by Gabbar Singh
Everything would have been the same, if Manoj had not handed him the letter this morning. That one moment changed Lachhuman’s universe. It wasn’t just a letter, but a storm inside an envelope. He turned and tossed it, reading it many times, simultaeneously trying to decipher the expres- sions on Manoj’s face; at other times, rubbing his own eyes in disbelief. Somebody can write me a love-letter, too?
“Tell me the truth, Manojwa. Who gave you this letter? Did a woman re- ally ask you to give this letter to me? Who was she?”
“How would I know? Yesterday, she had come to the bank, was in a
2 The Syrup of Love
hurry.” “What village did she belong to? Do you know her? Tell me. Tell me fast.” So many questions annoyed Manoj. “Be grateful that I delivered you the letter. It was because Arun Babu had asked me to. Otherwise, am I crazy to work as a postman without the promise of a bakshish3?”
Lachhuman sliced off a piece of the day-old milk-cake from a huge cop - per platter teeming with an army of flies. A lot of those soldiers were martyred the night before, having drowned in the rossogullasyrup kept in an adjacent cauldron. Lachhuman put it on a wet plate and handed it over to Manoj as a bakshish, “Tell me, no, Manojwa. What did did she look like?”
Turning the stale milk-cake in his hand, Manoj analyzed it as if it were a pathological sample. Cursing Lachhuman mentally, he added, “I couldn’t see her properly. She was talking to Arun Babu. I saw her from behind; her head was covered. Perhaps, it was a ghoonghat4.”
Lachhuman wasn’t satisfied with the answer and became more restless. He started to swoon, his heart bounding with curiosity while his stingi- ness restrained him. After tussling so with his conscience, he scooped an- other small piece of milk-cake from the platter and into Manoj’s hands.
“She was quite pretty; exactly your counterpart.”
Lachhuman wasn’t able to eat or drink for the rest of the day. *** A big banner proclaiming “Pooja Mishtan Bhandar” in Hindi stood right opposite the bank branch. Lachhuman Kumar Yadav – naive, nice and niggard – was its proud owner. And Manoj? He was an employee of the bank whose designation of peon comprised the roles of “messengercum-sweeper-cum-janitor-cum-cash coolie”. Cunningly mediocre at all of those tasks, Manoj worked only when it could earn him laurels or some bakshishfrom Arun Babu, the accountant of the branch. Often during lunchtime, Manoj would be sent off to Lachhuman’s shop to get
3 Tips
4. Veil
snacks and sweets for the visiting auditors, guests and senior managers. Right from six in the morning, Lachhuman’s shop starts to bustle with people. At five, ten-year-old Bholu, who sleeps in the shop, adds twigs to the furnace of the clay-oven and lights the fire. Once ignited, he puts small blocks of coal and cow-dung cakes and strides off to the field with a lota5in hand. In a while, the entire surroundings would be filled with smoke. By the time Bholu returns, a stable flame would greet him at the top of the stove. Milkmen from faraway villages begin to arrive with cans filled with milk and khoa6in the first hour. Milk is kept on the stove in big cauldrons and a kettle of chaiis stationed on the smaller stove. By sixthirty, the swarm of tea-drinkers and their gossip would surround Lach- human, denying him the chance to sit down and take a deep breath.
All the buses plying on the Patna to Sasaram route stop at Pooja Mishtan Bhandar. Lachhuman manages to pull off terrific sales even in the short span of five minutes. Moments before the bus’ arrival, his employees start to rip newspapers off to make small pouches, filling two sweets in each. Before the passenger can alight and stretch, those small pouches would be sold to them hand-in-hand through the windows of the bus. By the time the passenger has the time to wince and hesitate to touch the ugly-looking snack, a glass of water is thrust at the window. After travel- ling for two hours non-stop, if anything sweet proposes to reach their stomachs, followed by a glass of water, without even having to alight the bus, what more can one ask for?. Despite cringing at first, nobody says no. Even the drivers and the conductors of the bus helped Lachhuman in his business; they would continuously shout, “No, no, don’t get off. We are going to move too soon. If you get off, you might miss the bus.” Lachhuman treated the driver and the conductor to free milk-cakes for this service. His conscience would nudge him, “I should give the driver at least four pieces,” but he acted otherwise.
