by Uday Prakash
‘And I’ve noticed that in court when he looks at Mohandas, there’s something in his eyes that stirs a little bit and makes him nervous. The veins on his forehead get bulgy and they look like they’re going to pop out of his head. I’m actually a little scared that they might one day burst. There’s something in his eyes that reminds me of a spy or secret agent who can very quietly see deeply into anyone’s soul, like he can probe and pierce anything. The word is that his house is filled with books and he reads and reads every night until three in the morning.
‘I’ve also heard something else that’s a little disturbing, that even though G.N. Muktibodh is a judge of the first class, the government’s got the CID watching his every move...’
With no other option he could think of, Harshvarddhan Soni took what amounted to a gamble. Any time a lawyer decided to meet a judge about an ongoing case, and on top of this with a judge with an air of mystery – it’s a decision fraught with danger. If G.M. Muktibodh got angry, Harshvarddhan could jeopardise his entire career. His past had been full of every possible struggle, strain, and sorrow; the memory of the suicide of his despondent brother who couldn’t find work never left his mind for a moment. ‘The practice of law’ was just a bunch of words. Most of the people who came to him didn’t have enough money for a fancy lawyer. He wasn’t going to see a cent from Mohandas’s trial, and had even put in five thousand of his own money on the case. And yet – he decided to take the risk and go and meet the judge.
Harshvarddhan felt a little hopeful when he arrived at the door of Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh’s flat and saw on his face an expression as if he’d already known he was coming, that he knew absolutely positively that Harshvarddhan was planning on paying him a visit. He pulled up a rickety old wooden stool and said, ‘Have a seat! I’ll go make some tea,’ and disappeared into the kitchen.
Harshvarddhan glanced around the room. Everything was scattered everywhere. Piles of books lay all around, some of them kept open with pencils, cards, or leaves stuck in the spine. Maybe he was fond of those particular pages and had to read them over and over. The condition of the room suggested that he lived alone. Harshvarddhan had found out that the judge had been transferred frequently from one undeveloped area to another, ones with many adivasis, where cases like this were rare: cases where big shots or rich businessmen or people at that level might see any grief. Harshvarddhan saw portraits of Gandhi and Marx on the wall. A small Ganesh statue was kept in the corner. Bookshelves against the left wall were filled with law books that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years.
G.M. Muktibodh returned with the chai along with a little dish with simple snacks. He set down the tray on a makeshift coffee table, and sat down on his cushion. It was good, strong street chai, boiled like hell.
A silence hung over the room. Harshvarddhan didn’t have the courage to begin the conversation. An ancient clock that probably needed a key to be wound stood against the wall in front of them. It was stopped. Next to it was a calendar with a drawing on its upper flap of Bal Gangadhar Tilak with his pagri turban wrapped around his head; the year on the calendar, Harshvarddhan noted, was 1964.
‘I do realise that,’ (the judge said after an endless sigh that had come from the very depths of his being) ‘Mohandas is the real Mohandas.’ His voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well; it was a quiet, peeping voice. He took a big sip of chai. The strain on his face loosened up a bit with the gulp and the taste of the hot drink.
‘And that other man’s a fraud. From start to finish, he’s impersonating someone else. I know this, I know that his name is actually Bisnath, son of Nagendranath, and that he’s stolen the identity of Mohandas and has been illegally living at A/11 Lenin Nagar working as deputy depot supervisor. He’s a fraud, a crook, a sleaze!’ he said, sometimes switching to English. Though he didn’t speak loudly, there was a kind of sharp, steely resolve in his voice. He took a packet of bidis out of his pocket, picked one out, first blew on the fat end, lit it with a match and took a long, hard drag.
Harshvarddhan felt as if he’d been transported to another time and place.
‘This is what I came here to tell you,’ he said. ‘But how do you know who is the real Mohandas?’
‘It’s not hard to figure out. If you’re at all perceptive and have a little wits about you,’ Muktibodh said, then began to look worried and got lost in thought. He took another long drag on the bidi. ‘I’ve been up for three nights in a row, I can’t sleep. This experience is absurd and very tense.’ The bidi scissored between his fingers and was on the verge of going out. His gaze looked as if it were trained on himself.
