River Town Chronicles

by Leighton Hazlehurst

  In the early 1900s, traditional methods for making brass utensils, like those just described, were revolutionized by a clever Muslim iron worker who fabricated several brass “re-rolling” machines that enabled useless and broken utensils to be recycled. The broken and scrap materials were melted down and then directly re-rolled into circles by machines to be made into new utensils.

  Lallaji controlled the flow of scrap metals into River Town and the exodus of newly fabricated pots and pans out of town. All of this was supported by a spider’s web of merchant wholesalers, retailers, brokers, commission agents and bankers. They all prospered like so many honey bees extracting nectar from the same flower. Lallajii extracted his nectar by lending money to other merchants and artisans and taking their metals as collateral for the loans. Interest rates varied according to the izzat (“honor”) of the borrower’s family. He warehoused the metals under lock and key scattered around the inner lanes of the town.

  Lallaji would patrol the lane in front of our house like a jail house warden in search of inmates planning an escape. He poked his head inside the shops of retail merchants and the workshops of the artisans, sometimes engaging in light hearted banter and sometimes scolding and threatening the occupants. The smallest details of the brass trade he kept locked away in the account book he held tightly under his arm.

  VILLAGE ETIQUETTE

  THE VILLAGE HEADMANsent word that Roshan and I were invited to lunch in the village, the same village where it was claimed Akbar had built the rang mahal. We doubled up on the sturdy balloon tired bicycle and headed out of town again. It was always refreshing to breath the country air beyond River Town.

  When we reached the village, a large crowd of men and young boys gathered around us as we approached the headman’s house in the center of the village. He was sitting on his charpoi again, taking long drags off of his hooka and motioned to us to sit on chairs he brought from inside the house. Roshan and I sat on the chairs on a slightly raised platform, a sea of faces staring at us. I felt like an exotic fish suddenly trapped in a glass aquarium. They wanted to hear about America. I began with a personal introduction, telling the crowd of men and young boys about my research in River Town and about schools in the U.S. A hand shot up in the crowd. “Tell us how much money you make in America. Does everyone live in a big house and have many automobiles?” I tried to explain that this was not the case, and that there were poor people and rich people in America. But the crowd didn’t seem interested in any departure from their image of America. Next, they wanted to know if it was true that married couples lived alone, with their children, away from any extended family members living in the same house. “Only unfortunate people live like that,” someone in the crowd assured me. There were whispers and snickers coming from a group of young men in the back of the crowd. Their whispers quickly spread through the crowd until someone gathered the courage to ask, “Is it true that in America you have love marriages? No arranged marriages?. No dowry?” The question started a buzz in the crowd and I noticed men nodding their heads in agreement. “Love marriages?” I puzzled out loud. “Yes. We have heard that a boy and girl go off and make love,” someone added. “Like wild animals,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. By now the crowd was unruly and talking and laughing among themselves. They looked at me as if I were mentally disturbed. What I had assumed to be self evident truths of individual choice were being challenged by another set of self evident truths and social practices diametrically opposed to my own. The headman mercifully extracted me from my predicament by announcing that it was time for his guests to eat and dismissed the unruly crowd. I was more than happy to see them leave. “You must excuse us,” the headman apologized. “We are simple villagers who do not understand the ways of America.” For the moment, I was forced to question the self evident ways of America myself.

