws each time.’

  Gunjan took a moment, then said, ‘I’ll take the cycle.’

  Her mother laughed. ‘Like your school days?’

  Gunjan laughed too. ‘Why don’t you go watch a serial?’ she said then. ‘I will make the chapattis.’

  ‘You know how to make chapattis?’ her mother asked, feigning a wide-eyed look of surprise.

  ‘Of course I do, Madam. My mummy taught me.’

  Around 3 p.m., Gunjan took off her salwar and slipped on her black slacks. She then wiped the cycle clean with an old rag: with the nightly dew, stipples of dust had gathered over its entire frame. It was in perfect shape otherwise. She sat on it and pedalled away.

  In fifteen minutes, she was near the tehsil office. The sun had shone brightly that day and there was still some warmth in the air. She felt refreshed with the exercise and left the cycle some distance away from the main gate.

  Inside the compound, Mr Syed was ready with the affidavits. They had been notarized even before being signed by Gunjan or her mother, which, Gunjan noted, wasn’t exactly the right practice. She paid him the money and walked away from the shop.

  A few paces ahead, she saw Jairam. He waved to her.

  ‘We will do it tomorrow?’ she said.

  ‘Okay, Madam,’ he said.

  Gunjan nodded and made to walk past him. Just then, Jairam said, ‘Madam, where do you live? Outside India somewhere? America?’

  ‘Jairamji,’ Gunjan paused, ‘I’ll use your help to get my father’s money and I’ll pay you for that. And that’s it. We don’t have to talk about anything else.’

  ‘Okay, Madam, okay.’ He smiled sheepishly.

  Gunjan walked away, found her cycle, and pedalled homewards. She did not want to deal with this man and she did not want to pay him any money. There had to be a way t
o get around him.

  In the evening, she called Mahesh and told him about the damage to his car. She did not tell him the exact word the rascals at the municipal office had scrawled on the bonnet, though.

  ‘Don’t worry, baby,’ Mahesh said. ‘It’s nothing. I’ll take care of the car. Just … let me know if you have any idea when things might be under control in Muzaffarnagar.’

  ‘There is still a lot of work here,’ she said.

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just that I’m missing you.’

  ‘How are you passing your evenings?’

  ‘Nothing much. By the way, I had someone reach out to your boss and tell him that he shouldn’t expect you for at least another week.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gunjan said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s alright, love. I love you.’

  ‘You are so nice to me,’ Gunjan said.

  ‘Do you love me, baby? You’ve not forgotten about me, have you?’

  ‘I have not,’ Gunjan said. ‘But there is a lot going on here.’

  ‘You can say the three words at least,’ Mahesh said.

  ‘Alright. I love you,’ she said, and heard Mahesh sigh at the other end.

  ‘I’m worried about my mother,’ she said. ‘She is going to be alone.’

  ‘We will discuss things when you get here. We will discuss the future.’

  ‘Hmm … alright. Sorry about the car again, Mahesh.’

  ‘Not an issue, Gunjan, not an issue.’

  After she cut the call, she thought of the future Mahesh was referring to. Would he propose to her? Would she be able to say yes? Or no? She’d never thought of herself as the sort of woman who would marry for anything other than love. And what she had for Mahesh was not much more than affection. She’d loved her first boyfriend and it had been painful separating from him. But it had seemed necessary at the point. Perhaps she should have stuck with him; married him, even.