We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  —So this is how you spend your time? Have you no shame? Who did this? shouts Bapuji. He kicks the gate.

  Ha! Now the guard scrabbles to unlock it.

  —Yeh kisne kiya? Bapuji says.

  The crowd takes a step back. No answer.

  —Ih kaun kiha?

  No answer.

  —Yehin ke kehin?

  Jeet creeps forward so he can see better. With difficulty, the chained man looks up: Through his swollen eyes, he cannot even blink.

  —Bubu Baisahib, Radha Madamji, says the guard as he opens the gate. Welcome Bapuji and Nanu Maharani – I will radio Ranjit Sahib – please come inside.

  —Nahin, says Bapuji.

  —Hanji, says the chained man.

  —Do not lie! Bapuji says. In the still afternoon his voice carries across the square. They would not do such a thing to my property, my person, my self.

  Without ordering the man to be released, Bapuji walks through the gate. Nanu follows, gesticulating at him, grabbing at his sleeve. Saying things in a rapid chatter that Jeet can’t quite catch – about birds being blind, fathers, money, safe, broken roads, daughters, children, daughters—

  Bapuji shakes her off.

  —Shut up! he shouts. You climb inside me, crazy mother, always clawing at my heart.

  Jeet hears this; the guard and the chained man hear it; the basti men standing closest to the gate hear it; they relay it back through the crowd. Is Bapuji drunk? Only women lamenting the deaths of their sons cry out with such sounds here.

  The guard locks the gate, he gestures to the crowd – be patient – then he hurries behind Bapuji and Nanu. The chained man bangs, iron on iron, out, rage, out, cry, cry, the chains clang against the gate as he watches – they all watch Bapuji and Nanu go up the path towards the hotel – the crowd breaks the line of security; they press forward. Jeet sees Ranjit – his own father! – hurrying from the hotel to welcome Bapuji and Nanu. The guard meets him – and after a moment he turns back, brandishing a new set of keys. As he unlocks the chained man, the basti crowd nod, their tight formation releases. The mothers let go of their children and – Jeet feels it inside himself – the sense that danger has passed. All can now return to normal; nothing more to see.

  —Security! Ranjit Sahib gives orders that you should take this one to the hospital! shouts the guard.

  He unlocks the gates and the chained man falls sideways, making no sound that Jeet can hear. Two of Bapuji’s aides, men Jeet does not recognise, go through the gate. One lifts the chained man; another beckons to the crowd, holding a 10-rupee note.

  —You people. Take him, put him in a taxi. Send him to the hospital. Ten more when you come back.

  Jeet hangs back as five or six basti men rush to the highway. In a moment, two come back; they take the chained man from Bapuji’s security. There is shouting – there are the basti boys, trying to help – the women talking about Nanu’s bearing, her words – strange how no one mentions the jewels they have just seen, or the fine saris and so on (the only concern is for how despite her great age Nanu is still beautiful, and how, after so many years Bapuji has not changed). The security men watch all of this. When the chained man is taken to the highway, they push the children aside; they get back in their cars, and, with a group from the basti shouting instructions, they make five point turns, then crawl, back to the front of the hotel.

  In the dhaba, Feroze Shah lights burners for evening service. Music starts up. The women retreat through the Amritsar gate; they have the family evening meal to prepare. In minutes, all that is left is a wild-eyed man called Rudra, who was once, and still is, despite all this time, Jeet. He lurks, not wanting to go into the basti; he slumps under his tree. He is hungry, the air is laden with sand particles pushing on his lungs; he feels the basti dwellers could have done more for that man. Why didn’t anyone insist he be covered from the sun? Or give him something to eat? Or do anything more than laugh and stare? If he had been one of their own, they would have. Even the children could have begged their mothers to do it. Even if only to be told, No, this is a matter over your heads, do not bring trouble down on ours. Exhausted, Jeet leans back against the trunk.

  An hour passes, or more. In the late evening gloom, thick with dhaba ghee and the smell of rubbish, Jeet becomes aware of a tingling, as of someone picking up the ends of his hair, brushing them across his face. Vik, he thinks, waking him to go home.