‘The system has collapsed, just like the twin towers. Now what’s left for the subject of the state and the poor is anarchy and calamity. As far as I’m concerned, we are facing totally new forms of capital and power. Mohandas is being denied simple justice because it’s something he can’t buy. Oh!’
The veins of Muktibodh’s forehead were throbbing and his hands were shaking. He seemed uneasy and stood up, and seeing that his bidi had gone out he took a pack of matches from his pocket and lit it up again.
‘All ideas have their end. When intellectual and philosophical systems that at one time created a lot of change are transplanted into another, what happens is sometimes they can be transformed into totally hollow jargon, senseless bullshit, the ramblings of rogues. It’s happened time and again throughout history. And yet...’
He puffed on his bidi and held the smoke in his lungs for a long time. Maybe he wanted the nicotine to quiet the restlessness in his breathing. He began to cough. He pressed his left hand to his chest, and then said in a scratchy voice, ‘But there’s something in man, this strange thing, that no matter when, no matter what kind of power is trying to come down on him, it will never destroy him. And that thing’s the quest for justice. The desire for justice is indestructible and timeless.’
He tossed the bidi he’d stuck between his index and middle fingers out the window. It had gone out.
Harshvarddhan Soni was confused. What kind of a person was this? To meet this kind of person disguised as a judge in this day and age seemed like an impossibility, a fantasy with a one-in-a-million chance of being real.
The judge was nervously pacing the room, but stopped suddenly – a bright, shining, mischievous twinkle now gleamed in his eyes that glowed like hot lead.
‘It’s OK, Harshvarddhan, don’t feel like you need to stay, and please, don’t worry. I know you haven’t been able to sleep for the past few nights, just like me.’ A huge smile spread over his face. ‘Partner, you can sleep without worrying about a thing. Sleep like a dead horse. Now I’ve got to work on a little something. ’
He approached Harshvarddhan and placed his hand on his shoulder; Harshvarddhan felt as if the hand had no weight at all. It was a hand made of paper, flowers, a dream, or language.
Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh, judge (first class), quietly whispered into Harshvarddhan’s ear: ‘There is one power that I have, one and only one power. That is ... “secret judicial inquiry.” I can myself make inquiries. Just leave it to me.’
When Harshvarddhan walked out of Muktibodh’s flat it was as if he was emerging from a cave of dreams and returning to his own time and reality: the one with Mohandas, Bisnath, himself, and the realities of today.
A short four days later, Viswanath and his father Nagendranath were arrested and sent to jail by order of G.M. Muktibodh, judge (first class), and, in accordance with sections 419, 420, 468, 467, and 403, were charged with counterfeiting, fraud, racketeering, theft, and embezzlement. The court ordered S.K. Singh, CEO of Oriental Coal Mines, to immediately begin official proceedings against Mohandas Vishwakarma, aka Vishwanath, deputy depot supervisor, and to report the findings of the proceedings to the court in two months’ time. On top of this, proceedings and investigations should be launched in all concerned departments and divisions of the company against all managers and workers affiliated and connected with the matte
r either directly or indirectly. If the Oriental Coal Mines wanted to pursue the cases separately under criminal law, then this court would support such actions.
The news caused a huge stir. The arrest of the fake Mohandas was printed on page one of the newspapers. It sent ripples not just through the Oriental Coal Mines, but among officials and union leaders and workers in all sorts of factories and public sector enterprises. Several officials and workers were suspended. Others went on extended holiday. Everywhere there was panic and confusion. Thousands of Bisnath-like individuals had stolen the identities, qualifications, and abilities of others in desirable residential colonies like Lenin Nagar, Gandhi Nagar, Ambedkar Nagar, Jawahar Nagar, Shastri, Nehru, and Tilak Nagar – and had worked in their places for years, earning thousands of rupees with each pay cheque.
It turned out that Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh, judge (first class), Anuppur (M.P.) had invoked his emergency security power, and he himself had conducted a ‘secret investigation’ into the matter.
