Sharma knows he has got the better of his friends in the debate. That should have been expected; he is a Brahmin and Brahmins are the brainiest people in the world. As Sharma has often explained in his lectures, India’s caste system can be compared to the human body. The head is Brahmin, the arms and torso are Kshatriyas—the fighting types like Rajputs, Marathas, Sikhs. The pelvis and thighs are Vaishyas—the trading castes like Banias and Marwaris who look after the economy of the country. Shudras are the legs and feet on which the body stands. They do menial jobs—they are sweepers, cobblers, removers of carcasses. It is a division based on functions expected to be performed, so the caste system cannot be dismissed as outdated rubbish.
However, having established his mental superiority over his friends, Sharma feels that he must also apply a soothing balm on their hurt feelings, as he cherishes their friendship. ‘Chalo ji, let bygones be bygones. They are of no importance to us today. What is important is to speak the truth, no matter what the consequences. Boota, what are those lines about truth that you often quote?’
Quoting other people’s words of wisdom is Boota’s favourite pastime. He clears his throat and recites:
Truth is good
If someone else dies for the truth
It is better
You are no martyr who should
On the gallows be hung
Hold your tongue.
5
MAY OF THE
LABURNUMS
In Delhi, May can be scorchingly hot. Those who can afford fans, air coolers and air conditioners stay indoors; those who can’t, seek trees which have cool shade. Some die of sun or heat stroke. Some get prickly heat round their necks and just learn to suffer it.
Though heat and dust make life out of doors hell, there are spells of respite. Out of the blue, grey clouds arrive and it begins to drizzle. This year, there were two drizzles—one on the 2nd of May, and a few days later, the second one. On the 10th of May there was a dust storm which swept across the city with gale force, knocking down banyan, neem and jamun trees. Then came rain. Stormy winds sent raindrops skywards several times, till the drops turned into hailstones. They came down like pebbles hurled by Indra, lord of the skies, on cars parked in the open, on tarmac roads and lawns. For a few moments it looked as if the city had had a snowfall. The temperature came down and people rejoiced on the streets. The next day it became a distant memory as the blazing sun reasserted its right to scorch the earth. But hope of relief came with the thought that the south-west monsoons had reached the Andamans. A week later the monsoon reached Kerala. On the last day of the month, Delhi got its first pre-monsoon shower.
The one thing that makes May in Delhi memorable is the flowering of laburnums. There are lots of them along the city roads. People don’t notice them because most of the year they are nondescript middle-sized trees with long black seed pods hanging down from the branches. Then suddenly flowers appear: a mass of canary gold dripping down like bunches of Kandahar grapes. You gape open-mouthed at this miracle of beauty. No fragrance, only gaudy showers of gold. Their glory lasts barely a week or ten days. Then they return to their drab existence. They make a second attempt to flower at the onset of the monsoon but it is not the same thing.
Boota is looking out of his window to see if there are any girls, boys or their pet dogs playing on the lawn facing his window. It is too early, the sun is still too hot for them to step out. He catches sight of the laburnum in full bloom. How is it that he had not noticed it last year? He steps out of his flat to take a better look. In all its golden splendour, it proclaims the glory of God. He must tell his friends about it. Unfortunately few of his countrymen show much interest in trees, birds or animals—they are far more interested in politics, money, scandals or religion. And so it turned out to be that evening, when the Sunset Club met.
‘Have you seen the laburnums in bloom?’ Boota asks as soon as they are seated on the Boorha Binch.
‘Laburnums? What are they?’ asks Sharma.
‘Yellow flowers now in bloom along the roads.’
‘You mean amaltas? Yes I noticed some.’
Baig is equally indifferent: ‘I see them on my way here. But they have no fragrance. What is a flower without fragrance? It is like a good-looking woman without character. We have motia—jasmine. My Begum picks them every morning and puts them in a silver bowl full of water. The whole room is filled with the scent of jasmine. I suspect there’s a hidden reason for your love for amaltas—it’s because it is a powerful laxative. And you need a stomach cleanser every day.’
Sharma adds: ‘You two come into the park from the wrong entrance. Come over the old stone bridge and breathe in the fragrance of maulsari, though you can hardly see the tiny flower. Right now they are at their best.’
After a few minutes’ pause, Boota turns to Baig and asks: ‘When did you last see the moon?’
‘Strange question. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I have not seen it or the stars for many years. There was a time we used to sleep on our rooftops or on lawns with mosquito nets, revolving fans, earthenware surahis with steel tumblers over their mouth. We saw the moon in all its phases, from a crescent to Pooran Masi, full moon, and then to moonless Amavasya. We saw Venus and the Pole Star and the Sapt Rishi—the Plough. And could tell the time without looking at our watches. Now, all that is in the past.’
