River Town Chronicles

by Leighton Hazlehurst

  TAMASHA

  LATE IN WINTER, Kaga arrive with her usual fanfare, swishing her broom around and acting tough. “My daughter is getting married,” she hissed in my direction. “That’s good news,” I replied. Kaga continued to sweep the drain. “She’s marrying a boy from Rampur village.” Kaga fell silent for a moment “His family is poor. If we had money, we could arrange a good marriage for my daughter—like the Lallajis (merchants) do.” Kaga went on to tell me that her daughter was marrying into a bad family, that her daughter’s mother-in-law would treat her poorly. “When she goes off to live in her husband’s village, I will miss her.” Kaga picked up her basket and slipped out the side door.

  A week later, there was a tamasha (a loud commotion) at the entrance to our house in the bazaar. Drums were beating and a brass band, sadly out of tune, played joyfully out front. We all rushed out to watch as a musician beat the double ended dholak strung across his shoulder, his eyes wide open, as if in a trance. Behind him were several men in khaki trousers, shirts and hats askew, making noise on their trumpets and bugles. All of a sudden, Kaga appeared, twirling around in a wild dance to the steady beat of the drum. She was dressed in a brightly colored sari, a tight blouse and bangles piled high on both arms. She was barefoot, and around her ankles were a set of gungurus (bells) which added another beat to the sound of the drum. The band reached a fevered pitch and Kaga matched their intensity. The entire group seemed to be high on bhang (hashish) and alcohol. Suddenly the music stopped, and Kaga grasped the hand of a young girl, about fifteen years old. She was dressed in a new shalwar/kamiz and her face was hidden behind her dupatta (scarf). Kaga lifted the dupatta and a beautiful young girl looked passively at me. “This is my daughter. The one I told you about. The one getting married.” Kaga looked proud, with no hint of the doubts and concerns she had expressed to me earlier. She smiled and then pulled the dupatta over her daughter’s face.

  Bhabhi came out and greeted Kaga, then handed her a bag filled with rice and a pile of chapattis. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fistful of rupees and placed them in Kaga’s hand. She touched her forehead and flashed a grin. Then the troupe moved on down the lane with horns blaring and drums banging and Kaga twirling wildly in their midst.

  SNAKE CHARMER

  TOWARDS THE END OF WINTER, the pace of religious festivals and wedding parties slowed down. People seemed worn out by winter and anxious for the arrival of the warmer months of Spring. Pat and I often took this opportunity to walk around the edges of town in the morning to search for signs of Spring. In the afternoons, we would spend some time in the bazaar to see if any new fruits or vegetables had reached the marketplace. During one of these afternoons, I wandered off in the direction of a mesmerizing sound coming from an instrument played by a man squatting on the ground in front of a gunny sack. Something inside the sack was moving and the man was swaying back and forth while blowing into his instrument, without stopping to take a breath. Out of the sack slithered a cobra with his head gently swaying to the sound and movement of the mans arms and shoulders. The cobra lifted its head, spread its hood and hissed. A crowd of children had gathered around the snake charmer and stood motionless and speechless, with their eyes wide open. The snake charmer continued to play, while the cobra swayed back and forth in an ever widening arc. I asked one of the children about the instrument. “It’s a biin,” I was told. It was a beautiful instrument. The body of the instrument was made from a gourd decorated with tiny beads in the shape of lotus flowers. A mouthpiece made from a tube of brass was at one end, while at the other end there was a long, slender brass bell that allowed sound to exit from the instrument. Wired to the brass bell, and inserted into the gourd, were two hollow bamboo tubes with finger holes cut out of them to allow for different sounds. I later discovered that the bamboo tubes had small, reed-like slits positioned inside the gourd. The different parts of the instrument were held together with bee’s wax poured around the seams of the different parts.