Staring at the two tiny milk-cakes resembling goat poop, the driver would say, “Lachumanwa, you are haraminumber one.” Lachhuman would re- tort, “Na maalik! I have specially chosen big pieces for you. They are bigger than even four smaller pieces put together. Eat with all your heart, boss. After all, you are Lakshmi for us.”
The driver would gobble the hideous milk-cake, which neither had a con- sistent shape nor great taste, and take out his anger on the road. He would honk for so long that the passengers wondered whether he was sitting on the seat or the horn. Those who had gotten off the bus will hurry back in. Paan eaters will forget taking the choona, lime, and shall remain pissed for the remainder of the journey, spitting long, colourful streaks of betel syrup at passing vehicles. Those away peeing will have to abandon their task midway and rush to the bus, struggling with their open flies and sulking bladders.
5 Pot
6 A dairy product, similar to ricotta cheese, but lower in moisture and made from whole milk instead of whey.
*** Today, Manoj had brought a whirlpool into Lachhuman’s daily routine quite early in the morning. For a while, he considered meeting Arun Babu to inquire the exact details. He soon realized that he, a humble halwai, soliciting a meeting with such a senior afsar7, with whom he’d never inter- acted with would be inappropriate. He resorted to staring at Manoj, who was busy relishing the free milk-cakes, and thought, “Kambakht,how can he eat so peacefully after making me so anxious. If I massage his hands and legs, offer him more sweets, or just flatter him, he might utter some- thing.” But Lachhuman bid his time.
Instead, he looked at the letter in his hand. A love letter. A love letter penned exquisitely on a piece of paper with a fountain pen. Between the lines, Lachhuman thought he saw an unknown face draped in a ghoonghat. He tried to remove the veil. Just one glimpse of it would suffice.
“What kind of disease you have afflicted me with, Manojwa? Arun Babu gave you a letter addressed to me yesterday and you are coming to deliver it to me today. If the letter had gotten lost, I would be robbed off my world. I would have never gotten to know that someone loves me too; that in the life of a simple halwai, flowers can bloom and ras8can dissolve. You are very cruel, Manojwa.”
Manoj had finished the milk-cake by then. He gulped a glass of water and got up to leave for the bank. He had to sweep the floor and dust the furniture before the bank opened. Watching him go, Lachhuman said, “Keep a watch, Manoj. If you find a letter fallen here and there, do not throw it without checking if it’s for me.”
This time, Manoj replied very patiently, “Don’t worry. Whenever I find a letter, I’ll deliver. The next time she comes, I’ll run and call you immedi- ately. I also want to have a glimpse of her.”
7 Officer 8 Nectar Why should Manoj have a glimpse of her? No, he doesn’t have the right to look at her. Why should he interfere in between the two of us? He handed me a letter; I treated him with sweets. Task done. Now, he should care about his life.
Once Manoj left, Lachhuman opened the letter one more time and start- ed reading it line by line. Respected, No. Dearest is the only right word to address you. So dearest,
I don’t know your name, so I am not writing that. While going to Sasaram yesterday, I had the privilege of eating milk-cakes at your shop. I had never had such good milk-cakes in my life. The bus had halted just for two minutes, that’s why I couldn’t meet and congratulate you in person. I was fortunate that I was sitting on the window seat that faced your shop. When I saw you at the counter, I realized that such good milk-cakes could only be made by hands as beautiful as yours. While returning from Sasaram a few days later, I shall definitely
buy milk-cakes, a kilo of them, I promise. Please value my admiration for you and cover the platter containing sweets with a layer of polythene or a dish. Would you want your Lakshmi to fall sick because of eating milk-cakes infested with flies? No, right?
Yours, Lakshmi Lachhuman read the letter many times. For a second, he thought it might be a prank played on him by Manoj. Manoj’s notoriety was quite famous in the town. Once, a drama-group had arrived in Bikramganj. A lot of locals had assembled to attend it. The organizer had tried every measure to shush the crowd so that the drama could start but nothing worked. Manoj, had gotten up from his seat, walked up to the dais, grabbed the mike and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, before the programme begins, I’m going to make animal voices. First of the lot is an ant. Listen carefully…” and within a minute, the entire hall had turned as silent as a grave.
