by Uday Prakash
And with that he turned and shuffled toward Lenin Nagar.
***
(It’s a story that takes place at the time when every government of every country on earth was promoting the same economic policies and playing the same political games, and when even the biggest billboard in the world can’t cover up the massive chasm that has opened up between rich and poor.
It’s the time when the revolutionary forces of the exploited and downtrodden from the early twentieth century were busy playing a game of chess to form coalition governments, lower the price of gas, and tighten their rule over the poor. And the time when a groundbreaking, historic consensus emerged among all parties in this twenty-first century postmodern democracy to cripple and crush all of the decent people of this country, the ones who get by with hard work and talent. Politics assumed the form of any means of power that’s used to exercise control, perpetrate injustice, and oppress the citizenry.)
***
Mohandas returned home at eleven. Everyone had been eagerly awaiting his return. Kasturi had made rice, dhal, and an okra khuthima. She’d also stone-ground some green mango chutney.
Devdas and Sharda had already eaten and were asleep. Kaba was lying on the cot in the courtyard coughing away. ‘Three times today he’s spat up gobs of lung with the blood,’ Kasturi informed him. Putlibai was sleeping next to him on the rug spread out on the floor beside the cot. Kasturi had waited to take her meal and still hadn’t eaten; she ladled out his food and hers, then covered them with a lid.
Mohandas took off his clothes and wrapped himself in an angocha in order to wash up before eating; all the cuts and bruises were visible. The marks gave Kasturi a fright.
‘What happened? Where did all those cuts come from?’ she said, carefully examining his body with her hands. ‘My god! These aren’t just little scratches.’ Mohandas quietly washed his hands and face, the cool water rinsing off the fatigue of the day, refreshing his whole body. Next to the washbasin was a good-sized jasmine plant in full flower; its scent filled the courtyard. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet smell, closed his eyes for a moment, and incanted the name of his satguru, Kabir.
Kasturi removed the cover from the thali, releasing the smell of the rice into the courtyard. It was lohandi, an old stash Putlibai had put in the back of their rice bin and forgotten about, until today, when, remembering it, she groped around until she found the little bundle. Mohandas ate it with relish, and his fingers were covered in the mango chutney.
‘The bisaindhi mango tree’s bursting with fruit. We should get at least a couple of thousand for them, should I go pick and sell ‘em tomorrow?’ Mohandas said, before letting out a big burp to signal his satiety. ‘You must do some kind of magic to make food taste as good as this! Mix together your mango chutney, rice and a good appetite, and that’s what I call heaven!’
Kasturi’s eyes welled up a little. She knew that another calamity had befallen Mohandas that day, one he’d keep hidden from her forever.
That night Kasturi instantly fell asleep after a long day and late night, but sleep didn’t come to Mohandas for a while. He kept getting up, downing glass after glass of water. Some sort of storm was swirling around in his head, a terrible typhoon of disquiet.
Mohandas went to the Oriental Coal Mines once or twice more, but the trips turned out to be pointless since a rumour had been spread throughout Lenin Nagar that some loony popped up every couple of weeks claiming that he was the real depot supervisor, Mohandas, BA. Call him Bisnath and watch him go mad and say all sorts of crazy stuff.
He’d been defeated; Mohandas gave up on going to the coal mine. Day and night, he couldn’t calm down. He stayed up all night by the sandy bank of the Kathina, quietly regarding the stars. In the village, Kabirpanthis were considered merely a low weaver or thatcher caste. Were they a scheduled caste or an adivasi or an aboriginal group? It was still unclear, according to the official government gazette. After the census ten years ago ‘bamboo cutter’ was tacked on to their caste description; on other papers ‘Hindu’ was indicated as their religion and ‘Indian’ for nationality. Their numbers were small, and none of them took any significant part in any of the political parties, never mind holding any government positions; so here too Mohandas became the butt of many jokes. The high-casters and rich folk asked him in passing, ‘So, how’s the job hunt going, Moh-hun-ah?’
‘Take the job of looking after Vijay Tiwari’s water buffalo,’ someone advised him. ‘At least you won’t have to worry about putting a little bread on your plate. Make Kasturi happy, too. She wouldn’t have to walk around barefoot.’
