Someone Else's Garden

by Dipika Rai

  Instead, Lokend takes her by the shoulders and says, ‘You are like a mother to me. You can be sure of that.’

  Suddenly, blocks of clouds and shafts of filtered sunshine crowd the sky. A rainbow commands consideration, each of its colours well defined, supported by another equally distinct arc as companion. Her life has been filled with omens, with every quirk and twitch of Nature remembered and each detail treasured for its clairvoyance. But today all the luck embodied in the rainbow is tossed aside for the dread in her heart.

  ‘Lokend, your father, your brother, the village, the police, the . . .’ she lists his adversaries in order of importance. She is agitated, all the scriptures she learned by heart as a young wife are inaccessible to her. She is unable to think clearly.

  ‘Asmara Didi, you worry too much. See, even the gods send their blessings,’ he laughs and waves to the rainbow as if it were his personal possession.

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you? If not for your sake, then for mine?’

  ‘Yes, Asmara Didi, I will. You know I will.’ The sincerity in his voice disarms her, and makes her instantly afraid. She turns to go.

  ‘She worries needlessly,’ he says to the reporter.

  ‘Yes, it will be a great day, I’m sure.’ The reporter has his own story.

  It grows by the second in his mind, swirls of valour laced with mutilation, death, glory and grand deeds. Oh, what a picture. He will change people with his words. A book, perhaps even a sequel. He sees a TV serial in his future.

  ‘At Lala Ram’s then?’

  The reporter nods.

  Twelve days later Lokend knows exactly what he will say to both the bandits and the villagers. He will publicly give the bandit a second chance, and ask the whole village to do the same. Daku Manmohan has killed many, but it isn’t the number of dead that’s the problem, it’s the number of living that the bandit’s left behind, broken and wretched, in some cases incapable of eking out any kind of existence at all.

  All those loyal to him are in place. They will be thickly scattered through the crowd. Their only function, to talk, to convince, to cajole, to debate and turn as many to their way of thinking as they can. They are all, without exception, people who have benefited in the form of donated land from Lokend, their saviour, their friend.

  They have been lucky for the rain. The musky smell of wet mud is around him. The breeze is cool, there is little dust. The rumble reaches Lokend over the sound of the truck’s engine, deep from the belly of the earth. The crowd is larger than he expected.

  He spots his trusted messenger, and as their eyes meet Prem’s chest fills with pride for his secret part in the affair. Lokend gets out of the truck and moves towards Lala Ram’s shop.

  The crowd has gathered at Gopalpur’s centre that comprises one short street flanked by Lala Ram’s establishment Saraswati Stores on the sunrise side and on the other by Topaz Suppliers, a most useful business opened by Babulal, Ram Singh’s chief henchman. Lala Ram has worn socks and shoes, and put up streamers to mark the occasion. The tinsel rotates in the breeze, catching the sunlight in its loops. It is very important to declare one’s wealth at the right time when such information might make the most impact. A sepia Guru Dutt leans across the Pyaasa poster. They may not have seen the film, but Lala Ram has told them all the story many times over.

  The hero’s pathos is evident even to the most hardened heart. A man betrayed by his love and by society. A man who refused to be enslaved by the era and chose to give up a life of luxury and fame for the obscurity and peace of a village – a village much like theirs. They look to the poster for answers and would not be surprised if Guru Dutt broke into song to explain away this astounding gathering.

  Hypothecated to the Bank of India: ten such signs are stacked against the walls like wainscoting. Lala Ram is leaving nothing to chance. The Bank has promised to open a branch in this village once this bandit business is concluded.

  The senior police officer was right, there are too few policemen. Lokend can count the uniforms, outnumbered more than a hundred to one. They patrol the perimeter listlessly. Every once in a while they spread out their arms, and the crowd shrinks back upon itself from the living rope.

  Lokend walks towards Saraswati Stores skirting the edge of the crowd; nothing must disturb such a compact mass of people. Many recognise him, the zamindar’s son, famous for giving up his lands. Two plainclothes policemen immediately fall in step with Lokend. Their senior officer had been categorical about this. ‘If it comes to saving one man, save this man –’ he’d said, pointing to Lokend.