After carefully studying the handwriting and the language of the letter, Lachhuman thought, “No, Manoj cannot write this. He has no issues with sweets put out in the open. He has been eating sweets kept like this for years. Nobody in Bikramganj has had any complaints. For sure, she is from some nearby village who has become aware of hygiene after going to a city like Patna. Her demand is fair enough. What’s the prob- lem if I cover sweets? Nothing. Next time she passes by, she shall be so happy. Yes, Lakshmi, I’ll fulfill your wishes. You called me ‘dearest’. It’s my duty to take care of your wishes. And religion, too, my dearest Lachhi. And yes, the next time, do write my name. Lachhuman is my name. Full name Lachhuman Kumar Yadav. If you wish, you can call me Lachhu, too. Lachhu and Lachhi. Manoj was right, we are made for each other, indeed!”
Lachhuman looked to his left and right and embraced the letter. “Yours, Lakshmi,” the words seemed to cuddle him. With utmost caution, he preserved it inside the wooden box that kept all his money, under a small wad of hundred-rupee notes.
*** Lachhuman’s food, ungenerosity and foul mood had become history now. Throughout the day, he imagined Lachhi’s face in front of him, scanning each and every face among the passengers, trying to find the woman who had claimed to stare at his beautiful hands. Bholu was bemused to find his otherwise irate boss smiling often. At noon, Lachhuman called Bholu and handed him a ten-rupee note from his prized wooden box, saying, “Go watch a filum at the Ganga Theater. I heard it is Amitabh Bachchan’s.”
“Are you alright?” asked Bholu, staring at his master’s smiling face. Lach - human needed time by himself. Whenever there were no buses, he busied himself in carving Lachhi’s face and outlines in his mind, re-reading the letter and replaying the scenes. Somehow, he managed to pass the day. At night, when his wife served him food, he got up after just a couple of mouthfulls. His wife, assuming he was tired, didn’t bother him. But when she found him staring relentlessly at the ceiling, she was understandably frightened.
“Aye jee, what’s the matter? Aaj badhiya khoa nahin mila kya jo khoye khoye lag rahe ho?” Didn’t you find good khoa today that you are so lost? “Nothing like that.”
“Then?”
“Nothing.” “There must be something. I have never seen you like this.” “You won’t understand. Go to sleep.”
The second day, Manoj dropped at his shop at 6.30 a.m. to have his free cup of tea. Lachhuman, for the first time, felt outrageously happy upon seeing him. This time, without being prompted, Lachhuman offered him a plate of milk-cakes along with chai. Manoj was surprised to notice a thin polythene sheet draping the gargantuan platter containing a lump of milk-cake. The flies that had asphyxiated themselves by diving into the wad of the fluffy milk-cake had been removed; their slimy corpses huddled together outside, near the shutter, making a small hill on which ants noiselessly feasted. Manoj analyzed the milk-cake in his hand, like always. It appeared clean, edible.
“How did this miracle take place?” “Your kripa9.”
“Matlab? What does that mean? I didn’t do anything!” “Yes, you haven’t done anything. It’s Lachhi’s blessings.” “Lachhi? Who is Lachhi?”
“The same woman, whose letter you delivered yesterday. Lachhi. She’s going to return on the same path a couple of days later. If she sees it, she will be so happy.”
Manoj couldn’t believe his ears. Lakshmi had done something that no - body in Bikramganj could. When the previous bank manager, Verma sahib, had given Lachhuman a long plastic wrapper to cover his sweets from flies, he had indifferently passed it on to Bholu to use it as a bedsheet cum blanket. Arun Babu didn’t even try since Verma sahib had already warned him of Lachhuman’s incorrigibility.
“If you meet Lakshmi, do tell her my name. Poor woman, see, she couldn’t address me by my name.”
9 Blessing Manoj promised Lachhuman that he’d find out which village she be - longed to, where her maternal and in-laws house was, what her husband did for a living, or if she still was a spinster, and where she travels to every weekend.
“Do try to find out if she’s unmarried,” Lachhuman said. “Don’t you worry. If God wishes, she will never get married.” “What if she turns out to be married?”
“I pledge to your milk-cake, if I don’t go to her sasural10and break off her marriage, I will change my name from Manoj Paswan to … Manoj Fail-wan.”