Others told him he should go visit Bisnath in Lenin Nagar, throw himself at his feet and offer to be his servant. Mohandas began to avoid the higher-ups of his village. He’d see them and get lost fast.
But it’s not as if his fellow villagers didn’t have any sympathy for him. Most of the people had genuine feeling for him, and wanted to help him out one way or another. But these were the same people who themselves were caught in some kind of fix. There wasn’t one among them who had any real pull. They quietly did what they needed to do to get by with their own sweat and tears.
Ghanshyam was one of these. Though a Kurmi by caste, he wasn’t poor. He had twenty acres of land, and had bought a tractor with a loan from the bank. He grew beans and vegetables and rented out his tractor. And yet it was still tough for him to meet his monthly bank payments of seven thousand. The market price for wheat and other crops about to be harvested was below cost in the market. A farmer named Bisesar from nearby Balbahra village had taken out a loan from the Grameen Bank in order to plant soya beans; a couple of months ago, in order to save his farm from auction, he climbed up a powerline, touched a live wire and died. Small farmers and farm workers were quitting village life and coming to the city in droves; this made Ghanshyam uneasy.
That day Mohandas had a slight fever. He’d been weaving baskets all day and all night, hauling water to the seedlings they’d planted, and was so tired that he’d fallen asleep without eating anything. When he woke up, he felt a little warm. He was still resting on the terrace when Ghanshyam came. He’d also brought Gopaldas, Kasturi’s brother-in-law, along with him. The two of them told Mohandas that a friend of a friend of theirs knew the general manager of the Oriental Coal Mines, S.K. Singh. They told Mohandas to wash up and get dressed quickly and to catch the next bus to the mine. Ghanshyam and Gopaldas were nearly jumping out of their skins with excitement. They said that it was of the utmost importance that he go right away since the general manager was leaving to go on vacation the day after next. Gopaldas opened his bag and produced a pair of pants and shirt that he’d thought to bring with him. ‘Put these on! You’re not going to the manager looking like an old sack of bull’s balls,’ he said, and laughed along with Mohandas.
It proved not difficult at all to meet S.K. Singh, the general manager of the Oriental Coal Mines; the new shirt and pair of pants that Gopal had given Mohandas gave him a whole new level of confidence. He told S.K. Singh the whole story about how he’d come for the job interview on the eighteenth of August 1997, and had come in at the top of the list of candidates who were offered jobs; how on that day he deposited all his certificates and papers in the employment office, but never received the formal letter of offer; how Bisnath from Bichiya Tola had been working for five years having stolen Mohandas’s name as depot supervisor, earning a monthly pay cheque of ten thousand. Ghanshyam had advised him not to mention when he’d gone to the mine to collect his papers and been beaten up at the behest of the clerks of the employment office, and was later threatened in Lenin Nagar by police inspector Vijay Tiwari.
S.K. Singh had an excellent reputation as a manager who was on the level. If he did get mixed up in any funny business, it was merely due to his abiding fondness for a fine glass of whisky. Otherwise he was so on the level that he was capable of neither hurt nor help.
In any case, after listening to the story from begi
nning to end, the general manager summoned A.K. Srivastav, welfare manager of the Oriental Coal Mines, and instructed him to launch an enquiry, adding that he wanted a full report in a month’s time when he returned from holiday. Mohandas was so moved by this development that he was on the verge of tears, silently incanting the names of Kabir and Malihamai.
The enquiry took place the following week. Welfare Officer A.N. Srivastav arrived at the apartment located at A/11, Lenin Nagar. Bisnath had got wind of the entire affair beforehand and there was nowhere he hadn’t spun his web. He’d been living in Lenin Nagar under the name of Mohandas for five years, so everyone in the area knew him by this name. No matter who A.K. Srivastav asked what was the name of the person living in A/11, the answer was invariably ‘Mohandas!’ And the name of the man he himself had approved a loan from the welfare fund, and whom he’d himself known for over five years, was called ‘Mohandas.’ And the individual he saw in the office of the general manager, the man who called himself Mohandas – well, he had a hard time believing that someone who looked like that could be a college graduate. Srivastav had his doubts. Despite the clothing that Gopaldas had provided, years of hardship and penury and labour had imbued Mohandas with the look of a slightly demented illiterate. Enquiry officer Srivastav thought it over and concluded that it was possible that the depot supervisor was really someone else and had taken the name ‘Mohandas,’ but he couldn’t believe that this person insisting he was the real Mohandas, could, in fact, be Mohandas.