  The headman spread out banana leaves and Roshan and I sat down on the ground to eat. A young boy brought out kettles of food from inside the headman’s house and began to ladle it onto our banana leaves. It amazed me how generous these villagers were with their meager possessions. It was a meal fit for Akbar himself. Roti (bread), dal (lentils), alu muttar (potatoes and peas), and dahii (yogurt) were heaped in front of us. I began to eat in my usual fashion, which is to eat one dish at a time. I began with the dal. No sooner had I consumed half of it than the boy rushed to replace the dal I had eaten with a fresh helping. I protested with hands pressed together in front of my face, “Bus” (enough). The boy was unmoved by what he took to be insincere protests. He smiled and stood back ready to repeat the process. I decided to move from the dal to the alu muttar and no sooner had I finished this dish than the boy piled on another helping of potatoes and peas. No amount of protest served to interrupt his swift response to any shortage of food on my banana leaf. I was feeling stuffed and wished I could get the boy to stop piling on the food. I looked over at Roshan, whose banana leaf was almost empty. I watched as he used his last piece of roti to skillfully scoop up the last bit of alu mutar, the last scoop of dal, and the last bit of dahii. He folded his hands. “Bus” (enough). His banana leaf was taken away and all eyes were now focused on my situation. Could it be, I wondered, that my eating habits were sending the wrong message? Did my habit of eating one dish at a time signal that I really wanted more? I was desperate to relieve myself of the potential eruption building in my stomach and wished to send the boy with the kettles away for good, so I changed my ways. I copied Roshan’s habit of balancing the food on his leaf by eating a little of each item mixed together, so that each dish was eaten proportionately, leaving nothing to be replenished. It worked! In this manner I was able to finally finish my meal and have my banana leaf removed. This sent the boy with the kettles scurrying back into the house.

  Roshan and I stood up and thanked the headman profusely for his hospitality and promised to return again to visit the village. We bumped along the dusty path out of the village and headed towards River Town, as I mulled over what I had taken to be the self evident truths of American culture and social practices and my own eating habits. What you see, I learned from the villagers, depends on where you’re standing.

  MONKEY BUSINESS

  BHABHI RACED INTO THE COURTYARDwith Brian waddling just behind her. He had just finished his early morning feast of chapattis in bhabhi’s kitchen when Kaga made her entrance and ordered Pat to give her some water. “Jaldi karoo” (hurry up), she shouted, enjoying her chance to order the foreigner around. When Kaga spied bhabhi coming her way, she increased the volume of her voice and sprinkled it with insults. Bhabhi pulled on the lobes of her ears in mock disapproval of Kaga’s crude remarks and then began her own harangue, hurling insults in Kaga’s direction. Brian peaked around from behind bhabhi and began to imitate her. Kaga broke out in a toothy grin and chased Brian around the courtyard, threatening to swat him with her broom. “Badmash” (bad boy), she scolded, as she closed in on him and then backed off, lifted her basket on top of her head and retreated out the side door of the courtyard.

  This became a daily routine. Kaga would arrive in the morning, assert her dominance over the foreigners by making demands and challenging bhabhi to a verbal duel, before retreating out the door with her basket of waste. We were just a side show in the daily struggle between the free spirited Kaga and the power of her earthy pollution and bhabhi, the high caste woman by birth with the authority granted by her higher ritual purity.

  It was late in the afternoon and boredom had set in. The children were playing next door while Pat and I were sprawled out on the charpoi. There was a rustling sound inside the room and I thought at first it must be the children. I turned towards the sound and could barely believe my eyes. There, inside the room, was a monkey standing on his hind legs and removing my shirt from one of the pegs on the wall. He stared at me briefly, just long enough for me to get a good look at him, and then scampered out of the room. I jumped up and chased him, but he had already scaled the wall up to the roof top and stopped just
above me. He looked down, staring me directly in the eyes, my shirt (my best shirt) held firmly in each hand with a sleeve stretched tightly in his mouth. He hesitated, as if waiting for something, but I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do. After a few moments of sitting there motionless, staring down at me, the monkey began to tear my shirt to shreds, raining down the remnants of my shirt on top of my head. The monkey lifted his tail in my direction and slowly sauntered off in the direction of his companions intently watching the action from the roof top. This was their territory. They ruled the upper levels of River Town, while mere rats and humans occupied the ground floor. They knew the strengths and weaknesses of humans and were quick to exploit the weaknesses.