Both broke into giggles and Manoj got up to leave. He removed the thin layer of polythene, shoveled out a spoon of milk-cake without Lachhu- man’s permission and departed. Lachhuman mumbled curses as usual but soon his thoughts converged onto the single-minded pursuit of his newfound love.
A week passed after Lachhuman first received the letter. In that one week, Lachhuman had let his beard grow , “What if Lakshmi comes and goes when I’m shaving my beard at home? I cannot take this risk.” Like a soldier, he steadfastly stood at the same counter of his shop where Lak- shmi would have first seen him. He went home only to sleep. Keeping all his sweets covered in the past week had won him some more customers, increasing his sales and popularity. The drivers and the conductors of the buses were astonished to see the change in him. They recommended his shop to the passengers, “Hurry up! Go and buy sweets for friends and family. You won’t get such a clean shop anywhere else hereon.”
*** The following week, Arun Babu summoned Manoj and passed a letter over to him. Lakshmi’s letter. Manoj was dumbstruck. How could he have missed her? He who could mimic the voice of an ant’s won’t be able to mimic the voice that Lachhu so desperately wanted to hear. Manoj wrung his hands in anger. Lachhuman would gnaw through his brain like a rat, not forgiving him for missing the opportunity to make him meet Lachhi.
10 In-laws’ house
There would be no free snacks and sweets thereon. Manoj scanned the letter carefully and asked Arun Babu, “Sir, when did she come?” “When you had gone to meet Bada Babu five minutes ago.” “Why didn’t you stop her sir?” “She was in a hurry.” “Didn’t you ask for the name of her village?” “Most probably, it was Mohanpur.”
“Mohanpur? With a population of an odd 2000 people, I know each and every household there. I will soon find her out.” Arun Babu whined, “No need to waste your time needlessly. Why should we care? We are doing this just to fulfill someone’s wishes. Go and deliver the letter quietly. Next time, I will make it clear to her that we are not postmen.”
“When is she going to come next? I had to tell her Lachhuman’s name.” “How would I know? By the way, Lakshmi knows Lachhuman’s name.” “Sir…Lachhi, not Lakshmi. Lachhuman was saying.” “Wah. I didn’t know love could captivate him so soon.”
As if an ant had bitten at Manoj’s sleepy brains, he was confused and restless. How did Arun Babu know Lachhi’s name? He recalled how Arun Babu had fallen severely ill last month. Several bottles of antibiot- ics had to be dripped into his veins to save his life. The doctor had said, “It’s an acute stomach infection, food poisoning. It seems as if he has eaten something stale and moldy.” Arun Babu returned to duty after one month, so thin and malnourished that Manoj couldn’t recognize him in the beginning. It was cholera, he’d mentioned. The day af
ter, Arun Babu had handed over Lakshmi’s first letter to Manoj.
Manoj stared hard at Arun Babu’s eyes and uttered, “Sir, I didn’t know that you were such a great kalakaar11. You surpassed me as well.” Arun
11 Artist, but here it implies actor
Babu could not contain his smile. “Now tell me, how to handle Lachumanwa. Saala, he has become a Dev- das longing for Lakshmi. He is counting days, repeating when Lachhi would return and show him her face.”
Arun Babu took the letter from Manoj’s hand. Adding a line to it, he said, “Now, go give this to him. After the working hours end, we will think of a solution.”
Manoj hopped, flew and jumped across the road towards Lachhuman’s shop. For a second, he unblinkingly adored Lachhuman. Gullible, naïve, adrift in his own world. He was busy slicing milk-cakes after milk-cakes from the giant plate, lovingly decorating the steel tray with them. The next minute, he who was feeding his fantasy, felt bad for Lachhuman, but the fragrance of the fresh milk-cakes soon numbed his conscience. He passed the letter to Lachhuman.
Delirious with joy, Lachhuman behaved as if he had found a hidden treasure. He took out two large pieces of the milk-cake and fed Manoj with his own hands. Manoj explained, to Lachchuman’s utter dismay, how he couldn’t get a glimpse of Lachhi once again. “Next time, pucca,” he promised. Swallowing his guilt along with the milk-cake, Manoj decided to wait for Arun Babu’s master plan and took leave of Lachhuman. Lach- human sneaked back into the makeshift toilet and opened the letter.