  —Vik? he says. There is no one in the square; no child on the rubbish heap, no men in the dhaba; the shutters are locked. Locked? He gets up; every bone begging him to stay – stay, even the guard box is empty. The lights from the hotel cast everything red, or is that the natural colour of the sky? Bursts of sand scuttle over the mud, playing timpani on corrugated tin, stinging over Jeet. He wants people – he moves towards the rubbish heap, climbing up and along. He falls into its stinking, sweet, rotting scraps; he swims through plastic; he pushes off a goat carcass; he smells his own breath, sour, neem. He tries to reach the forth circle but cannot map the usual route in the dark – when was it ever so dark at this hour? It cannot be late – he was not asleep for so long – the wind is vicious, the sand wild – he tries to bury himself lower. An old double mattress, almost hollowed by rats makes a cover he can use; he hears them scrabble around, so near, was that one? He counts seconds to minutes, a time sutra to calm as the wind whips and flips from playful to bully. He peers up, into the sky – it is dark but tinged weird, and red. High above him, the hotel seems to sway. Jeet waits, eyes wide, trying not to move or breath. A storm. Ha! After the sacrifices he has made, it cannot bring more than he has already survived.

  *

  He is wrong. One moment the sky is red, then almost black, then: dark green. The wind brings slaps of sand across the square; it beats against the hotel walls then comes back at Jeet for more. He struggles; he cannot see his foot, his hand, his fingers. Rubbish flings itself out and up into the sky. He is too afraid to move: he counts his breaths. He looses count and starts again as sand reaches inside every cranny of the dump; everywhere the wind catches filth and whirls it upwards, strange plastic birds taking flight. Tasting sand, hearing sand, seeing nothing but sand. The earth rises around him; a sepia void. He climbs around the dump, he makes his way – an actual madman, the crazed Rudra he thinks he is; skin rubbing raw and eyes unable to weep, his body so brittle he feels it will snap. He falls into the third circle of the basti. Lurching into other bodies, feet slipping into the black sludge; passing hovels full of eyes; children crying; sand sweeps up and through the lanes, scouring them; finally it dips, rises, gives a last flourish – and stops.

  A ghost town, bleeding. A glow from the hotel windows through the dust-ridden sky. What is going on up there? Crouched in a broken doorway, squatting on all fours, he would give his next life to know.

  In the hut opposite him, a group of five women are wiping their children’s arms, their buttocks and plaits, pulling at them, muttering, asking each other what they can have done to deserve this. Calling on Shakti to protect them all. One has an oil lamp going, it casts a deep glow down the lane and Jeet can see the children. He wants to laugh at their sudden whiteness, remembering the beauty of the figures he used to surround himself with, the frankincense facials and creams he used to buy to lighten his skin. Has a storm like this ever been seen? Not by Jeet in his world – but now he knows how this world is going to end. He springs from his doorway, scaring the women; they grip their children to them.

  —Rudra bhai, help us, one says.

  She holds out her bucket. He stares at it – at her. He takes it. Bright yellow, so beautiful, so deep; it could hold a day of water, or more. He nods. He goes through the circles back to the square – and back – each time bringing water from the pumps to the lanes to those who need it. The thunder sounds; getting closer, closer – a thousand frogs croaking at the back of the sky’s dark throat. Disbelieving Jeet looks up, but can only see sand. How can thunder follow sand?

  On the thin plank
over the gully, he does a little jig, whirling the bucket around his knees.

  —Basti mein masti hain, bachche kyun ro rahe ho? Voo hooo, voo hoo!

  He runs down the gully, crying,

  —When will it come, will it come?

  In the lanes, the mothers hold their children, waiting, waiting.

  Walk circles, fetch water. Jeet reaches the sixth circle for the seventh time, a full bucket with him. Spills not one drop. Then, the sky breaks.

