We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  In the morning, the local men from outside the basti are lead to the ninth circle by those who know where Rudra can be found. They bring clean water and sponges; they give Bapuji and Nanu a new set of clothes each; they want to take them away from the filth and the rain. Bapuji keeps tight hold of Rudra’s hand – he is a Naph, he is needed. They are escorted around the pit, to the Napurthala Gate on the west highway. A car is waiting. They crawl inside, Bapuji, Nanu, Jeet. Three drenched cats.

  The smell is so rich; the deep spice of money. Calfskin leather and walnut trim. Jeet curls inside it, as if returning to the womb. When he closes his eyes and breaths in, it is as if the basti does not – has never – existed. For a moment he wants to claw at the window: Let me out! But no one would hear him, and no one would help. Jeet succumbs to the purr of the car, its lovely lullaby. We that are young. He rests his head back; he sleeps.

  Truth haunts those media reports; it’s there between the lines. Three days after the storm, a mela does take place in the abandoned grounds of the Company Napurthala hotel, which was once the palace of a Maharaja and home to its Yuvraj. As the internet will archive, this mela is the first great spontaneous gathering of the Devraj Campaign, the beginning of Team Devraj and the great fasting protest, the birth of a movement for the common man. The people of Dhimbala basti are there. When Bapuji was among them they had no time for him – they respond only when he is on the stage.

  They are in the car for no more than an hour. By the time Jeet – still filthy, his back sticking to the car seat leaving a dark smudges (but wearing a fine shawl, such a fine shawl around his groin) – reaches Napurthala, they are surrounded by droves of ragged men – on foot, on cycles, in auto rickshaws. It is early; a fresh breeze blows away the storm debris, the remnants of disease. As they turn into the grounds of the Napurthala Palace, Jeet sees carts selling snacks, bhel puri and chana. There are water-balloon sellers, popcorn wale, men with pink clouds of candyfloss, toys sold by toy-men so skilled at bringing wooden snakes to life with a flick of their wrists, Yes, dear children it is so easy: for five rupees, just five rupees, you can buy a mechanical animal and make it dance.

  Behind the chaos, and through his strange fever, Jeet looks for his father. There are Napurthali dignitaries in their conical hats; their turbaned counterparts from Amritsar, smiles fixed, eyes waiting. These people would not come here just for the people. Two bus-loads of workers pull through the gates. Someone must have paid for them: all these bodies to fill the crowds, farmers, labourers, basti-dwellers. Jeet has seen this before at factory meetings and local Company shareholder rallies. This isn’t Gargi. Just as the plainclothes men in the basti did not belong to Bubu. The aid and the biscuits and the bottled water: was that Sita? Jeet sees cardboard boxes from the Amritsar hotel bakery being handed out; tea party pakoras, samosas, white bread sandwiches with cream cheese inside.

  Ranjit, he thinks. Here you are.

  Jeet walks through the palace grounds with disbelieving eyes. The peacock-shaped hedges, the yew and rubber trees, the manicured gardens he played Holi in as a boy have become wild. The place is a kingdom of monkeys. Large and small, bare-arsed, hairy faced, whiskers and beards and bright black eyes, sitting in the trees and under them: long arms dangling, tongues unfurling as they yawn, as they scratch – old men holding court with many wives while their babies chatter and screech around them. It fevers his brain – remember Gargi planning his own twenty-first birthday party and throwing it on these very lawns? How the monkeys laughed when Jeet allowed Gargi to organise a cake by the pool, when he agreed to family photographs, as long as Gargi wore the dress of Jeet’s choice. A ‘baby-pink’ (if your babies were white) Tom Ford tube. Meant to suck Gargi in, and emphasise all of her curves. Jeet bought it in Dubai, where he could see the legs of the city spread wide below him from the lip of a twenty-seventh storey infinity pool; he gave it to her for rakhi. She protested but wore it that night, covered with a knee length Kashmiri silk jacket, which she would not remove. She looked so elegant. Gargi. Jeet shivers with shame at the memory; he is still feverish, still dirty and half naked. His beard has colonised his mouth, his cheeks.