Bisnath’s preparations had been stunning. He rolled out the red carpet in welcome for Srivastavji. He instructed his wife Amita, who was wearing a low-cut top under her sari, to come into the living room with a tray of cool sherbet. Amita had gone to Lenin Nagar’s newly-opened Shilpa Beauty Parlor for a full makeover. She commented while placing the tray on the table, ‘You didn’t bring sweet Sarita with you, sir?’ He smiled, and the atmosphere instantly became intimate, homely, sensual. The enquiry officer’s gaze was fixed on Amita’s exposed midriff. Those days, fashion shows from Delhi and Mumbai were shown non-stop on the TV news. But this was a living model standing before him, not the TV news, but the real thing.
‘Sir, this is my wife!’ Bisnath announced holding out a plateful of munchies for Srivastav. ‘Kasturi!’
‘It sounds like a rather old-fashioned name, no?’ the enquiry officer asked, picking up a cookie from a plate on the table rather than the munchies that’d been offered.
Amita, half laughing, gushed in, ‘You see sir what happened was that the astrologer told father that a Pisces girl should have a name based in astrology even for her nickname. And then it was settled, that’s why people also call me ... oh, it’s not important. They call me what they call me.’
‘Oh! So Kasturi’s your zodiac name?’ he said, addressing Amita directly. ‘Okay, so then what is the name people call you?’ he asked, the grin growing wider, less formal.
Amita scrunched up her face in confusion, and didn’t respond. Bisnath jumped right in.
‘That’s rich, Kasturi! Why be shy about giving your name?’ he asked with a chuckle. ‘Fine, I’ll tell him. Sir, I guess you could say her more common name, what we all call her at home, is Amita. Amita Bhardwaj.’
Enquiry officer Srivastav let out a grunt of laughter.
‘You know, I’m always a little suspicious when ladies don’t exhibit any modesty. Some femininity should be there, shouldn’t it? I’ll tell you what, Kasturiji. From now on I’ll only refer to you as Amitaji! That is, if you don’t object?’
‘No sir, not in the least!’ she warbled. ‘But if you want to know the truth, whenever I hear someone calling me ‘Amita’ I think it’s someone from my very own family.’ She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. ‘The problem around here is that there’s nobody like us. No one civilized, it’s just these backward people, and for me it gets boring!’
‘Naturally, it will take time to develop these people. There are plenty of projects here in progress for just that purpose. Two years ago what was there? Nothing.’ Srivastav said matter-of-factly. ‘So what do you do with yourself here in Lenin Nagar?’
‘Not much, whatever I can, we ladies have our kitty parties, I’m on a couple of committees for helping out the poorest workers, I like working in social services.’
‘And it’s good that you do, very good. Sarita’s got a deep interest in social services, too. You should come over to our place sometime, and see if you can bring Sarita on board.’ By then Srivastav had completely forgotten what it was he’d come for.
Bisnath was smiling from ear to ear. Now was the moment. He said:
‘It’s like this, sir. Lenin Nagar’s the kind of place where everyone’s suspicious and jealous of everyone else. There’s no easy conversation or having a laugh with your neighbour. And now this much ado about nothing. Someone didn’t get their way, so they found some perfect nobody, threw him a few peanuts, and next thing you know a complaint’s been filed. I know who’s been doing the meddling. There’s a lot of caste business going on. Those people are breathing down our necks. I know exactly who’s responsible for this funny stuff, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid of the truth. Please conduct your investigation without prejudice.’
‘What is your father’s name?’
‘BABOOJI! O, babuji! Could you please come into the living room for a moment!’ Bisnath said with a loud voice and a smile.
‘It’s just dumb luck that Amma-Babuji happened to come here yesterday. They’d made some pickle, and used that as an excuse to come by and see us! You should please ask my mother and father themselves their names.’
‘Please excuse me,’ Amita said, as her in-laws were about to enter. She then added in English, ‘We’re a traditional family.’ She got up and left the living room.