  A few days later, I returned home from the bazaar to find that the monkeys had attacked again. One of them was already sitting on the roof in a familiar posture with another of my shirts stuffed in his mouth and his hands pulling at the sleeves. Pat was yelling at me to do something, while Lori was yelling at the monkey. I was at my wits end, after a number of encounters with the monkeys the last few days had depleted my wardrobe. I looked up and saw our neighbor, Ushajii, up on her roof top. She was laughing hysterically at my predicament. “Sahabjii, kyaa baat hai?. Phir choori ho gayii?” (What’s wrong, sahab? Have you been robbed again?), she shouted with amusement. I suspected she had been a witness to this hilarious scene before, but today she apparently felt sorry for me. “Roti lee aao” (bring some bread) she shouted “jaldi karoo” (hurry up). I grabbed a chapatti left over from the afternoon meal and ran back to the wall. “Now, throw the bread over to one side, away from the monkey.” “Then what?” I shouted back. “The monkey will let go of your shirt and run over to get the chapatti. If you can run up on the roof top and grab your shirt before the monkey finishes the chapatti, you can grab your shirt and jump back down off the roof before he returns.” Ah, I thought, the marvels of evolution at work. Charles Darwin would have been proud. “Human outsmarts monkey.” I threw the chapatti to one side, away from the monkey, and began to climb to the roof top. “Better bring a big stick. Just in case,” Ushajii yelled in all seriousness. I grabed a stick on the way up and struggled to the roof top. The monkey eyed me with contempt but continued to stuff the chapatti in his mouth while I quickly retrieved my shirt, a little tattered but still in one piece. I climbed down into the courtyard and held the shirt up in triumph for Ushajii to see. “Shabash” (well done,), she said approvingly. “Man (with Ushajii’s help) conquered monkey,” I thought to myself. Or was it, “monkey conquered man?” After all, hadn’t I just paid a ransom to get my own shirt back?

  ILLNESS STRIKES HOME

  PAT WAS SPRAWLED OUTon the charpoi and said she didn’t feel well. That wasn’t unusual, as we were all suffering various stomach ailments these days. For the most part, however, life continued as usual. Brian squatted on the floor in bhabhi’s kitchen eating more chapattis and was now able to carry on a simple conversation in Hindi with bhabhi. “Accha hai Buuriyan?” (Is it good, Brian?) “Haan jii, accha hai.” (Yes, it’s good), Brian would reply. “Lo. Kha lo ek aur chapatti” (take it. Eat one more chapatti), bhabhi would offer.

  I needed to go shopping and left Pat dozing on the charpoi. Outside the door, Tim was squatting on his haunches next to Chamu, the mochi. His eyes were fixed on the sweet shop across the lane. The shop keeper was making a batch of jalebis (pretzel shaped sweets). As I was leaving, Tim asked me how the sweet honeylike filling ended up inside the jalebis. I told him I didn’t know and asked him if he wanted to go with me to the bazaar. No. He said he would rather stay and figure out how the sweet stuff got inside the crispy shells of the jalebis.

  I stopped at the fruit and vegetable stalls and then made my way to the grain and spice shops. On the way back I stopped at Ram Gopal’s tea stand. As he stirred the contents of a large kettle he asked me how I liked River Town. I told him we were settled in, but that I had a lot to learn about the town. “Have you met the Raja Sahab?” he asked. I told him I hadn’t. “Well you should meet him. I’ll see if I can arrange it.” He said that the Raja Sahab could tell me a lot about the history of the town. I thanked him, paid for my cup of tea and headed back home.

  When I entered the house, I found Pat still lying on the charpoi, moaning. It was obvious that she was sick, but the corner of the room where she was resting was so dark that I couldn’t even see how sick. When I suggested she come out in the sunlight so I could take a closer look at her, I was shocked at what I saw. Her skin and eyes had turned yellow. Having seen her condition, I knew we had to get to the hospital, so I flagged down a bicycle rickshaw. Chamu said he would guard the entrance to our house while we were gone. “Don’t worry about the children. No one will get past me. They will be safe.” I helped Pat into the rickshaw and we headed out of town, towards the small mission hospital and the New Zealand doctor who worked there. Hindi film music blared from radios in the stalls of food vendors just outside the hospital gate. I helped Pat out of the rickshaw and carried her inside. The doctor greeted us, took one look at Pat and pronounced the dreaded word— Hepatitis. He said she would need to stay flat on her back for six weeks and that she should stay in a room in the hospital. Pat was worried about the children. “Will they get hepatitis?” The doctor said I should bring the children to the hospital the next day. “You will all need gamma globulin shots.” I helped Pat get into her hospital bed. She was too weak to complain about anything and fell asleep as I sat in a chair next to the bed.