That night, he’d stayed up late reading. At nine in the morning he phoned his driver and instructed him to bring the government car that, up until then, he’d used only to drive to and from court. He made another call to H.S. Parasi (Harishankar Parasi), who was a public prosecutor, and a third call to S. B. Singh (Shamsher Bahadur Singh), who was the SSP of Anuppur. Each of the three officials set off to fulfill their respective duties with due diligence and faith. A fourth call he made to Harshvarddhan Soni.
‘Partner, go get some notarised paper and be on standby!’
Shamshed Bahadur Singh recounted that the judge went straight to A/11 Lenin Nagar, near Matiyani crossing. Bisnath was out with Vijay Tiwari doing some favour for a politician. The only one at home was Kasturi, aka Reunkadevi, whose rackets were the chit fund, social services, kitty parties, and money games. The judge asked her right off the bat her father’s and mother’s names; Kasturi madam, aka Renukadevi, having seen the siren mounted atop the government car, got nervous.
The judge’s vehicle then left Lenin Nagar and began heading back along the Mirzapur-Banaras road. Exactly thirty-five kilometres later the car turned onto the dirt road that went toward the village of Awazapur. Half an hour later, the car pulled up in front of quite a grand house in Lankapur village. The judge only had two questions for Lalu Prasad Pandey and his wife, Jai Lalita. Number one, their own names and the names of their children. And the second, the names and addresses of their sons-in-law. Then he instructed public prosecutor H.S. Parsai to get the notarised paper from Harshvarddhan Soni and take their sworn statements.
The judge’s car then arrived at the home of the head of the village panchayat, where he took his and other witnesses’ testimony.
The SSP had a huge smile on his face. ‘Fraudsters just can’t think more than two steps ahead, and in the end, every last one of them gets caught. I called the SHO of Anuppur police station from Lankapur and told him to go to Bichiya Tola and Lenin Nagar to arrest Nagendranath and Bisnath, otherwise they would have escaped and caused lots of problems!’
The rest of the story is quite concise.
Harshvarddhan Soni and Mohandas were ecstatic with their victory. Kasturi danced and pirouetted throughout Purbanra. Once again Putlibai rummaged around the back of the rice bin until she found the bag of bisunbhog rice she’d stashed in there. The smell of the kheer being made with goat’s milk, khandsari and bisunbhog filled every corner of the house. The myna bird used her tiny beak to help crack open the eggs in her nest, and the little chicks emerged, filling the rooms with their innocent chirping like a new kind of music.
The pain from Putlibai’s rheumatism abated, and, for the first time in a long time, she swept the courtyard on her own. She sang with audible delight, but mixed in with the joyous bird-like voice was a sad note, too:
When you’re not here
My world is lonely
No joy in gold or home,
In sun or moon
Harshvarddhan Soni told Mohandas that the next case he’d bring would be to get him his rightful job at the Oriental Coal Mines. The court has confiscated all of your certificates, transcripts, and recommendations from Bisnath’s service book. They’ll be returned to you. Mohandas embraced Harshvarddhan; his ravaged body was shaking, and he was getting choked up; tears of gratitude and joy flowed in equal measure, like a rain shower in the month of Shravan.
Biran Baiga hosted another all-nighter of feast and song and wine. Sitiya cooked a juicy pork dish made with mustard seed oil, garlic and onions, and garam masala. Three jugs of mahua were produced. This time, in addition to the dholak and manjira, Ram Karan brought a harmonium. Gopaldas, Biran, Bihari, Parmodi, and Mohandas all drank. Sitiya, Ramole, Kasturi, and Savitri also all took part in the libations. They sang and danced. Mohandas couldn’t figure out how he managed to remember each song, one after the next; time simply came to a standstill.
This time Kasturi was the one who drank a little too much. Every few minutes she’d pull Mohandas over into her arms. ‘Hu Hu Tu Tu! Wanna play kabbadi with me? Hu Hu Tu Tu!’ she said each time, tickling Mohandas.
‘Eh, scram, go back to Inspector Tiwari’s cowshed!’ Mohandas said, teasing her, and everybody thought this was the funniest thing.
Savitri chimed in. ‘Hey, check out Tiwari! The police inspector’s shit his underwear!’ This set off a bomb of hysteria that echoed around Purbanra the rest of the night.
