‘Pull it.’
Natwarlal yanked out the half-chewed file. ‘The correspondence for May.’
‘From last year. No one will ask for that now. Clean this up and kick her out. I don’t care if she’s a cow.’ Pestonjee advanced towards the cow and lifted his leg.
‘Get up, you filthy animal!’ Schlip—flop—he slid on the puddle of dung and urine and landed on his butt. Natwarlal covered his mouth. The cow rose. She looked at Pestonjee on the floor and their eyes locked for two seconds. She turned away, as if embarrassed, and then walked past him, through the doorway and down the stairs. Natwarlal followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared into the streets.
‘Natwarlal! What are you looking at? Give me a hand.’
‘See, sir, what an intelligent animal. She knew her way out.’
‘Only one door was open, you idiot. Get me a towel.’
‘But, sir. She could have pushed open the other doors.’
‘What do we do now?’ Pestonjee asked.
‘Can we go home, sir?’
‘About the file!’
‘I have an idea. I could get one or two mice and leave them in the room. We can blame the mice for the file.’
‘What if the mice destroy more files?’ Pestonjee asked.
‘We can put them in a cage and say we caught them. No one comes into the filing room anyway.’
‘Banerjee will.’
‘Sir, tomorrow I will tell Banerjee sir that I saw a mouse. Or you say that you saw a mouse. It will sound better.’
‘No. You tell him.’
9
‘. . . are you related to Whitaker?’ Thompson asked.
‘Second cousins by marriage. Before Boston—’ Young replied.
‘Is he teaching at that public school?’
‘Private! Yes.’
‘He has told many people that I changed the fortunes of the Tea Board. I hope he hasn’t told you that fairy tale.’
‘He did. You are his hero.’
‘It was nothing, really. Keep your feet firmly on the ground. That’s all it takes. You see this?’ Thompson picked up a corked glass jar containing grey tea leaves. ‘Only a handful of plantations in Darjeeling make silver tips. These are tea buds from the tip of the plant, plucked early and processed minimally. Each year you only get a handful. The sky needs to be clear. In Darjeeling that’s hard. It requires trained hands. That’s even harder. These are the leaves that end up on the Queen’s table. Even a well-connected Englishman will find it hard to procure. If you go down the order of teas, you reach dust, tea dust like sawdust; these are leaves plucked from the bottom of the plant, mechanically treated, bitter, astringent and wholly undrinkable. The Board had no idea what to do with it. Do you know it’s illegal to export tea dust from India to England?’
‘I read that in Samuel Johnson’s Manual on the Production and Processing of Tea—I have often recommended it to my friends.’
‘The Board didn’t think it was worth the bother. The Russians bought it for peanuts. When I was touring the tea districts, I noticed the workers taking it home. No one cared how much tea was stolen. It wasn’t worth anything. I proposed that the Board promote tea dust as tea in India. For the natives.’
‘He said you were a hit at the Board.’
‘We began with the army. In the first year, 300 regiments. By the fifth, every unit. Today, they make more money from that garbage than from the silver tips.’
‘Isn’t it bitter?’
‘Haven’t you tried it? Chai they call it. You cannot have it without sugar and milk. I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. Astringent like alum. How long are you going to be here?’
‘Six months. My old man says six months is all you need to build confidence. After that, you either have it or you don’t.’
‘In this part of the world, confidence is thrust upon you the moment you step off the boat, like an entry permit. In the end, it’s what you make of it. Keep your weapon at home is what I say. You’re young. The Indian variety of confidence is not for you. For you, I recommend East, the Far East.’
10
Dear Dibu,
The Kar festival has just ended. Despite the heavy rain the chariot was drawn by hundreds of devotees. By the evening, it seemed like the drummers were vying with the thunder. The eventful moment was when the soul of the goddess entered your aunt and she danced energetically. Usually, she has trouble even lifting her morning cup of tea and babu has to take it to her chamber. But last evening she gyrated for two whole hours in the middle of the main parade and was cheered on by her cronies and total strangers. I walked for two hours as if my rheumatism and arthritis were imaginary friends.