  The reporter has already managed to find his way to the veranda of Saraswati Stores, using his camera as a weapon. The crowd recognises him and parts for him. He has taken hundreds of pictures of the villagers and given many away. Ram Singh, Prem, Lata Bai and Mamta have been among his subjects.

  Lokend climbs on to the veranda-stage. Rajiv locks arms with him, each one’s hand gripping the other’s wrist, and helps him up.

  The crowd leans back in one giant wave when it hears the jeeps arrive. The men turn together like the hundred heads of Ravana and look towards the sound. It is exactly as Lokend imagined. The jeeps stop a long way away. The crowd starts to murmur. Click . . .

  Three men jump out of the jeep dressed in police uniforms, complete with pistols in shoulder holsters, no doubt the advance party. They wade through the people swirling round them. It was Lokend’s idea to have the bandits dress as policemen so they could safely get through to the podium. Click . . .

  The three men climb on to the stage, they don’t need any help. Click . . .

  Lokend knocks the mic with his forefinger. Tak, tak, tak. It is a call to order and attention. The living rope of policemen becomes instantaneously active and vigilant.

  Simultaneously, the hissing starts and becomes a chant. ‘Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad, Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdab . . .’ The crowd demands blood. It’s then that the mutilated slowly start gravitating towards the centre, as if they have been waiting in the wings to take a bow all this time. These battered members of humanity, some of whom have been begging at the temple and others who have been in hiding in the forest or lying discarded in the back of their family’s outhouse for years, are finally ready to show themselves. They display their wounds as advertisements for the bandit’s death. They know that their malefactors are getting a chance to give themselves up. The bandits have hurt too many to be allowed to surrender just like that. They will not forgive. The memories are still vivid: a heap of severed limbs, young girls pulled out from behind the well by their hair and raped, the blood tainting the well water for weeks, the wounded lying beneath the banyan without medicines or help, mothers beating their heads on the floor, fathers shaving their heads . . . The stench of blood got so bad it attracted the wild animals from the forest, and for weeks after, people had more reason to fear the leopards and hyenas than the bandits. Finally, the carrion eaters clouded the sky so thickly that they blotted out the sun. Oh no, they won’t allow these men to get away lightly.

  ‘Killed my son, raped my daughter, took my family, burned my shop . . .’ on and on they shout. But there is danger in en masse tragedy. Like too much of anything, too much misfortune closes the mind and leaches it of pity. The sight of the cripples is overwhelming for the spectators. They are numbly detached from the scene. They have sanitised its brutality by considering it usual for that time and place. Every mind is made up in that crowd. This is our destiny, they say, and yet they plead and watch for something better.

  Lokend’s heart shifts in his chest. He is a man stranded by his philosophy. For him it is a fresh tragedy, requiring an urgent solution. For the moment, Daku Manmohan is not the one on his mind. For the moment, Lokend is one with the cripples before him, crawling forward, stripped of all dignity and humanity. He can feel his emotion unchecked for the first time in many years. ‘My God,’ he says. It isn’t a phrase, he is genuinely appealing to the higher power to make the present sensibl
e. He squeezes his thumbs into the corners of eyes painful with tears.

  The crowd has already apportioned blame where it thinks it is due. It is that blame that absolves each man standing before the stage of his responsibility. But not Lokend. He alone eschews the luxury of blame. The cripples are his personal responsibility.

  Then Daku Manmohan declares himself, standing a little taller on the podium. ‘Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad, Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad . . .’ chants the crowd: Death to the bandit. More gang members start breaking away from the crowd to jump on stage with their leader. The crowd is losing control – the screaming gets worse and stones start flying. The bandits hide their heads in their hands, but not Daku Manmohan. He stands erect, refusing to be judged by the rabble – both able-bodied and crippled.

