28
At the British Chewing Gum Company, the employees were in an expressive spirit rarely observed in the office.
‘This is from all of us. A small gift. Please accept,’ they said.
Thompson lifted the red muslin cloth, and beneath it, in a glass case, cast in white marble, was his sculpted form, sitting on a bull. He was a matador, brave, handsome, invincible . . . and then, before the second ran out, he recovered his imagination from Europe where it had its natural destination, to the new centre of his world, and the Spanish matador and Europe, became instantly provincialized and transformed into the idiosyncratic. It was a cow. Sacred, yes, but for him it was still a cow. It was a privilege, yes, but for him it was still a cow. They clapped. He could not find pride within him. He searched for humour. He arrived at patronizing indulgence. They know not. He smiled meekly and allowed his new moustache to provide the remaining emotional response—it had to serve some function.
29
On Sunday, Panditji was giving a discourse in the compound of a public school. Across stood a freshly painted board of the British Chewing Gum Company. Impulsively, he made a transition.
‘These foreigners have no respect for our values. How can we tolerate our cows being eaten while we watch?’ His accusing finger rose against the billboard several times. ‘See how shamelessly they advertise. What are you doing about it? Chudiyaan pehen rakhi hain kya? (Are you wearing bangles? Are you going to take this insult lying down?)’
‘Does chewing gum have a cow in it?’ a man whispered to his neighbour.
‘Severe punishment, I tell you. The man will have to carry the tails of all the slaughtered cows on his back and walk to the Ganga to cremate them,’ the neighbour responded.
‘But there are no tails left. They are in that chewing gum with the rest of the cows.’
‘That will be even worse. How many cows are we talking about here?’
‘I don’t know. If you ask me, it’s better not to get involved. It’s going to be a lot of work—how many cows? how many people are involved? who should be held responsible? how much . . . what should the punishment be?—too much work. Anyway, in the end, the committee will settle with the Company and we won’t get anything for all that effort. Sit quietly.’
Panditji continued, ‘What did the Mohammedans do when they found their cartridges greased with cow fat? The 1857 Rebellion!’
‘Panditji, that was pig fat. The Mohammedans would have eaten the cartridges if it was cow fat.’
‘Was it cow fat or pig fat?’ a man asked.
‘It was both—’
‘Why didn’t they simply exchange the bullets and get on with it?’
‘Hindus are vegetarian.’
‘Are the cartridges vegetarian now?’
‘Hundred per cent ghee (clarified butter). If you mix cow fat and pig fat with gun powder, it doubles the power. A few months ago, they found that if you use ghee, the power triples. Point and shoot, point and shoot. The British are slowly learning our science now. Better late than never. I am told they stole the prototype of the rifle from the Rig Veda. Let it be.’
‘No wonder these soldiers are easy on the trigger. Don’t think twice about shooting anyone. Don’t care whether the man on the other side is a Hindu or a Muslim. Receive order, open fire. All because of these vegetarian bullets.’
‘How do you know they are vegetarian?’ another person from the left butted in.
‘It’s science. My uncle is a guard at the docks. He’s trained in these things.’
‘In religion?’
‘Yes, he’s a samaji.’
‘Tell me, why do so many samajis fight in the British army when the army is the biggest cow-eater?’
‘He’s not in the army; he works at the port.’
‘Where’s your uncle again?’ asked a middle-aged man.
‘At the docks.’
‘They don’t carry rifles at the docks. They carry batons.’
‘My uncle used a rifle during his training.’
‘You don’t know me, but I run an employment agency. We recruit able-bodied men straight off the train and tell them “Here, this is your baton. This is your place. This is your motto: No permission, no entry.” That is our training, nothing more, nothing less. I’ve never heard of this training with rifles that you’re talking about.’
‘No wonder riots are so frequent, with guards like that.’
‘Everyone knows me at the docks. Sir Wilkie invited me for tea once. My agency—’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Silence. Silence,’ some voices called out from the crowd.