Trailing behind Nagendranath as he entered the room was his wife, Renukadevi. Noticing the tilak piety marks affixed to their foreheads, Srivastav couldn’t help but leaping from the couch and greeting them with a heartfelt namaskar. Then, words coated in honey, he asked, ‘May I please know your full names? It’s really just a bureaucratic formality, full names if you don’t mind.’
Nagendranath didn’t pause for a second: ‘My name is Kabadas.’ He reached inside his kurta and drew out a necklace. ‘I took a vow and took this necklace and since then the verse of Tulsidas has been my guide and protection, and that’s when I added ‘das’ to my name. And right here is my wife Putlidevi, Mohana’s mother.’ Renukadevi nodded her head in assent.
And thus, the enquiry was completed. Welfare Officer A.K. Srivastav’s investigation concluded that all charges levelled against Mohandas, son of Kabadas, resident of Purbanra district Anuppur, Madhya Pradesh, were groundless. For clarification, he attached the certificates furnished by Purbanra chief Chatradhari Tiwari and the secretary of the municipality, Shyamala Prasad, to the report – certificates given to Srivastav by Bisnath himself.
At the behest of Bisnath and Amita – aka Mohandas and Kasturi – Srivastavji spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing with them at home, followed by an evening of first beer, then whisky, which was the run up to a scrumptious evening meal of desi chicken; and when, at eleven, it was time to get into his Maruti Zen and say goodbye, he continually asked Amita, whom he kept calling ‘Kasturiji,’ if she might, at his behest, come to their house and talk to his wife Sarita about getting more involved in social services.
But in spite of his being drunk, he kept his eyes fixed on Amita’s midriff – in the dark of night, the flesh had grown magnificent and seeped deeply into his psyche.
(This occurred at the time when the director of the selection committee of the public service commission took millions in bribes and then installed thousands of his own government employees all over the state, and who went on the lam after a CBI raid; when suitcases full of banknotes arrived at the residences of top ministers under heavy security protection, while ordinary citizens were barred entry; when an inspector general in Haryana and a cabin
et minister were arrested and charged with illegal activities with women, and murder; when the ‘supercop’ famous for killing underworld criminals in encounters turned out himself to be a hit man.
...at the time when, after making Hindi and Urdu the ‘national languages’ of the people of the subcontinent, individuals from powerful political organisations, claiming that they themselves were literary figures, formed committees for the establishment of anti-establishment Premchand, Neruda, Faiz, Nazrul-Nirala as the national writers of India.... at the time when an ill, debt-ridden tailor, with no means
left to support his family, poisoned his wife and two children to death, and was then caught trying to kill himself. He was imprisoned and charged under Indian Penal Code sections 302 and 309 for murder and attempted suicide.)
***
Mohandas had a breakdown after the report of the enquiry committee. Ghanshyam and Gopaldas met once more with the general manager A.K. Singh pleading with him for an additional enquiry, but he said that it’s not how things worked to open a second enquiry. He said that the most capable and trustworthy officer had conducted the enquiry, and he didn’t want to create any sense of doubt in him by ordering a repeat. Later it emerged that Bisnath and Amita had also begun to invite the general manager to their home to make sure he was well fed and had plenty to drink; his wife had also become active in ‘social work’ – and the kitty parties, where she would collect money for the next ladies’ soirée, and keep a little for herself.
A rumour also spread in the coal mines that Amita had seduced A.K. Singh; his car was often spotted outside the gate of A/11 Lenin Nagar, home of coal mine supervisor Mohandas. People also began whispering that Bisnath, too, got involved; it seems that Singh sahib not only enjoyed partying, food, and drink, but men, too.
Mohandas had a breakdown, and smashed into smithereens. He couldn’t eat or sleep, he worked absentmindedly. He was in a state of utter malaise, and all sorts of strange questions and doubts swirled through his mind. So, were all the people who had good jobs and held high positions and ran around in automobiles and caroused who they really claimed to be? The names people went by, was that who they really were? Or had they committed fraud and assumed the identity of others? Was anyone in Lenin Nagar authentic, with a real name, real father’s name, place of birth? Or was everyone like Bisnath, chameleon-like, with many identities, counterfeit? Then Mohandas began to ask himself who, after all, he himself was? Mohandas or Bisnath? And the BA he earned from M.G. Degree College: had that been solely for Bisnath’s benefit, too? Did it happen like this to everyone?