The new police chief was there. He created a ruckus about the men playing with swords. No need to blame him. Those who serve the government live by its rules. The next day, the Times wrote that there was ‘debauchery and bacchanalian orgies’. I asked a learned Englishman, who is often at the temple, what a bacchanalian orgy was. He said that I would not care to take part. But according to the Times, I was in it already. The dictionary says it is an ancient Roman festival in honour of Bacchus. If that is so, there is a connection between us and the Romans which needs to be drawn out. Also, this festival predates Christianity. Will you look into the matter? I am attaching a copy of the article:
. . . During the great festival of Durga Puja, celebrated in honour of the goddess, religion is invoked as a cloak for orgies that are more obscene and boisterous than those of Bacchus. Parties of both sexes meet and give themselves up to unbounded licentiousness. The rites observed at Kalighat (near Calcutta) involve scandalous gesticulations with the fingers not once but many times throughout the ceremony. The moral influence of these grotesque representations is pernicious in the extreme. Apart from the hardening effects of idolatry, the Durga Puja, with its three-day vigils, is an opportunity to disregard productive activity, which has always been at its ebb irrespective of the constraints posed by festivals and festivities. . .
Now they write this. But during the time of the Company, the government performed a puja right here in Kalighat.
Last week, during the discussions for Purna’s wedding, an issue came up about employing a Mohammedan caterer for the Mohammedan guests. Your father said that these are not the problems that Queen Victoria is concerned about.
We can continue where we left off. Your nature is constructed before you learn to distinguish it. Nature determines ability. Ability determines your duty. Duty determines your action. This is what the Gita tells us. I assure you, your parents have left nothing unfulfilled in your nature.
Yours,
Dada.
11
Banerjee sat looking through the window into the sari shop across the street when Natwarlal came up to him.
‘Banerjee sir.’
The sari shop was popular with the city’s new women. They came from nowhere, disappeared to nowhere, their untied hair played with the sea breeze, their midriffs exposed, accentuated by short sleeveless blouses. Did they walk out of Dhurandhar’s portraits? Was he hiding behind a window, or in the shop, painting them?
Banerjee was certain that Raja Ravi Varma was the country’s greatest painter. On Friday he heard Thompson say Dhurandhar had transcended Varma. The next day, at the arts school, at Dhurandhar’s ‘Women in India’ exhibition, Banerjee nodded in affirmation.
‘Banerjee sir.’
‘Huh . What is it?’
‘Nothing. How is the plague in Calcutta?’
‘There is no plague in Calcutta. Who said?’
‘I was only asking. I saw a mouse in the filing room yesterday. I thought—’
‘There are no mice in this building.’
‘Sir, I saw it with my own eyes. Let me show you.’
Natwarlal ran to the filing room and returned with a file.
‘Sir, see this file. The mouse ate half of it.’
‘Let me see. Why is it wet?’
‘No. No. It’s not a mo
use. There must be a leak,’ Natwarlal fumbled.
‘What leak?’
‘Water.’
‘Is it raining cats and dogs in the filing room?’
‘Cats and dogs,’ repeated Banerjee with emphasis. He had learned the new phrase last week and had noted it in his diary that he filled at the rate of one page a day:
Raining Cats and Dogs by Jonathan Swift (1710)
Meaning: Heavy rain.
Sentence: It is raining cats and dogs in Calcutta today.
‘And the rain made such a big hole?’ Banerjee asked as he walked towards the filing room. ‘Let me see.’
Natwarlal blocked the doorway. ‘No! It’s okay. I must have eaten it by mistake.’
‘Have you been drinking, Natwarlal?’
The stench in the filing room hadn’t dissipated. Pestonjee rushed to the scene. Seeing him, Natwarlal looked relieved.
‘Natwarlal, did you leave the cow here?’ Banerjee asked.
Natwarlal looked at Pestonjee, then at Banerjee and then at Pestonjee again.
‘You will be fined a day’s salary,’ Banerjee said, ‘and repair that file.’
‘But Pestonjee, sir,’ Natwarlal protested.
