Someone Else's Garden

by Dipika Rai

  The letter will arrive days after Lokend, Prem and Sneha have left for the city.

  No one else in the building seems as stirred up as Mamta with the prospect of a political rally right in the heart of Begumpet, so she has made it her personal mission to round up as many people as possible to go with her. She must pick amongst her own. The rich will watch it on television.

  She starts with Kalu. ‘You must come and hear him speak. You will be a changed man by his words. He’s from my village. I know him.’

  ‘You mean the man who is standing against a hijra. Now that’s not what I call fair play. Someone with balls standing against someone with none! The people say they will vote for the hijra because all those they’ve voted into power before didn’t use their balls.’ Kalu holds himself between his legs with two fingers to make his point; he gave up coddling Mamta’s coyness ages ago. ‘Maybe this time someone without balls will surprise us. Hijras are rejects of society, they have no families, with fewer mouths to feed, they won’t need as much in bribes. Now that’s logic even I can understand,’ he says.

  ‘Logic, phah! It’s an insult to someone like Lokend Bhai. No matter, no one will make a better politician than my Sahibji. He is a saint. He came to my wedding.’ It was six months after she met Kalu that she told him she was married and a runaway. He didn’t show much interest in her story then and hasn’t up to now.

  ‘Go on, making up your grand stories. Why would he come to your wedding?’

  ‘Kalu, I’m telling the truth. He gave me a box of sweets . . . cashew barfi, the most expensive kind.’ She stops. The box with the face of the goddess. Jai ho Devi, Devi jai ho. The box I left behind with her. The suppressed memory of a child abandoned becomes vivid again. An involuntary bleat slips from her lips.

  ‘Not crying for our Netaji, are you?’ ‘Of course not!’ ‘Once he is elected, the bribing and corruption will start. You just watch. They all change, even the best of them.’

  ‘No! Not him. He’s a saint. He’ll never change. He’s helped so many people. He’s dead against the dowry system. He cares for us. My brother works for him now. He made Gopalpur safe. He did so much for the victims of the bandits. He gave his lands away. Now tell me how many zamindars would do that?’

  ‘He has given away his lands to fool people like you. Come to the city, but you still remain gullible.’ He doesn’t bother hiding his disappointment in Mamta. ‘He’s given away his lands in the hopes of earning something better. Power.’

  ‘I don’t care what you say. I’m going to tell my amma . . .’ Tell my amma, the comforting phrase jumps to her lips before she realises that option is no longer available to her, ‘about the posters that hang above the number six bus stop.’ More posters have been painted by the star makers, their colours heightened to add allure to the man. Lokend Bhai’s eyes hold Mamta in their gaze each time she walks past, and she hugs those eyes close like a lovesick fan.

  ‘He has a pet mongoose that lives inside his kurta. Imagine that. Only someone saintly like him could tame a wild animal like that. I tell you, Kalu, if you tried putting a mongoose inside your kurta, it would tear your heart out.’

  ‘Really? A mongoose?’ ‘Yes, and those animals are dangerous. After all, they do bite the heads off cobras.’ This is how legends are created, in innocent conversation.

  ‘A mongoose,’ he says, filled with awe. The legend takes root. ‘And mind you, it’s a big black one, not one of those skinny ones that the snake men drag behind them like cats on a rope.’ The legend becomes a myth. ‘He’s bringing my brother to the city with him and my sister too. Come with me to listen to his speech. Then you’ll change your mind.’

  At first Lokend used to return to the Big House only because his father wanted him to, then it was because Asmara Didi needed to see him, and finally it was for Daku Manmohan’s sake. Now, with his father gone, Asmara Didi living with the bandits’ wives, and Daku Manmohan murdered, he has no reason to return.

  ‘Ram Bhaia, I’m going.’

  ‘I know you think I ordered his death,’ says the elder brother.

  ‘Ram Bhaia, it is not for me to say anything. What’s done is done. Forgive yourself if you feel the need.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say that. You were his favourite. How dare you stand there and accuse me of Daku Manmohan’s murder.’