  He stays close to Nanu. They follow a path through the rubble until they reach a low, wide bench in front of an ancient banyan tree. Its dry roots hang from its branches, fingers accusing the earth. Jeet circles it, looking for the rusty sign nailed to the trunk; it used to fascinate him as a boy. Under this tree in 1947, Gandhiji met with Maharaja Ram Devraj and Maharani Ram Devraj, belovedly known as ‘Nanu’, father and mother to us all. Yuvraj Dev was also in attendance.

  No one here stops for these English words. Yet all probably know the story of how Gandhiji came and blessed the tree, how this has protected the Devraj family all these years. Now, Jeet realises, the tree is dying. So much for blessings, he thinks.

  The people form a line, pressed close together as if queuing to enter some heritage site; they want to touch Nanu’s feet. Their fathers and grandfathers must have done the same years ago. Nanu sits on her bench, her feet stuck out, her dark glasses hiding her eyes. Jeet stands behind her, a Rudra sentinel.

  —Ram Ram, Nanuji, Ram Ram, says a young woman, her baby strapped to her back. My husband is a farmer. I am his wife, and a beekeeper. What shall we do in this time of storm and drought?

  —When a deer eats the barley the farmer does not hope to nourish the animal, Nanu says. She flexes her feet; her chappals are sturdy. For the first time Jeet notices her toenails: they are painted bright pink.

  —When a lowborn woman becomes the mistress of a noble man, her husband does not hope to get rich on that nourishment. Now, the barley is the people and the deer is the Royal power, thus the people are food for the Royal power and the one who has the power eats the people.

  The farmer’s wife moves away, the weight of her baby making her stoop. Poor thing, Jeet thinks, so illiterate that she cannot even understand or be grateful for the lesson told to her.

  Men in cotton shirts and suit trousers, some with dark glasses, some with good watches, are handing out cake boxes to the crowd. Jeet leaves Nanu to walk behind Bapuji – who is changed now, into a clean white kurta pyjama, a bright orange scarf around his neck. His hair is still wild, though it has dried. Someone has given him a loudspeaker; someone has given him a fresh pair of jutti for his feet.

  Bapuji’s arm is around his Rudra: Rudra is holding Bapuji’s hand. The crowds part for them; Jeet will not let go for one second. He can feel the men in the crowds looking at him. To be untouchable in the highest sense and not the lowest! To be a man in the eyes of other men! From beside his Godfather, Jeet decides to address the crowd himself. He will speak as Rudra, and see how they take it. His first lesson to the people must be given in a calm clear voice. He reaches for the loudspeaker in Bapuji’s hand.

  —Go to the mandir, he says. Pray to God you will be born better tomorrow. Your lives are lived in the fog of kama: we must learn to banish this thing called desire, to act without attachment to the fruits of action.

  His voice crackles across the garden. Do the men draw back when he speaks? Is it with awe and admiration?

  —Aré, pet! Aré pagal! Your stars have blessed you to be at Bapuji’s side, someone shouts.

  Jeet hangs back. Hot all over his body. Despite the cat-call, he thinks he can feel approval. Rudra raises his arms to the crowd, strokes his beard. He thinks he can see some nods, some smiles. Bapuji gives him a shake, a nod of the head. Rudra strokes his beard.

  Small fires begin to burn all over the lawns, protected from the wind by bricks taken from the crumbling perimeter walls. Jeet teeters on the edge of things, watching people claim the ground and settle. Future generations of their children will play here, shoeless, naked, rolling in the earth; they will thrive among these ruins as if raised from these tombs.

  Bapuji reaches Nanu on her bench; he climbs onto it and stands beside her, beckoning to Rudra to come to his other side.

  —Let the Panchayat begin, he says.<
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  The men part from the women as naturally as trees in a forest bow to wind. They leave the fires; they surge towards the stage, jostle and sit; a sea of turbaned heads and naked ones, light skins at the front, dark skins behind. Is it Tuesday? Rudra feels so happy. Yes, this is his new life, already come.

  —In days gone by, begins Bapuji, pointing at his own feet. I sat here with my father in this very spot, witnessing him administer justice to you, the people of this state, under the watchful whites, eyes making sure that each and everything was weighed, measured, accounted for. By coming close to us, by whispering, they undermined our future. Now we must come together in the great tradition of our faith.

  Jeet watches his Godfather pause as if trying to remember the next line.

  —Hanji, Devraj Bapuji, he shouts, to help.