  Then a foot emerges from the police jeep in the distance, followed by a body. The body is clad in policeman’s khaki. It makes its way to the edge of the crowd. The chant collapses on itself in a low rumble like music from a fading transistor radio when it recognises that the body is female. The woman walks through the sea of men to her mate. The men put their cupped hands to their mouths to whisper a history for her into a neighbour’s ear. This time they won’t be fooled by the uniform. The crowd draws in a single breath. It is one organism, one giant enraged organism, unable to make sense of the situation and the strangely unrecognisable apparition of a woman dressed in man’s clothing. Click, click, click . . .

  This woman has always made Daku Manmohan proud. The camera records their private thoughts, clearly visible on their faces. A stone whizzes through the air and opens a red gash just above his right eye, the woman’s hand reaches up to her own eyebrow to stem the blood. He is hurt, but she feels the pain.

  The spot of silence gives Lokend his chance to take charge. ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he shouts into the mic. The mic emits a cackle. The crowd hears nothing, stilled, stunned into a stupor by the woman who stands before them every bit as deliberately as Daku Manmohan himself.

  Lala Ram abandons his prized position to go check on the mic together with Rajiv from the Times. The reporter stands well behind Lokend even as he fiddles with the mic. The stones are coming from all directions; impartial, they will land equally on his head if he dares to step forward on the stage. He has been writing furiously. The words jumble on the page: . . . four thousand strong . . . stones and a riot waiting to break . . . surrender . . . justice denied . . . rebuilding . . . cripples . . . loot . . . murder . . . Impressions that will make good copy.

  Not more than three minutes have elapsed since the appearance of the woman. ‘Brothers and sisters,’ Lokend shouts again. This time the mic releases the words and then goes dead. He couldn’t have planned it better. He has their attention now. He will be able to say brothers and sisters four more times before the crowd will become fed up with the novelty of the words and the loudspeaker. Right now, they are waiting for his speech, held back by the capricious mic, a high bone to an untrained dog. Lokend resumes his speech.

  ‘Harsh times demand brave actions from us. I know you find it hard to make peace in your hearts with this man and the things he has done. But I ask you not to judge him on his past. I ask you to look to the future. A future of peace and prosperity.’ Lokend indulges the crowd’s false sense of power. The surrender will go through with or without its approval. If need be, he will stand in front of Daku Manmohan and take the bullet meant for the bandit in his chest.

  The woman steps closer to her gang members. Now it is her proximity to them that makes the crowd notice them. There are about twenty in all, but the crowd can pick out the three chiefs easily. All three of them have very impressive black moustaches. Their sunken eyes, crowned by shadows, give nothing away.

  ‘Are you prepared to become murderers yourselves because of this man? We can only survive if we put an end to this war. Otherwise, your children and your children’s children will be haunted by raids.’

  ‘Not if we kill the motherfuckers now!’

  ‘Kill them!’ The crowd draws back its head and spits out the words in a single, united voice: ‘Kill them, kill them, kill them . . .’

  The woman grabs the mic right out of Lokend’s hand and shouts into it. ‘Stop! Stop!’ The mic retaliates with unsympathetic static. Lokend pulls the mic a little away from her mouth and gives her a nod. She speaks into it again. This time she is heard. ‘What purpose will that serve? There will be others who will rise up to take our places. That is the curse of injustice.

  ‘I used to be one of you,’ she says. ‘This man –’ she clings to the subject of her speech with a long look ‘– this man, this bandit man, kidnapped me and took me from my family when I was only nine years old. Since that day, this man has been my family, my husband, my all. You say kill them, but you know nothing of our history. You say kill them, but you know nothing of our honour. You say kill them, but you don’t know what would have happened to me had I not been rescued by this man. Look at you, standing there, judging us as if you had the right to do so. Some among you have sent their daughters to certain death by marrying them into a family looking only for dowry. Some of you have sold your sons to the Big House for a few rupees. Some of you have drowned a female baby in a bucket of river water. Some of you have burned a daughter-in-law or thrown a widowed mother out of your house to die in the street like a dog. And some of you have made an appointment for your wife with Yamraj, so you could be free to take another wife. Tell me, who among you is innocent!’