  Words are useless, Lokend knows. Anger swallows a man’s judgement. He hugs his elder brother. ‘You know I’ve found love to be the best protection? Well, maybe love is too strong, try liking first. Like the person you would otherwise despise, like the person you would otherwise shun, like the person you would otherwise resent. Like them, and suddenly their deeds lose their malice, their actions become full of enjoyment, full of fun, full of laughter. Do this and you know you have the Power. Do this for long enough, and you know you are the Power.’

  ‘You and your lecturing, you think you have an answer for everything and everyone. Well, I’m not looking for answers, I’m not looking for sympathy . . . I just want to be heard.’

  Lokend squeezes his brother close one last time. A time will come, he knows, when information will turn into knowledge with experience, and finally into wisdom with understanding. That is the path of all evolution.

  ‘Here is the great Lokend Bhai himself, the son of a zamindar, from a long line of illustrious nobility, but he chooses to live like a common man. Now who wouldn’t trust such a face?’ Mrs Sahai is an avid campaigner for the Party. Hers is a tidy story, the daughter of a national hero without enough charisma to make it to the top, she has developed a knack for spotting new candidates. Not one of her ‘finds’ has ever lost an election. ‘Lokend Bhai –’ she stresses the Bhai ‘– I thoroughly approve of Bhai. It has just the right ring to it. It is better than Sahib, better than Abba, better than Bapu. Bhai. Brother. Too long have politicians distanced themselves from the voter, but Bhai makes you one of them . . . brother to all people.’

  All this time, people round him assumed Lokend would never enter politics, but they had their hopes, and they thought their hopes enough to fashion his destiny. Without his consent, Mrs Sahai put his name up as her party’s candidate. Without his knowledge, Ram Singh announced that his younger brother was leaving Gopalpur for the city to become a big politician.

  Mrs Sahai is responsible for the larger-than-life posters of Lokend in pinkish hues all over Begumpet. The very ones that have Mamta all stirred up. So how did she swing this one? The story goes that one of Lokend’s grand aunts hailed from the outskirts of Begumpet. It was an important connection. The opposition tried to knock it down, but she had the papers prepared to prove that he had Begumpet blood, albeit two drops of it, flowing through his veins.

  From all the candidates Mrs Sahai has found in the past, she knows this one is the most promising. His history is so compelling. Freeing the bandits first catapulted him to fame, then what he did for the bandits’ families propelled him higher, but what he did for the victims of the bandits was unquestionably his crowning glory.

  But what of Lokend? What has prompted him to join the Congress Party? What has brought him to this decision which forces him to mire himself in the most corrupted temporal situation imaginable? Why now, when at last he is free of the Big House, free to work unfettered, binding himself to no one, giving help where it is needed, is he consenting to live by other’s rules?

  Could it be that he wants to put himself to a test? Or is it guilt? Guilt for the pain he caused, guilt for the pain he could not erase, guilt for the pain he ignored? No, it isn’t a test or guilt that charges his actions, but a seeking mood that has fallen upon him like night, taking him deeper into the depths of self-exploration. He needs to know if he is a true yogi, someone who can perform action, live in the temporal, and still attain bliss.

  Mrs Sahai finds him most perplexing. Sometimes he seems lost and she feels the need to wave a hand in front of his eyes. He asks the most peculiar questions and never accepts the answers for what they are. His is a strang
e mind that works in a mysterious way. He was very keen to meet his rival, face to face, over a cup of tea.

  All of Mrs Sahai’s dilly-dallying has got her nowhere. Lokend won’t be deterred, he will meet his rival, the hijra Nirmala Devi, even if he has to go and find her himself. ‘Now, Lokend Bhai, don’t be put off by what you see. Your opponent is a hijra. What can I tell you? They make such a mockery of the election, pitting a hijra against you. I know it isn’t worthy of you, but a landslide victory will convince them. You just wait and see,’ she speaks to the whole city, ‘make a mockery of what we stand for, will you? Make a mockery of me?’

  ‘Oho, Mrs Sahai, leave it. Hijras are very strong people. They belong nowhere. Adversity is their lot right from birth. I bet you she is fighting fit. No matter, let’s see what she has to say.’

  The meeting is on neutral ground, at a teashop, and not at the Congress Party office, which Nirmala Devi’s assistant refers to as that pit of snakes.