  After fifteen or twenty minutes of continuous playing, the snake charmer coaxed the cobra back into the gunny sack and slung it over his shoulder. “How much?” I asked. “Whatever you want to give, Sahab.” “No, I mean how much for the biin.” The snake charmer broke out in laughter. “Do you want to become a biin bajanewala (a biin player)? Are you going to charm snakes?” he asked, thrusting the sack with the cobra in it towards my face. I told him I didn’t want to become a snake charmer. I just wanted to learn how to play the biin. The snake charmer first looked puzzled and then looked at his instrument, seeming to evaluate its worth. “The snakes really like the sound of this one, so I won’t sell it. But I will make you another one. I will make one for you for twenty rupees,” (less than $3.00 at the time). We agreed on the price and he said he would return with it in “about a week or two.”

  I caught up with Pat in the bazaar and told her about my purchase. “Are you mad?” she asked. “What are you going to do with a biin? Are you going to sit in the bazaar and become a snake charmer?” “No, no. I’m going to learn how to play it at home, where I won’t be heard.” “Promise!” was all she replied.

  BACK TO DELHI AGAIN

  NEAR THE END OF WINTER, we decided to travel to Delhi again in order to re-energize ourselves, take a hot shower and eat some bad British food which, after enough time, sounded good to us. The five us packed our bags and walked to the rickshaw stand one morning. I went up to one of the rickshaw wallas and asked him if he wanted to take us to the train station, some seven miles away. “Baitho” (“get in”; literally, “sit down”) he replied. I asked him how much he would charge. “Jo bhii aap ki maarzi ho” (whatever you want to pay me), he replied. I had been living amongst tight fisted merchants long enough to know this was only a verbal dance to see if I would give in to paying whatever amount he thought he could get away with. “Nahiin, paisa bolo bhaii” (no, tell me how much, brother). This was the classic verbal exchange played out on almost every occasion between rickshaw drivers and their passengers. “Das rupees” (ten rupees), he replied. “Saath rupee dee denge” (We’ll give you seven rupees). “Achha. Baitho” (O.K. Get in).Negotiations like this one always left me conflicted. On the one hand, I felt ashamed. Why would anyone be willing to transport five palefaced Americans in a bicycle rickshaw to the train station some seven miles away for just seven rupees, about one dollar at the time? On the other hand, if one failed to engage in this verbal dance and just accepted the rickshaw driver’s asking price, one would be considered a fool, even by the rickshaw driver!

  The five of us piled into the rickshaw. Pat and I held Brian and Lori on our laps, while Tim squatted down between our legs, flat footed, in a position he learned squatting outside our door in the bazaar, next to the moochi.

  We arrived at the station just in time to catch the train from Punjab, on its way to Delhi. We found seats in the second class compartment, which was already beginning to get crowded. But the five of us managed to squeeze onto the wooden bench on one side of the compartment. Across from us was a Sikh gentleman (Sardar), sprawled out on the bench in his underwear, his long hair unbound, and with a small dagger strapped to a belt fastened around his waist. He was snoring soundly, as other passengers crowded up against one another, standing in the aisle. No one disturbed the Sardar as he languished in his dream time, oblivious to others in the crowded compartment. The train pulled out of the station and the smell from the coal fired engine wafted through the open windows. I always considered trains and train stations to be among the best places to observe everyday life in India. Here people opened up with total strangers to discuss their hopes and fears. Villagers mingled with office clerks and ordinary folks on their way to visit relatives. Hawkers touted their medicines “guaranteed to arouse your sexual pleasure.” Others sold their whirligigs and flutes. Through it all, the Sardar continued to snore undisturbed. A woman sitting next to us with the edge of her sari pulled across her face so that just her eyes were revealed, stared intently at our children, shif
ting her eyes from Lori to Tim to Brian and then back again. Pat and I were conversing with each other in English, making plans for Delhi, when a man standing in front of us bent down and asked very politely in perfect British English, “Excuse me, sir. What language are you speaking?” When I replied we were speaking English, he looked stunned and disappointed. “I don’t understand a word you are saying.” I explained that American English sounded different, like the different dialects of Hindi sound different from one another. He looked doubtful, but let the matter rest.