  —Men of Bharat, says Bapuji, his voice so rich. We are living through a time of crooked despair. O! Our unfortunate country is being overrun by my daughters: a hundred crore house is more important than your struggles. I understand that you want: everything you see.

  Bapuji waves the loudspeaker, then shouts into it again.

  —We have to prepare for catastrophe. We cannot continue as we are. I am a father who has given everything to his daughters, and so, my friends have you. I have been punished in this life: my mother outlived my father, and I have brought only daughters into this world. They are tearing apart my legacy and yours. They are corrupting our beloved country; they are selling you nothings; they are bankrupting your hearts. I am Devraj of Napurthala, Yuvraj then Maharaja. You might call me besotted or mad, but only the clouds understand the earth’s anxiety.

  Bapuji embraces the men with his words. He knows many of them are farmers, their crops thirsting; many of them have invested in bad seeds formed by scientists from the West – seeds which promised great yields but have failed. Even the monkeys seem to stop on their pillars and walls when Bapuji speaks. Jeet feels the sun on his head, he feels monkeyish watching Bapuji take his place at the head of the people. What it must be to inspire this kind of love, these faces full of trust.

  —Who do you think has sold you these unnatural pips? Who has starved your sons? Gargi, says Bapuji. Who promised you fertilisers and sold you the chemicals that have caused your crops to fail? Did a Company man do this? If so he was instructed by Gargi. Bad crops. I see too many dupattas among us. Sisters, if your husbands took their own lives in Napurthala because they could not find work on the farms, ask yourselves what Gargi Madam has done for you in exchange. What kills the poor man is a sense of shame: that Gargi Ma should be so callous.

  Jeet, standing on the bench, sees some of the women put their hands to their faces; covering yawns or wiping tears – he cannot tell.

  —If you have sold what little you had to allow a new development to come up in its place, you have been robbed. I stand here before you, dead. They steal from me before my body has been laid on my bier, says Bapuji.

  —For shame! shouts a well-dressed man in the crowd; Jeet thinks it is one of Ranjit’s men. The farmers around him cheer.

  Now Bapuji sits down cross-legged on the bench. The listeners sit cross-legged with him. An aide in a cotton kurta and jeans brings a plastic stool and places it by Bapuji’s elbow with a small bottle of water. He unscrews the cap; he bows and backs away. Jeet sees the bottle. He licks his lips.

  —Come, tell me your problems, Bapuji says, and he points his finger up to the sky. Let us discuss here our svadharma. Our duty to society is part of our rule. Do you have daughters? We will judge all rewards.

  —On this side, Nanuji, Maharani of Napurthala.

  Bapuji gestures to Nanu: she holds up her hand, palm out.

  —On this side, he says, this simple Rudra, a rare breed, a last representative of the Napurthali Yogis, who I now keep by me. This Rudra has the qualities all daughters should display: modesty, loyalty, a tongue that speaks when it is spoken to, does it not?

  Rudra! Jeet flushes; he puts his hands together and nods, grinning.

  —Hanji, hanji piyo aur khauji! he says.

  Laughter ripples through the audience. He thinks: What? What did I say?

  An old man gets to his feet, his shirt ragged and his dhoti stained. His belly hangs low over his legs and his hair wisps around his face. The deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth lift as he works his lips and swallows. Twisting his scarf he begins to speak; Jeet can see a dark gap that runs across his gums. The two remaining teeth are square and yellow, ingots of dirty gold.

  —Devraj Bapuji, this year the tax has been too much for us to bear, he begins. I had only three goats and none would breed.

  —My daughters! cries Bapuji.

  The loudspeaker feeds back a screech. Bapuji sips from his tin cup of water, and places it back on the stool.

  —I had three goats and last spring, says the old farmer. This man here, who once was my dearest friend – (he points to the ground where Jeet can see another man, head bowed, bald crown giving nothing away) – He stole my goat, Bapuji, he stole it and traded it for seeds that will not grow. We are cursed by God, for our crops continue to perish. I have contemplated death as many of my fellow farmers have taken their own lives. We will be food for the unwatered soil; our grandsons will be old before those seeds will yield.

  —Did you do this for your daughters? To buy their wedding night pleasure? asks Bapuji. Then you are a fool and should weep for shame, and pray they do not take what little you have left. Sit down.

  The poor man sits down. Another rises. In a business shirt and rimless glasses, he is thin and tall; his head seems too heavy for his frame.