‘Have you ever seen a rifle? The cartridge has to be forced open with one’s teeth. If the cartridges are greased with cow and pig fat, they’re considered polluted; it has nothing to do with gunpowder.’
‘This is what the government of beef-eaters wants us to believe. My uncle knows what’s beneath all this. Dal mein kuch kala nahin, poori daal hi kali hai (The whole affair smells fishy). People like you, government stooges, will say anything to be in their good books.’
‘But—’
A small crowd had gathered around the two men.
‘What if everyone discovers the truth? Will your men with batons protect you? They’ll be the first to beat you up.’
‘How dare you?’ the employment agent responded.
‘Not me, you. How dare you insult our cow?’
‘Throw him out. He is a stooge of that beef-eating government and that beef-eating Victoria,’ a new voice called out from the crowd.
‘This is no country for beef-eaters.’
The new voice from the crowd reached out for the man’s collar and pulled him to the floor. Ten or twelve men made use of their arms and legs, although not too aggressively—lunch was yet to be served. Some relied on accessories. One removed a leather chappal, another a leather belt. The blows continued. There was some circulation. The old made way for the new, the new for the young. The man who was bearing the brunt of the blows called out to his companion, who was burly like a wrestler. He effortlessly barrelled through the crowd scattering men about.
‘Stop! I want no commotion here,’ Panditji shouted. The ruckus had distracted many in the back rows. The men tried to drag the fight out to the street.
‘What’s going on? Will someone stop them?’ Panditji persisted.
Some men from the front rows ran to the back to break up the fight.
‘Throw them out.’
The man and his companion were hustled out of the compound. Blood trickled down his head and marked the ground. His shirt was in tatters. He was left with the handle of his cotton bag. The bag, along with its contents—a new copy of the Gita, a purse with small change, and half a dozen bananas—had disappeared. His black umbrella was bent from having taken part in a blow to his own head. He held on to his companion’s shoulder although much of the momentum for his journey from the edge of the school compound to the main gate came from the crowd. He did not realize his leg was broken until he was on the street.
‘This is no time for jokes. Manu asks us to worship the cow. We have fought for our cows in Azampur. We have fought for our cows in Bareilly. We have fought for our cows right here in Bombay. We will fight to the death to save our cows from the beef-eating Victoria.’
‘Hindus and Muslims should live like brothers,’ a man shouted from the crowd. Panditji fell silent for about ten seconds.
‘A few years ago, I was in Azampur. I saw the sharp blade move over a cow’s neck. One by one they cut her blood vessels. She struggled with whatever strength she had. It took ten men to hold her. The drops of blood turned into a flow like water from a tap. It was collected in a pot. She began convulsing. Her eyes, still soft, were looking around, seeking humanity, or at least propriety. Finish me off once and for all, she pleaded. Let me not see the spectre of my own death. She looked at me. I saw my mother in her eyes. She called for the milk she had offered me when I was an infant. She ca
lled for the work she had done year after year in the farm. She called for the warmth she had provided in my kitchen when the only fuel was cow dung. She called for her soul that she had offered when she patiently listened to my woes of family and life, of longing and belonging. By the end, she was bleeding in red, yellow and white. My mother fainted. But this was a celebration. And now it’s a part of their identity; identity from where? From Arabia; an identity that the rest of the sects slavishly follow. Month after month, cows are killed on the streets while we have to watch in brotherly love. I have no problem with the Mohammedans. They’re our brothers. But they should live like brothers. What do you do if your brothers kill your mother?’
‘Will you kill a human being for a cow? What kind of justice is this?’ a voice called out.
‘They call it injustice. A man kills a cow, the crowd kills the man. They’re wrong. It’s not one cow for one man. It is one man for thousands of cows—who will count the cows we have saved.’
‘How long will we suffer these Brahmin injunctions?’