  About three hours after we left the station, the Sardar let out a couple of sharp snorts, opened his eyes and belched. He looked around and seemed disappointed to find himself in a crowded second class compartment instead of wherever he had been in his dreams. He rubbed both eyes and yawned as he slowly raised himself to a sitting position. He looked around sleepy eyed at the people standing in the crowded aisle, streched his arms out wide and scratched himself. “Sardar jii, where are you traveling to,” a villager dressed in dhoti and kurta asked in a local village dialect. “Meerut. I’m going to Merrut,” replied the Sardar speaking in Punjabi. The villager nodded his approval and looked away, as if relieved to find out that the Sardar would vacate his monopoly of the train compartment’s bench after a few more stops. The Sardar stood up and pulled down a small suitcase from the overhead luggage rack and placed it on the bench. He was a large man, over six feet tall. The passengers in the aisle backed away to give him room. He sat down, opened the suitcase and inspected its contents. He pulled out a small mirror and looked at his reflection. Then he gathered up his hair in his hands and swirled it around, tying it in a knot on top of his head, before taking another glance in the mirror. He took a long piece of pink cloth from his suitcase and wound it around his head into a turban. The children were fascinated by the Sardar’s routine. He smiled at them and asked them in flawless, British accented English where they were going. “To Delhi,” Tim replied. The Sardar told him he should visit the State of Punjab and the Golden Temple in Amritsar. “Then your visit to India will be complete.” Others in the compartment murmured their agreement and there began a general discussion of the glory of the Punjab and the Sikhs. The Sardar seemed pleased, and continued to look at his reflection in the mirror. Just before reaching the train stop in Merrut, he pulled on a pair of pants and shirt from his suitcase and slipped into a pair of black loafers. He adjusted the pink turban once more and made his way to the exit door of the compartment. The train pulled up to the stop in Merrut, the Sardar exited the train and a crush of bodies lurched forward to fill the void left by the Sardar’s abandonment of his uncontested place on the bench.

  There were many stereotypes of Sikhs held by some Hindus in the area. They were considered by some to be unpredictable, sometimes docile, sometimes arrogant and hostile. Those who held these stereotypes thought the best policy was to avoid confronting them, as the passengers in the train compartment had done. Even their language, Punjabi, carried a message. Sometimes when Roshan and I traveled together, Roshan would switch from Hindi to Punjabi to gain the upper hand in any confrontation, as if to say “don’t mess with me” even though he belonged to a Hindu merchant caste and had very little contact with Sikhs.

  We slept sitting up during the rest of the trip to Delhi, arriving in the late afternoon. We pushed our way through the crowds onto the train platform and towards the taxi stand outside the station. We climbed into the first unoccupied taxi we found and headed for the bungalow I had reserved at Fonseca’s. We couldn’t wait to take long, hot, soaking baths in the tub, and the children were trying to remember what a flush toilet was like. We would, for a short time, be free from our life in River Town and the wrath of Kaga. We longed to eat western food and roam the bookstores and shops in Delhi. But we also knew, deep down, that Delhi could never compare with the pleasures of life we experienced in River Town.

  A DEAD BODY IN THE HALL

  WHEN WE RETURNED to River Town from our visit to Delhi, things looked normal on the surface. The mochi was squatting next to our gate, the monkeys were scampering around on the roof and the lane was packed with people coming and going from chowk bazaar. As soon as she saw us, Meena rushed out to greet us and pulled Lori into the hallway next to the courtyard. After a few moments, Lori rushed back and announced, “There’s a dead body in the hall!” Ram Swarup followed up, informing us that his mother had visited and then suddenly died during her visit, while we were in Delhi. I went into the hallway and saw the dead body of his mother stretched out on the floor, her eyes closed. She had been bathed and dressed in white and looked at peace. I could hear bhabhi and other female members of the family wailing in the background.

  The next day, the body was carried in a funeral procession to the cremation grounds on the outskirts of town. The body was decorated with sandalwood, flowers and garlands. A Brahman priest recited mantras (prayers) and Ram Swarup lit some kindling and circled the body with it, praying for the wellbeing of the departing soul. The funeral pyre was lit and the body reduced to a pile of ashes and bone fragments that Ram Swarup would eventually take to Hardwar and release in the holy Ganges water.