  —I have worked all my life as a clerk in Napurthala, and my children are grown up, he says. Bapuji we have given them everything and now they will not come home! One is in a call centre and all night she works. When she brings money my heart aches to eat the food it buys. And my son, his wife is a pase wali kaam chor who will turn us out before she will give us one hot roti in her house. I want to be proud of them, but at least let them come home or meet us once in a while? We are left wondering ki what did we sacrifice for? I have borrowed to pay for their studies and their weddings and now I cannot return. The interest rate is making me a pauper, country is facing recession, I had shares in one of your respected companies that I prayed would come good. Yet I have less than I invested today.

  —Daughters! cries Bapuji again. Investments that go down on us never come up. Take them, beat them, let them die even before they are born. Do not the ancient texts warn us that it is the very nature of women to corrupt here on earth? For that reason circumspect men should not be careless among women. It is not just an ignorant man; even a man of the world can be lead astray. Heed the Manusmriti: ‘No one should sit in a deserted place with his mother, sister or daughter, for her base nature will distract from duty even a learned man.’

  Fever dries Rudra’s mouth and bakes his head from inside. He stands up on the bench; he jumps up and down, pointing, at the clerk who asked the question.

  —Look at this fool, a daughter begging for more shoe money when she already has ten pairs. Don’t glare, you moon-faced clerk, sit down!

  It is Rudra doing this shouting; Jeet hears him as if from some distance away.

  The man’s face falls; he takes of his glasses, he pinches his nose and puts them on again.

  —Rudra, Bapuji says, his tone stern. Why have you come here looking like this? Did my daughters force you to shame?

  Rudra puts his arms around himself, teeth chattering. Everyone’s eyes are on his ragged Shahtoosh, his chest, the skin broken, cross-hatched with scars.

  —Put some clothes on sir. You are working in my name, you look as poor as a Mussulman who cannot afford Haj.

  Jeet sits down. He hangs his head. He watches a line of red ants crawl one after the other across the bench. He hears the crowd clap until Bapuji starts to speak. It’s about Gargi – again.

  —Do you think she has a heart to see what she has done here? N
o she has no heart.

  Bapuji points at the tin cup of water, resting on its stool.

  —There she sits and says nothing. Speak Gargi: tell the people why your face is so ugly.

  Jeet sees how the crowd is caught by Bapuji’s joking, how the people smile and nudge each other; a smattering of laughter, a slow clap begins.

  —Gargi, Bapuji cries. He kicks the stool, the water spills, the stool rolls towards the first row of men; one stops it. He raises it above his head shakes it, spits on it, passes it back through the lines. Hand to hand on its legs, its seat slapped, hand after hand, it travels over heads until it reaches the edge of the gathering and is flung to the monkeys behind.

  Now Bapuji points at Nanu and shouts,

  —She takes from you as she has taken from me, and she will sell this earth, just you watch, and her sister will build a mall on it, dig up this sand for oil and make petrol from it, not for you and your children, but for those who have got fat from the corruption souring this government as milk turns to curd in the sun. The dogs shall lick it, Chinku, Rinku, Mr Stinku. Where are my babies now?

  He buries his face in his hands.

  Nanu looks at the crowd, her lips pursed as if guilt is a sweet she is sucking on.

  —We will go to every town and village, we will stop this Gargi nonsense. Stop them from stealing; stop them from pretending. Stop them, shouts Bapuji.

  —Stop Gargi-Radha! Stop the looting thieving ones! shout back the crowd.

  The men press towards Bapuji, the women gather their skirts and their children. Rudra bares his teeth; he feels ready to bite if they get too close. He flings his arms out but he cannot stop the crowd kneeling to Bapuji as his voice soars from the loudspeaker’s throat.

  —Gargi, yes, and Radha too – both are kameeni. They will rip my head from my body and dance while they drink my blood. They will destroy everything around them as they take, take, take. Oh God, why are they so?

  Two sturdy men grasp Bapuji’s ankles; they lift him onto their shoulders and bear him away. Rudra tries to follow, but his body feels engulfed in feverish burning. There are too many heads between him and Bapuji; he stands on tiptoe on the bench, he sees Bapuji reach the edges of the gardens borne high on someone’s shoulders, then he is lowered to the ground.