  A tongue, lashing lightning – the rain weeping rage down to the cowering earth – the sky a father disappointed. And they, the people of the basti, do cower: as the sand beneath them turns to swamp and then becomes submerged, as the gutters between their shacks become a river which rises, rises, rises. It takes only minutes before shit floods through their hovels, bringing with it rats, big as baby monkeys, tails propelling them furiously against the night. The rubbish becomes a wave, washing away language, voices, drab stories of past lives, sufferings and hopes. All the circles of the basti seem to be turning at once, turning and counterturning, as people of the ninth, eighth, seventh try to push from the pit to the outer edges, only to be stopped at the fifth by makeshift barricades – and forced to turn, and spiral back from there towards the pit. Screaming to each other: How unnatural it is for a storm to rise in the ninth month of the year! It is a sign, but of what? Above their heads, all the lights in the hotel go out. The power cuts across the basti. They are left in darkness. Now they walk, as fast as they can, in single file through the lanes – a human chain, not speaking, not screaming. They go deeper into Dhimbala, carrying anything they can grab: a tawa, a bedroll, a water can, making for the pit and the Amritsar minar at its edge.

  Two by two they shove their pigs, their pups, their goats and kids through the doorway, up the narrow stairs to the first floor. Disbelieving, Jeet sees Kal and Dodal, from JAB WE MET PAN, who never give anything for free. Holding torches in their mouths, they hand out plastic rope, directing animals to the first storey, women, children and elderly to the second – Don’t be scared chotu, be a man, it’s only rain, they joke – Look at me, I’m not scared they grimace, they grin.

  Jeet climbs with the men to the roof. Arms slither across each other; they use their ropes to hoist up those left in the lanes. He joins in, heaving, hoeing, heaving, wasted arms screaming while he clenches his teeth. They pull together in torch light, trying to get as many to safety as possible.

  Two figures come sliding through the river of sludge. They knock from side to side, pushing others out of the way. No one can hear their cries – Jeet wants to, but any sound is stamped out by thunder. The sky is lit by sheet lightening; everyone is pinned between the rain above and the filth below. This is the ninth circle, the water is swirling into the pit; the figures are at the base of the tower, they reach the rope. Jeet, leaning over the parapet knows these shapes – he knows: Bapuji and Nanu.

  Bapuji.

  Nanu.

  Jeet leaves his place. He pushes down the stairs, all the way down to the lane. Nanu’s skin has turned to scales, water running down every wrinkle – the Goddess Saraswati, of learning and art, enraged, aghast, drowning. She grips Bapuji’s arm, she waves her Kelly bag; her chiffon sari is stuck to her, horribly translucent.

  Rani Mukherjee, Preity Zinta, this is all Jeet can think.

  Bapuji is covered in crud. He has fallen and risen trying to orchestrate the tide streaming around him. He raises his hands and grips the rope. Men try to pull him to safety, to drag Nanu up after him. No one shouts Bapuji! Nanu! They do not notice or perhaps they don’t care. Jeet jumps into the river: they need to be lifted from below. But he cannot bear the weight of his Godfather. He falls backwards into the muck. His head goes under – he opens his mouth and it fills. Dark, dark, dark, the taste of effluence in his nose – something scrabbles around him – he feels the tight, hairy body of a rat. Jeet wants to scream: he must not open his mouth.

  Jeet goes under again; he surfaces, retching, into the water. Bapuji stands above him, waist deep in a tide of Company plastic bottles, flattened cake boxes, shower-caps filling, strange bulbous fish. Jeet reaches for his Godfather’s hand, misses, and then waits, arms raised to be pulled up. No one is looking for him. He struggles to his knees, he clings to Bapuji’s waist and tries to pull himself upright.

  —O Varun, what was the terrible crime for which you wish to destroy me, I who did nothing but praise you?

  Bapuji’s voice crashes around, praying hard, fervently.

  —Proclaim it so that I might kneel before you, liberate me from my mistakes, for you are hard to deceive and are ruled by yourself alone. Free us from the harmful defects of our fathers and the sins we have committed with our bodies. The boys should beat it! My old friends have become my daughters’ monkeys. How could they come against me, I, with my hair so white and getting so tired?

  Then: Bapuji, the dark water rising around him, shakes Jeet off. He smacks his palms together as if he could crush the world flat between them. He picks up Nanu, and hands her into arms, waiting to pull her inside.