  The tea arrives simultaneously with Nirmala Devi. She has on the most boisterous pink in an effort to look more womanly than the most bona fide female. Mrs Sahai wrinkles her nose. She hopes there won’t be any embarrassing clapping. ‘Let’s keep this short,’ says Mrs Sahai, poking another pin into her bun.

  The two women regard each other. One thoroughly adorned, the other fastidious, almost mousy.

  ‘Of course we will keep it short, madam. After all, my time is most valuable.’ Nirmala Devi has the affectations of a silent movie actress. Mrs Sahai breathes deep, stifling her words. She is pleased that she managed to convince Lokend to leave his mongoose behind with his servant, Prem. What a combination that would have made, a richly painted hijra and a man with a mongoose up his kurta. She almost chokes on the picture.

  ‘Lokend.’ He folds his hands exactly before his heart. ‘Namaste’, he says.

  ‘Namaste,’ she replies without folding her hands. ‘I have heard of you. You got the bandits to surrender, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’ ‘So where are these bandits now?’ ‘Daku Manmohan was murdered, his two chiefs are in jail in New Delhi, and the rest of the gang is in various jails in these parts. Except for the two chiefs, they should be out in three years. But surrendering is not what it was about. It is about making sure we don’t create any more bandits.’

  Nirmala Devi crosses and uncrosses her legs. Her chiffon sari, as soft as dew, climbs like a creeper over her stuffed bra. She wants to dislike her rival.

  ‘So that’s your platform, is it? No more bandits?’ She sniggers broadly on the inside, her assistant sniggers visibly on the outside.

  ‘Yes, that is my platform. No more bandits. No more thieving in any form, not by the weather, not by acts of God, not by politics or politicians, not by bureaucracy, not by society, not by custom, not by religion, not by any other man, not by industry – nor the lack of it – not by husband, not by in-law. That is my platform. No more thieving.’

  ‘Look, don’t try and deceive us with your oily tongue,’ says the assistant, lashing him with her looks.

  ‘Champa!’ Nirmala Devi is appalled at her assistant’s rudeness. She releases a long sigh, searching for something that will establish Lokend as a phony in her eyes.

  ‘You know how I came to be here?’ She feels the need to explain: ‘I used to roam from house to house dancing for food, just like any other hijra, threatening to show my privates at marriages and births if they didn’t pay me enough to leave, and I would have gone on like that forever, if it hadn’t been for one irate father of the bride who beat me hard with a stick and shoved me off his property saying, “Find a suitable job instead of peddling your filth in front of decent folk.” A suitable job for a hijra? What’s a suitable job for me then? I’ll tell you what it is. A politician’s job. The whole political system is emasculated anyway, so I don’t need balls to fit in. No matter how much money I make, it cannot change what I am. I will forever be a hijra, an outcaste, and therefore, best suited to be a politician.’

  She has him now. She can establish her legitimacy. ‘You don’t understand, do you? You family folk never do. As an outcaste I have no reason to take bribes. Who would I take the bribes for? For myself? Money won’t buy me one true friend, money won’t make me belong. I will have to earn people’s respect, because I can never earn their love. People are afraid of hijras. They can’t understand someone who willingly gives up his balls to become a she. I could have died during that operation, you know. We perform it amongst ourselves, in secret, with a razor blade and a prayer.’

  Mrs Sahai is appalled at the depth and nature of the private information being shared over what should have been a formal, quick cup of tea, but she won’t let on. ‘Do we have to listen to your life history? Lokend Bhai doesn’t have all the time in the world, you know.’ She downs her tea in a single gulp, leaving no reason to stay.

  ‘What do you think you people are?’ The choice of what instead of who isn’t lost on Mrs Sahai. ‘At least our life history has been created by ourselves. Look, madam, every day we have to fight women like you and men like him to stay alive, so don’t try and shake us with your words,’ says the assistant.

  ‘Oho, Champa, you take everything to heart. It’s just a job,’ says Nirmala Devi, but she too has taken things to heart, and the prospect of a win grasps her ever tighter.

  ‘Look, your time may not be precious, but . . .’

  Lokend stays Mrs Sahai with a slight movement of his hand. ‘People must have room to speak.’