‘They say the Hindus eat cows too. Why should we suffer due to the Brahmins? I say, you’re right. We should wrest Hinduism from Brahmin hands and return it to the peasant. The Brahmins introduced cow sacrifice in the Vedas, now we shall fight to remove it.’
‘The poor men are Hindus and Muslims, the rich are all the same.’
‘You’re right. It is for the peasant that we fight. They eat our cows; they destroy our way of life. When the cow is productive, she gives milk. When she’s not, she tills our land. When she cannot till, her excretions are used as cooking fuel. When she leaves us, alas, she still has value. Gaay bachao, aay bachao (Save the cow, save your income).’
‘Gaay bachao, aay bachao,’ the crowd shouted.
‘It’s against the wicked moneylender that we fight. Our cow is our subsistence. We protect her, we protect ourselves from his vicious clutches. What interest does he charge? Two hundred per cent. Then we lose our land. To whom? To these big fat moneylenders in the cities with their large houses and buggies, while the countryside suffers from famine and drought. They have no attachment to land or life. They extract so they can make merry; so they can join the English in their Sunday roast. They are the real villains. Unlike the village zamindar who has to keep his eyes open and see misery all around him, this city zamindar is blind to misery, blind to his own avarice. It is this famine, this man-made famine that we fight against. Gaay bachao, hai bachao (Save the cow, save yourself from destitution.)’
‘Gaay bachao, hai bachao,’ the crowd shouted.
‘I ask you to unite in protecting the cow, unite across castes, unite across religions. Protect the cow, protect your welfare, protect your family, protect your mother. Gaay bachao, mai bachao (Save the cow, save your mother).’
‘Gaay bachao, mai bachao,’ the crowd roared.
‘Gaay bachao, hai bachao . . . Gaay bachao, aay bachao . . . Gaay bachao, mai bachao.’
The next day, a newspaper reported: ‘Cow in Chewing Gum: British Company Insults Hindoos.’
30
The guard at Metro House saw four young men scale the school’s wall. Two of them hung on the hoarding until it buckled under their weight. They ripped through the hoarding like it was paper and it splintered into its constituents—iron, wood, canvas. The men walked towards Wellington Circle with determination. The guard ran upstairs not caring that he had left behind his baton on the chair. He stopped when he found himself in the middle of Thompson’s room.
‘They’re coming, they’re coming for us,’ he gasped.
Thompson, although alarmed, could not make sense of the intrusion. He followed the direction of the guard’s trembling finger, parted the curtain and peered through the window. He located the mob a few hundred metres away. About six hundred he estimated, with banners, sticks, steel and the remains of the Company’s mutilated billboards.
‘God save us. Call the police!’ Thompson ordered.
‘Too late, sir. They’ve burnt our posters. They will rip our flesh from our bones. They will wring our heads from our bodies. They will kill us all,’ cried the guard.
‘Call the police!’ Pestonjee yelled, running into Thompson’s room.
‘We are all going to die. I have two children, infants both,’ the guard sank down to the floor, sobbing.
‘Tell everyone to leave. Lock the building,’ said Thompson, gathering papers from the second drawer of his desk and tossing them into his briefcase.
Within minutes all the employees were out, and the guard had locked the gates. Thompson’s carriage took off first. The rest, like Pestonjee, hurried away through the alleyways behind the building.
31
The mill worker was delirious. All his energy was sourced from the outside, from his companions, from the invocations of their vibrating lips, from the determination of their raised fists, from the urgency of their feet. He rose. He joined. He stumbled. Their hands responded in support.
‘Brother, come!’ Joyously they carried him.
‘Enemy number one. Enemy number two. Enemy number three,’ he shouted, barely audible, his hands pointing at the headquarters of the Bombay Municipal Corporation. They jostled him to the front effortlessly. Starvation had hollowed his bones.
‘Enemy number one.’
He was passed on to two others. Tears dripped from his eyes. His heart raced unsteadily.
‘Break down that door,’ he screamed.
‘Break down that door. Break down that door,’ repeated the man next to him, and soon there was an echo of a hundred and more voices.