‘“Pestonjee sir!” Pestonjee sir won’t save you this time. Mr Banerjee is right,’ Pestonjee winked at Natwarlal. Natwarlal did not look up. He walked to the filing room, grumbling under his breath.
12
As the professor concluded his lecture in the public hall, Young and the officer approached him.
‘I am here to talk to you about a project,’ said Young.
‘Is it about the life and works of Pandurang Shripad Athavale?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad. Because I don’t know who he is. What is the project about?’
‘Let me tell you this, if I know your religion, caste, age and sex, I can tell you what kind of paan you eat?’
The professor raised his eyebrows. ‘Brahmin, Deshashtha, Gotra—’
‘Brahman is enough.’
‘Brahmin, not Brahman. Brahman is impossible, for me at least. Brahmin won’t get you anywhere. What if I’m a meat-eating Brahmin? What if I’m a Shaivite and do not believe in the Vedas? What if . oh well . Hindu, Brahmin, fifty-one, male.’
Young looked at the officer. The officer scribbled some numbers and presented the results to Young.
‘According to my estimate, you eat paan twice a day,’ Young noticed a wrinkle on the professor’s forehead and added ‘on average’.
‘On some days I eat none. On weekends, I eat more.’
‘I am correct on average,’ Young replied.
‘I don’t understand. If I have two cows and someone has no cows, we have one cow on average.’
‘It is the volume that matters. What difference does it make if all cows belong to you or to me? I can tell you more,’ Young said.
‘The government . . . English. . . loot . . . yes!’ The professor’s restraint was visible. Young seemed to appreciate it.
‘Tell him about the type of paan he prefers,’ Young instructed the officer.
The officer returned to the tables in his book and began scribbling 89, 5.0, 9.0, 5.0 . ‘Sir, according to our statistics, you have a seventy-two per cent probability of eating paan with lime, fennel, betel nut, cardamom, preserved rose petals—gulkand, hari—’
‘You mean magai!’ said the professor.
‘Magai?’ asked Young.
‘Sir, it is a type of paan, like Banarasi, Kalkatta,’ said the officer.
‘I have diabetes, no gulkand for me. You are right about magai,’ said the professor.
‘You didn’t tell me you have diabetes,’ said Young.
‘What’s the use?’
‘Ask him what time he steps out,’ Young ordered.
‘For example, contingent upon your stepping out at 9 p.m.—’ the officer stopped abruptly, a bit flustered.
‘Go on ask him, ask,’ Young prompted.
‘If you wear a jasmine garland around your wrist, I can tell you which paan—’ said the officer.
The professor laughed. ‘If you were to wear a jasmine garland on your wrist, I can not only tell you what you’re eating but also where you’re going.’
‘Where?’ asked Young.
The officer turned away to face the dusty white wall, hiding a sheepish grin.
‘Never mind,’ the professor retorted.
‘I’ll be direct. I have some money for you. Two rupees and fifty paise. Fifty paise per answer. Okay? Question one. Why are there more clove-eaters in Mahim than in Colaba or Fort?’ Young asked.
Such a logistical question, the professor thought. He stared blankly at Young. His mind drifted. Last night, the baniya who came to the paan shop wanted ripe red lips. In the evenings, the errand boy of the kotha, Babu, probably sixteen years old, would take sixty paans for the dancers. The next day he would return with stories of the night. The red betel juice trickled down from her lips to the bed. Babu wondered about those stains? Was it her first time? Was it her menstrual flow staking claim? Was it a night without inhibitions, the effects of which were to be felt only the next day, blood and pain, yet her memory etched with desire and delight? Could the cloves be a sign of that night?
‘No problem. Question two. Why do paanwalas in Fort offer credit while the others rarely do?’ Young asked.
The professor did not respond. He remembered the signs on his paanwala’s shop:
A debtor shall pay twice if debt is due and denied
—Manusmriti
The person in debt will not enter Paradise until the debt is paid off
—Koran
The wicked borrow and do not repay
—Bible
The paanwala had tried in vain to find something more daunting in Hindu scripture—verses more terrifying than those found in the Bible and the Koran. It seemed to him that the Hindus had long secularized their economic relations and nothing earthshattering was going to happen to them if they failed to pay their debt to the paanwala. Irrespective of the choice of text, the paanwala provided the first lesson of religious tolerance. The customers were no longer Hindu, Muslim, or Christian.