  Following the funeral, everyone took a purifying bath to rid themselves of pollution from the dead body. For Ram Swarup and his immediate family, the cremation ceremony was followed by a thirteen day period of mourning. On the ninth day, the barber came and shaved Ram Swarup’s head bald, except for a small tuft at the back of his head. This was meant to send his mother’s soul to heaven. For thirteen days, no members of the family were to be seen in public. Friends visited during this period, but sat silently in a group outside the doors to the house.

  We soon discovered that the thirteen days of mourning applied to us as well, and we were not expected to go out and be seen in public. We were prisoners in our own house. Fortunately, Shankar was able to come and go to do our shopping and prepare meals for us.

  At the end of the mourning period, there was a grand feast presided over by a group of ten or twelve Brahman cooks who prepared the food. Of particular interest to the children were the laduus, sweet balls prepared from besan (chick-pera flour), ghii (clarified butter), and other ingredients. This was a time of celebration. The women gathered together amongst themselves (no men allowed) and sang and danced and some of them joined Pat and smoked cigarettes, something they never did in public. In addition to family members and friends, food was distributed to the poor, including Kaga, who came by to pay her respects in an unusually humble manner. As soon as the mourning period ended, we were again free to resume our lives in public.

  RAJA SAHAB

  A FEW DAYS AFTER the conclusion to the mourning period for Ram Swarup’s mother, a messenger arrived at the door with an invitation to meet with Ram Gopal, a descendent of the local Raja Sahab. I wondered about the connection between a Raja, or Hindu King, and River Town. Could the term “Raja” be just another illusion like the “river” in River Town?

  I left the house and walked up the gali (lane) known as Gali Raja Sahab, turned left and walked a ways until I was in front of a large brick house secluded behind a heavy wooden and iron gate. I banged on the gate and a servant opened it and led me through the courtyard to the veranda, where the last surviving descendant of the Raja Sahab sat on a charpoi smooking his hooka. I looked around the interior of the house, which was covered with small pieces of mirror that sparkeled in the sunlight. There were scenes from the Ramayana, de picting Rama and Sita, adorning various corners of the building. “Aao jii, baitho” (come and sit down), Ram Gopal greeted me.

  The servant brought the two of us tea and, between long drags on his hooka, Ram Gopal reminisced about his ancestors, one of whom had been the vazir (financial advisor) to the former Sikh ruler of River Town. Later, when the British gained political control of River Town in the 19th Century, the vazir ingratiated himself with the British and was awarded the title “Raja” and ownership of over one hundred villages in the area surrounding River Town. Ownership of the
villages was passed on to the vazir’s biological male descendants, of whom Ram Gopal was the last surviving descendant. Eventually, following Independence and the land reforms that followed, ownership of the village lands was taken away and redistributed to the cultivators of the land, leaving Ram Gopal with just symbols and titles from earlier times.

  Ram Gopal waved his arms around the courtyard. “This is all I have left. The house, the temple inside the courtyard and those large iron hoops that used to tether my ancestor’s two elephants.” Ram Gopal seemed to be a sad man, lost forever in his memories of better times.

  I finished my tea, thanked Ram Gopal, and headed for home, determined to find out more about the political history of River Town.

  Along the way home, squatting along side the lane in chowk bazaar, I spotted bhabhi, her head tilted back, looking up to the sky. Squatting in front of her was the local dentist, peering into her mouth and manipulating a pair of pliers. With a quick twist, he yanked out the abscessed tooth and held it up for bhabhi to examine. Bhabhi took one look and toppled over on her side, like a bowling pin, her hands pressed against her jaws. She let out a muffled scream, and I ran over to help her up off the ground. The dentist still held bhabhi’s tooth locked in his pliers. Then he placed the tooth down on a small cloth lined with other teeth extracted that day. Next to the row of teeth were several sets of ready made dentures “guaranteed to fit.” Bhabhi covered her face with the edge of her sari and followed me home. She lay down on a charpoi and Saroj brought her a brass tumbler full of warm tea, while Madhu began preparing the evening meal. Bhabhi’s ordeal had earned her relief from her daily chores, but I doubt she thought it was a fair trade.