They turned right. He found that the direction of his hand had changed from the Bombay Municipal Corporation’s headquarters on the left to the building opposite it—Metro House, the headquarters of the British Chewing Gum Company. When they reached the building’s iron door, he was carefully placed against the wall. His fingers remained pointed in the opposite direction.
‘Gai hamari mata hai. Jo haath uthey usey kata hai (The cow is our mother. We have cut every hand that has risen against her).’
‘Gai ko jo khayega, maut ke moo mit jayega (Those who eat cows will end up in the jaws of death).’
‘There, not here,’ the mill worker shouted.
‘Gaay bachao, aay bachao (Save the cow, save your income).’
‘Gaay bachao, mai bachao (Save the cow, save your mother).’
‘Gaay bachao, hai bachao (Save the cow, save yourself from destitution).’
It took three strikes with a large hammer to break the lock. Some were too impatient to wait and they pushed against the door with all their might—once, twice, thrice. Even before the lock broke, the hinges on the left had given way. The door fell flat and the horde surged in. Four hands grabbed the guard’s chair. It was flung against the wall. Its wooden leg broke on impact and boomeranged onto a young boy’s head. The boy pressed his palm to his bleeding scalp. He did not feel any pain. A neighbour removed his own turban and wrapped it around the boy’s head as they walked up the stairs. On the first floor, they turned in different directions. Six entered Thompson’s room. One pocketed a pen lying on the table. Another took the maps. The globe was heavy and needed two people to lift it. Destruction required the impulse of one, distribution—the patience of all. They lifted the globe with little effort and flung it out of the window. It shattered on the mill worker’s head. The African continent broke into a hundred pieces. The Middle East was the first to slither into a black hole. Slowly but steadily the rest of the globe found itself in the open sewer floating towards an unknown destination. India stuck on the trident of an unsuspecting rioter and served its role in burning down the company. On the second floor, some smashed the portraits of men in stylized wigs. One fourteen-year-old decided that it was apt to deface them first. Finding nothing but kerosene and matches, he poured the fluid charitably. The oil paintings immediately caught fire. The flames spread to the curtains and the carpet. In the filing room, the files were systematically torn through t
he middle. The thicker ones required someone to remove the papers first. A fellow was put on the job. He sat in the filing room, alone, thinking at periodic intervals. Whose office was this? What is chewing gum? Why do cows like to eat chewing gum? Why don’t we like chewing gum-eating cows? While removing the papers from one of the older files, he cut his finger. Why did I miss work when all I’m doing now is sitting in a filing room and simplifying its organization? Why is this paper smelling like smoke? There is smoke! He realized that there was a fire outside. That rattled him. If they intended to burn the place down, why had he been asked to tear up these files—an hour has passed? He went to the kitchen and began battering the utensils out of shape. This cheered him up a little and distracted him from his melancholy. As the floor went up in flames, the police arrived in large numbers. Within a few hours, fifty-six rioters were arrested.
Three of the rioters carried Thompson’s table. This was the first time that the table was naked with nothing on it but sunshine. At the centre of the table a black, gold-rimmed horn had been carved. Four emblems were engraved into the corners—rye, a flame, a ram and a cross. They were connected to the black horn by vines that ran aimlessly. The black horn was, once upon a time, all golden. A raider, realizing the harm she was causing to the delicate etchings, did not scrape at the edges and sacrificed economy at the hands of aesthetics. Or it must have been the handicraft of some pesky kid who took to his heart the adage: ‘sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made’. When grounded for his equalizing campaigns at school—for redistributing the sweets and toffees—the budding Robin Hood must have decided to take the table to task and gotten rid of the gold that thwarted his notions of parity. Whatever the reason, the horn was definitely not of the same class of wood as the table.
‘How much do you want for the table?’ a voice called out, seeing the three men-in-rags carrying the exquisite piece of carpentry. He figured that the table did not belong to them.
Cow and Company Page 11