  Jeet finds a foothold in the ground floor window, and he is pulled up in turn. Nanu is crouched on the roof, shivering. There is nothing to warm her, nor wipe the sludge from her. Jeet wants to put his arms around her – but even now he does not dare. Nanu shouts:

  —I hate to get wet! I want to go back inside, I want him to apologise to his daughters. There is no reason for this! No need!

  Jeet looks back over the parapet. Down below, Bapuji is still fighting the sewage. All that Jeet can think is: Jivan, Bubu, Radha, Sita what have you done? Gargi. My God, Gargi – what have you done?

  The thunder and lightning, the flood, are siblings of pain that will not stop.

  Hands reach and reach from the first floor windows. They catch Bapuji, they manage to lift him, loop him to the rope; the men on the rooftop drag him up the building. Nanu tries to put her arm around his head but she is shivering too hard. She scolds him for being led with his lower parts instead of his brain, for not listening, never listening to her.

  —You are like a man with many wives and nothing left to sustain himself with. You always thought Radha was kind – were you too busy looking in the mirror to see her truly?

  Bapuji does not answer Nanu. He stares around, smiling at the men. Is he smiling? Jeet thinks. It is impossible to tell.

  —All of you who know God, ask yourselves why this storm has come. You know what you have done, as fathers and daughters, uncles and nieces, don’t think it goes unseen. You have lied, you have cheated and you lust after what is not yours to touch. Tonight is the night to unburden your selves. Come, tell whatever snakes hide in your hearts. It is their natures only that bring us to this. Come! Bapuji cries.

  Jeet wants to go to him – but the other men take no notice. They are too busy with winding up the ropes, counting each other, than finding a place in the huddle around Nanu. Jeet crouches with them. Their faces seem rapt in the storm. She is chanting, Jeet realises (and now he must cry, must comfort her), the Napurthala prayer.

  Na tuevahaparam jatunusam

  na tuenemek janadhipahra

  na caiva na bhavisyamahoputra

  sarve vayam atah param.

  Never was a time when I did not exist

  nor you, nor all these kings;

  nor in the future

  Shall any of us cease to be.

  Bapuji splashes about around them on the rooftop, smiling like a crafty Buddha, and says nothing.

  The thunder finally rolls away, leaving only the whiplash rain. The men squat, staring into the night, a congress of owls. Arms around each other, heads on each other’s shoulders. Jeet laughs. It is too, too funny that here in the basti men are allowed to touch. He realises that it’s not funny. He must be mad. He can still taste excrement in his throat. The rain drums upon them.

  Bapuji is on his knees, crawling about. He reaches Nanu. She puts her hand on his forehead and he raises his eyes to hers.


  —My poor Nanu. My poor, my poor Nanu, he says.

  Nanu begins to croon to him. Stroking his cheek, her face so soft as she looks down at her son – as if she can see through him to the floor, to the mud, to the sewers. All the men lean forwards, to hear her through the rain.

  How do you

  Asks the chief of police,

  Patrol a city

  Where the butcher shops

  Are guarded by vultures;

  Where bulls get pregnant,

  Cows are barren,

  And calves give milk

  Three times a day;

  Where mice are boatmen

  And tomcats the boats

  They row;

  When frogs keep snakes

  As watchdogs,

  And jackals

  Go after lions?

  Does anyone know

  What I’m talking about?

  She kisses Bapuji’s bare head.

  —We will remain babes in the flood.

  —Hanji! cry any who understand.

  Up on this rooftop, with no shelter, where the night might last for hours more. Tomorrow will bring disease, infection. Nanu is ninety-years-old. Is she to die here?

  Devraj begins to cough. He clutches at his mother’s lap.

  —When the mind is free… he mumbles. And the heart… no, the head… and hand to the mouth. Cry? Who says? Keep trying and I will not… Come, my Chachas, bring the rain and the storm, where the heart is kind and the head is held high.

  —Let us take them down to the women, someone says.

  Jeet hangs back as others help Nanu to her feet. They guide her towards the stairs. Bapuji will not go with them. Jeet can hear him protesting: he has already felt the worst from Radha and Gargi, why should he be scared of rain?