Mohandas and Biran Baiga stood up together in the middle of the courtyard as if they were in a courtroom. The questioning commenced.
Mohandas: ‘You! What’s your name? WHAT IS YOUR NAME? C’mon, tell the court, we don’t have all day!’
Biran Baiga: ‘My name is Biran Baiga. And my father’s name is Dindua Baiga! Dindua Baiga!’
Mohandas: ‘You! And What Is My Name? MY name? What IS it?’
Biran Baiga (driving his finger into his chest) ‘You sonofa-bitch bum! Your name is Mohandas! MOHANDAS! Mohandas Kabirpanthi Bansor!’
Mohandas: ‘And my father’s name?’
Biran Baiga: ‘You father’s dead! His name was Kabadas.’
Mohandas: ‘You! So if Mohandas is here, and my father Kabadas is up there, in heaven, then, Mr. Smartypants, who’s the cuntworm sitting over there in jail in Anuppur?’
Birandas: (jumping up and down and clapping his hands) ‘That’s fryface depot supervisor Bisnath! Fraudster! And his father’s a two-time fraudster. His wife? Fraudster! And the bigwigs in Lenin Nagar who run the coal mine? All fraudsters!’
Parmodi, Sitiya, Bihari, Ramkaran, Ramoli, Savitri, and Gopaldas’s laughter rang anew as they picked up the tempo on the dholak, manjira, and harmonium.
(Don’t you think that amid all the pain and sorrow and bleak colours of this story little drops of joy have been interspersed? Don’t you think so? Well, you’re right. In the rough reality of the lives of the poor and victims of injustice, sometimes little bright colours flash. Like when combined forces of power and capital suddenly swoop down in a surprise attach on the myna bird, utterly destroying her nest, and then all you can see are the feathers and drops of blood of the little chicks. These drops are never visible in the history book that’s been written by the lackeys of a human resource minister of some political party. This is the job of a historian: to cover up the stains and spots at the edges of the clothing of his own time.)
The month was full of the unexpected. You won’t find an account or news about what was happening 1050 kilometres from Delhi anywhere else outside this story. Here’s a short summary of the circumstances that Mohandas’s life passed through:
Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh, judge, first class, was all of a sudden transferred to Rajnandgaon, and he left Anuppur.
Ras Bihari Rai, Bisnath’s lawyer, who was a well-known leader of the party in power and whose wife was a member of the city council, got both Bisnath and his father Nagendranath bailed out of prison with a single court hearing. Ras Bihari Rai was a skilled player of the politics of the day. As they were rele
asing Vishwanath aka Mohandas from prison after making bail, they cleverly wrote ‘Mohandas’ and nothing else into the Police Record. Because the final sentence had yet to be delivered, Mohandas aka Vishwanath was not a convinced criminal in the eyes of a law, but just a suspect. In other words, in the official police documents, the two men who were released on bail from the prison at Anuppur were let out under the names Mohandas (aka Vishwanath) and Kabadas (aka Nagendranath). The names that were written after this on the release orders were scribbled so they weren’t legible.
And then all of a sudden one day the news came from Rajnandgaon that judge G.M. Muktibodh had had a brain haemorrhage and was taken in a coma to the Apollo Hospital in Bilaspur. At the hospital, Congress party stalwart Srikant Verma, and his dear old friend, Nemichand Jain, were there with him. But after seventy-two hours of a tough fight between life and death, Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh, judge, first class, breathed his last breath. And with it he said, ‘Hé Ram!’
With Harshvarddhan Soni, when he got the news of his death, was the inconsolable Mohandas Kabirpanthi Bansor of Purbanra village. With the judge’s life had gone out his lone hope.
The most recent news is that Bisnath and his wife Renuka have been making a lot of money from their side businesses related to the coal mine. Bisnath and Vijay Tiwari are still in cahoots. These days he’s openly come into politics and is running for a seat on the district council. And his caste brothers are also in positions of high power. They help him out in every way possible. He’ll say, ‘Who is the real Mohandas? Who is the fraud? That’s something that I and I alone will decide! That two-bit piggy shithead cast aspersions on my honour, and took the job I had fair and square. So now I’ll show him what true force is!’