  When I returned home later that night, I found Chamu sprawled out across the entrance to the house. He was snoring loudly and didn’t budge as I stepped across his body and entered the room unnoticed. A fine watchman he turned out to be! But his heart was in the right place, and I woke him up and thanked him profusely for guarding the door.

  The next morning, I loaded the children onto the bicycle. Lori sat on the cross bar in front of me. Brian sat on the handle bars and Tim straddled the rack over the back fender. The four of us set off on the bike, lurching and weaving like drunken sailors. In the U.S., cops would have arrested me for reckless endangerment. I rang the bell and shouted “batch ke bhaaii!” (watch out, brother). The warning sent pedestrians scurrying to one side as the four of us careened out of town on the way to the hospital. When we arrived, Pat was already restless, wondering how long she would be able to stay flat on her back. “How will you get along without me?” I wondered the same thing myself. She said I should hire a cook and enroll the kids in school. “I’ve seen kids in their school uniforms. Find out about it.” I said I would.

  We visited until noon and before leaving I promised to find a cook and enroll the children in school. I left a pile of books by Pat’s bedside, and then the children and I went down the hall to get our gamma globulin shots from the nurse.

  HELP ARRIVES

  RAM SWARUP GAVE ME THE NAMEof someone to contact about enrolling the children in school. The next day, I visited the school and enrolled Tim, Brian and Lori in a Hindi speaking school that also provided some instruction in English. They were to wear school uniforms—short pants and blue shirts for the boys and a skirt and blouse for Lori. For a small monthly fee, they would be picked up in front of our house in the bazaar and delivered to and from school.

  In the morning a bicycle rickshaw with a small trailer attached to the back of the bike pulled up in front of our house. The trailer was brightly painted, and had iron bars on the back door. Tim, Brian and Lori climbed aboard and squeezed themselves in among the other kids crammed inside. As the rickshaw walla peddled away, I couldn’t help but think that the children looked like prisoners being hauled away on their way to jail. But our children loved it. They loved being with other children their own ages and making new friends. And their Hindi language skills improved dramatically. It didn’t seem to matter that they lagged behind the others. They were too busy making new friends and learning the intimate ways of children from another culture. Tim developed a close friendship with a young Sikh boy from
a neighboring village and would often spend the afternoon in his village learning to plow the fields. During the harvest season, he would join the other boys in the village chasing after truckloads of sugarcane leaving the village and heading for the mills. Sometimes the boys would run behind the truck, pulling out a couple of canes from the back of the truck before a man sitting on top of the load would swat at them with a cane of his own. It was a challenge which Tim and the other boys thoroughly enjoyed, their reward being to extract the sweet juice chewed from the ends of the canes. Lori and Brian’s friends lived in town and before long they were visiting with their school mates. The rest of the time they spent at home, Lori playing with Meena and Paphu, while Brian sat in bhabhi’s kitchen eating chapattis and adding to his Hindi vocabulary, including questionable words which I suspected she was preparing him to hurl at Kaga.

  About a week later, a man arrived at the gate and, after a grilling from Chamu, the moochi, was allowed inside. He wore a long kurta and loose fitting pajamas. He had a grey stubble of beard and liquid eyes. His shoes were scuffed and looked as if they might have been discarded by someone else. He said his name was Shankar and that he knew how to cook “western.” At this point I was desperate and didn’t care what he cooked as long as he cooked. He said he could start cooking that night and that he would cook something special for us. He returned that afternoon with his arms wrapped around his waist, and there was a commotion coming from underneath his kurta, as if something were trying to escape. He turned away from me and went straight outside to the cooking area. I heard a sudden flapping noise and a few “clucks” before all was silent. Lori ran into the house from the courtyard shouting. “There’s a chicken outside and it’s not flapping its wings anymore.” I looked outside and Shankar was already plucking the chicken and cutting it up into small pieces. I was thrilled at the thought of a chicken dinner, but at the same time I worried that Ram Swarup and bhabhi might suddenly appear and witness the massacre. What would they say about the dead chicken and the smell of cooked meat that was bound to permeate their living area before long? I hoped they would accept it and I marveled at how they pretended not to notice this intrusion on their strictly vegetarian diet.