  The silence is big, as big as the sky. ‘If you cannot bring me such a man,’ she says, her voice soft, ‘then you cannot judge us. We are here to surrender, yes, but only because Lokend Bhai has asked us to. This slaughter has to stop, he says. And he is right. I am a mother now. I want my child to outlive me . . . I want all children to outlive their mothers.’

  It is lucky she still has the heart of her audience beating in her hands, otherwise it might have relapsed into another confrontation. A lone rose, flung by an unseen admirer, lands at her feet. Lokend looks up just in time to see Prem’s outstretched arm return quickly to his side. Clever boy, he thinks, and smiles. Her value is once again secured by this display of infatuation. As most crowds, these people have now been told what to think. The rose is quickly transferred into the heart of every man present. A spontaneous murmur escapes into the air like evaporating dew on a spring morning. It’s now or never.

  Lokend holds up Daku Manmohan’s arms to the crowd. The crowd roars. The real policemen take the bandits’ weapons and symbolically lay three rifles and three revolvers on the ground, emptied of cartridges.

  The bandit holds out his hands, his two chiefs repeat his actions with the precision of dancers. The senior officer cuffs the leader while his junior officer fumbles with the cuffs of the other two men. Eventually, with the help of Lokend, all three are cuffed and led away. The junior officer tucks the revolvers into his belt and carries the three rifles awkwardly on his shoulder. The woman leads them off the stage in single file. The audience parts for her, individually smitten, yet collectively uneasy. It is only as the men drive off that the crowd recognises its alien uneasiness for what it is: irony, at being led this far by a woman.

  Daku Manmohan is immediately separated from the rest of his gang members, who are all sent to New Delhi. He is incarcerated, as promised, in the tiny cell by the Red Ruins. The woman who spoke so valiantly on his behalf lives three hours away with her son and the wives and children of the other two chiefs. They will not meet again. That would be too much for the villagers to bear. Already there is talk of evicting her and her companions from their huts built on the land donated by Lokend. Every day Lokend must fight someone else on their behalf so they are safe.

  Each time Lokend sees the woman he says the same thing: ‘Sister, be patient. People will forget about you in time. Don’t you remember a time when you were happy? Well? This too will pass. Believe me.’

  The woman has withdrawn into herself. Away from her mate, she fee
ls nothing. She avoids all mention of her beloved Manmohan, and never asks after his fate.

  And what of the bandit’s fate? It is the fate of an active man with suddenly too much time on his hands, the worst kind of fate to bestow on someone who has something to repent. Intermittently his thoughts turn from visions of looting and slaughter to images of his wife and son. He thinks he will go mad. He is only kept sane by the heckling of the villagers who come to taunt him and throw things at him daily. The guards, his protectors, allow the villagers their petty revenge, turning away when one shows up with excrement or stones. Daku Manmohan tries not to show them that he needs their hatred to survive, to pass the time in his cell where he cannot even stand upright. The muscles in his legs have started to soften and shrink. All this time he kept himself robust and healthy; agile for a quick escape and strong for an unexpected fight. But now, if he had to run from a pursuer, he would have to use more than just his legs to escape.

  He thinks of death. He is not afraid of it. He is afraid only of its aftermath. It would be seen as an act of cowardice. He could never leave such a legacy for his son. Whether or not people recognise the reason why he chose this life of pillage and plunder, it wasn’t because he is a coward.

  Lokend has managed to get away to visit him today. He is unprepared to see the bandit dressed in the heavy blue-and-white stripes of a formal prison uniform, the result of the jailer’s personal initiative. The guards continue their game of cards, smoking a communal bidi in silence. They barely acknowledge the familiar visitor with a look.

  The building reeks of damp and the pungent smell of urine, its walls are already green with mould and fungus. As Lokend reaches through the bars to take Daku Manmohan’s shoulder, he realises that in the few weeks that he has been in jail, the prisoner has become older than his years, with a laboured walk and stiffness in his bones.