The paanwala created the first democratic republic of paan and alongside it, a whole new accent. So what if it was warbled, garbled, or marbled, it was invented for the new republic. If the paan-public was to be one country it would be egalitarian in spit and spirit, with all liberties safe and fully exercised, and the English at arm’s length. Paan was a protest against their civilizing impulses. A civil disobedience against sanitation laws. How can a country that does not eat paan rule a country that does? ‘No Paan, No King.’
The seeds of radicalism had been sown; no, not seeds, the leaves—the betel leaves—of radicalism, bore fruit—or rather leaflets—when education was in the service of the state. When Macaulay tried to transform a class of persons, Indian in blood and colour, to English in taste, opinions, morals and intellect, he had forgotten about this independent sanctuary.
Here, at the paanwala’s counter, the first public-intellectual emerged, for the paanwala knew who was to be held responsible for the famine in Bengal, the plague in Bombay and the drought in Bihar. It was here that knowledge was made independent, cosmopolitan, universal, and through this ‘paanversity’, the spirit of India was born. Here the first critique of Marx was articulated not just in word but in deed. The paanwala was both a capitalist and a worker. What was a paanshop if not a microcosm of a factory floor, with its floor plan, assembly line, noise and speed, and yet, not alienating but retaining its creativity? If only Marx was a paan-chewer.
‘These are very important questions,’ the professor said, ‘so let me not misguide you. Do you see that swami approaching the hall? He is the real authority. I am just starting out, a dilettante.’ He pointed to a guru in saffron robes who had just stepped out of the toilet. A dozen or so persons lay prostrate before him.
‘He sure is busy,’ said Young.
‘When h
e sees you, he won’t be.’
‘I’ll let you know if I need you again.’
When Young appeared on the swami’s radar, the swami glanced at his bevy of white-robed disciples, and then scanned the room.
‘Nahin, nahin, sirf bhagwaan ke dwar par mattha teko, wahi antaryami hai, sabka swami hai (No, no, one should only prostrate oneself before God, only He is all knowing, only He is the master of all),’ the swami protested, placing his hand on Young’s shoulder in a familiar manner.
‘I didn’t intend to,’ Young said.
‘Koi baat nahin, ham sabko maante hain—Ram, Allah, Wahe-Guru, Jesus, Rab. Koi bhedbhav nahin. Kaise aana hua? (Never mind, I believe in all the gods—Ram, Allah, Wahe-Guru, Jesus, Rab. No discrimination. What brings you here?)’ He didn’t look at Young as he spoke, but instead continued scanning the public.
‘What is it?’ one of the disciples asked the officer.
‘Sir has some questions for Swamiji,’ replied the officer.
‘Is it spiritual? Why doesn’t he ask Swamiji directly?’
‘Sir doesn’t know the language?’
‘He is private, isn’t he?’ the disciple asked.
‘Yes.’
‘No connection with the government, I hope? Is it a big company?’
‘It is—BCC. There is also a small donation for the temple,’ responded the officer.
‘He doesn’t care much for donations.’
The disciple whispered something in the swami’s ears.
‘Mere mitr, hum jaroor tumhari madat karenge, mere paas duniya bhar se log aate hain, kisne bheja tumhe, Mr Smith? (My friend, of course I will help you. People come to me from all over the world. Who sent you, Mr Smith?)’ Young did not understand much except for the ‘Mr Smith’.
‘Young—’
‘Young to hain. Sab kehte hain hum bahot young dikhte hain. Athara athara ghante dhyan mein rehte hain, uska kamaal hai. Tees saal se yoga kar rahe hain, uska chamatkaar hai (Young, that I am. Everyone says I look very young. I meditate for eighteen hours a day. That is the miracle. I have been doing yoga for the past thirty years. There is the magic).’
Cow and Company Page 4