  ‘Oh, I will change this city with my work. I will work for these people, so that in time I might affect a miracle and earn their love. I have never felt love in this life and you don’t know how far I’d go for it. Not like you, who have been surrounded by love all your life.’

  This time Mrs Sahai points to her watch with a swing of her eyes, like a long-term spouse signalling to her overstaying husband at a Delhi dinner party.

  It is a different conversation that leaves the table. ‘I came here prepared to fight him. But I find myself on his side.’ Nirmala Devi turns to her assistant and applies a fresh coat of lipstick. ‘Did you see that something in him? I almost wish I could join him.’

  ‘Oh, Didi, you can beat any man.’ The assistant lets her voice go, it falls to its natural masculine pitch like a weight on a rope. ‘He is only a man with limited experience. You have created yourself, changed your life in an unimaginable way. Don’t be beguiled now, you have come too far.’ She knows Nirmala Devi isn’t one who shares her words lightly. That Lokend has really got under her skin. The assistant feels molten hatred coursing through her veins; for whom . . . Lokend or Nirmala Devi? The force of her feeling unsettles her, she needs some urgent words. ‘What will we do if you change your mind now? What will I do if you change your mind now?’ She is thoroughly invested in Nirmala Devi’s campaign. The prospect of one of her kind ever making it in a defined-sexes world is a dream she will never relinquish. She has known Nirmala Devi since she became a hijra. It was Nirmala Devi herself who performed the illegal operation on her, and it was her face she had awoken to.

  After becoming a hijra, her return to the world she’d left as a man had been tragic. Her mother had killed herself and her brother had tried to kill her. If that wasn’t enough, both her sisters were soundly rejected by their husbands. That had been the hardest for her, because she’d had that special connection with her sisters that many men who completely understand the inner workings of a woman’s psyche develop. Eventually, her father had conducted a funeral for her, letting his village know that his son was dead. And now, with victory, respect, and possibly acceptance within her grasp, for the first time in her life she feels like a whole person. And she can’t, she won’t, let that go.

  Both eunuchs slide into the waiting ambassador car.

  In another ambassador car, Mrs Sahai chivvies Lokend towards a win. ‘You’re not thinking of softening up, are you?’

  ‘So you thought she was wonderful too?’

&
nbsp; Mrs Sahai wrinkles her nose. She is not going to dignify his question with a response. Thought that hijra was wonderful, my foot.

  ‘Let me tell you a story, Mrs Sahai. There was an orange seller who used to roam the streets from morning to night in the season selling his oranges. Already an old man, he would complain about pain in his back from carrying the basket on his head and corns on his feet which bled from walking too long. Early one morning the orange seller had the good fortune to meet a gentleman who wanted to buy his entire basket of oranges. The seller was flabbergasted, he’d never been asked to sell his whole basket of oranges before. The gentleman explained that he was late for a wedding and didn’t want to arrive empty-handed, and a big basket of fresh oranges would make the perfect gift. The old orange seller thought hard while the gentleman impatiently waited for an answer. After a few minutes he said, “All my oranges, why not just take a few?” “I don’t want a few, I want them all, any less than the whole basket wouldn’t be enough,” replied the buyer, thoroughly irritated. “So make up your mind: how much?” Once again the orange seller thought about what to charge the buyer, and finally, his mind made up, he said, “No, sorry, I can’t sell you all my oranges, take a few kilos.” The buyer became very angry and started shouting at the seller, “I don’t want a few kilos, I will have all your oranges or nothing.” Then the seller said something very surprising, he said, “It has to be nothing then. If I sell my entire basket of oranges this early in the morning, what will I do for the rest of the day?”’ Mrs Sahai looks at Lokend. ‘A true story.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘We are like that sometimes, unwilling to relinquish our burdens. We just drag our thoughts – oranges – around with us on our bent backs and bleeding feet day after day.’

  Such a perplexing creature and a most odd human being, naïve too, she thinks.

  The Congress Party’s office in Begumpet is an untidy nest of papers. It is just weeks to the elections. Campaigning must go on day or night. Jeeps in camouflage green have been commandeered for the job. The Youth Congress volunteers are busy attaching loudspeakers and searchlights on the tops of their hoods for maximum impact.