‘You are right, Bootaji,’ says Baig. ‘If you are missing the moon and the stars so much, all you have to do is to spend a night in a village half an hour’s drive from Delhi.’
Sharma cuts in impatiently, ‘You are obsessed with flowering trees and moonlit nights when the country is beset with the prospect of another Kurukshetra. No one talks of anything besides the general elections which will decide the future of the country for decades to come. You should take life more seriously.’
Boota does not like to be scolded. ‘Okay, Panditji, tell us about Kurukshetra. Who are the Pandavas and the Kauravas in the electoral battle? On whose side is Shri Krishna this time?’
Baig interrupts: ‘Please explain what are Pandavas and Kauravas to me. All I know is Kurukshetra is a town in Haryana regarded as sacred by the Hindus.’
Sharma explains: ‘It is sacred because it is here that the battle between the cousins was fought. And it was here that Shri Krishna propounded the Bhagavad Gita, which is to Hindus like the holy Koran is to Muslims and the Bible to Christians. He tells us what is right and what is wrong; how one should do one’s duty regardless of its consequences, and of the odds against one. It is one of the world’s greatest books. I read a passage or two from it every day.’
‘It also supports the caste system,’ says Boota in a sarcastic tone.
‘It does not,’ says Sharma in a tone of authority.
‘Yes, it does,’ persists Boota. ‘It says when castes intermingle, there is chaos.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ says Sharma angrily. ‘In the Gita castes mean qualities not accident of birth. Read it more carefully—and without bias.’
Baig acts the peacemaker. ‘Let’s forget what the Gita says about castes. Let us decide which side in the battle to come is in the right and should win; and which will harm the country and should be defeated.’
‘The most wonderful thing about the election is that it has been left to the people to decide which side are the Pandavas and which the Kauravas, and which has Shri Krishna’s blessings,’ says Sharma.
‘Don’t make it sound like a holy war,’ cuts in Boota. ‘The main issue is simple—one side is for Hindutva, to make India a Hindu Rashtra. The other wants it to remain secular and above religious differences. I see it as a fight between Hindu fundoos and Gandhi’s followers. Hindu supporters are the RSS, Hindu Mahasabha, Shiv Sena, Bajrang Dal, led by the BJP nominee for prime minister, L.K. Advani. The Gandhiites are led by Sonia Gandhi, her son Rahul and their nominee, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. Perhaps I am oversimplifying the issue but I think that is how the aam aadmi, the common man, s
ees it.’
‘You confuse me even more than before,’ says Baig. ‘I will ask my Begum. She takes more interest in siyasat—politics—than I do.’
‘Yes, please do. And tell us tomorrow what she says.’ Sharma stands up to leave. The other two also get up and bid each other goodnight.
‘So, what did your Begum Sahiba have to say about our prime minister?’ asks Sharma as soon as they are on the Boorha Binch the following evening.
‘Many things,’ replies Baig. ‘She says Manmohan Singh is able and honest, he has never made money dishonestly nor done favours to members of his family or friends. He never praises himself or runs down his detractors. He does not talk too much—not like other politicians who talk bakwaas all the time.’ After a pause Baig adds: ‘What seems to have made my wife more enamoured of Manmohan Singh is she heard him reading out a speech on TV. His head moved from right to left and she shouted, “He is reading Urdu.”’
All the three have a hearty laugh.
Baig continues: ‘She said Manmohan made the ideal leader of a kaarwaan and quoted a couplet from Iqbal about the qualities of a mir-e-kaarwaan—leader of a caravan:
Nigaah buland, sukhan dil nawaaz, jaan pur soz
Yehi hai rakht-e-safar mir-e-kaarwaan ke liye.
‘She translated it as: “Lofty vision, heart-warming speech, love that conquers all hearts.” That is what the aam aadmi thinks of Manmohan Singh.’
Sharma bides his patience for a while before he puts his next question: ‘That is all very well; he made a good professor of economics. But is that good enough to be made prime minister of the world’s largest democracy? A prime minister has to be elected to the Lok Sabha. As I’ve pointed out to you before, he fought one Lok Sabha election and lost. They had to get him a flat in Gauhati and Assamese MPs to elect him to the Rajya Sabha. A puppet is not acceptable to our people as prime minister. That is what L.K. Advani says. I think he has a point. He is the nominee of Sonia Gandhi and her son, Rahul. Sonia knows that people won’t accept a foreign-born PM. And Rahul is doing the most important job of keeping the Congress alive. The mother and son duo have found an unambitious, good man to hold the fort for them.’
‘The aam aadmi is aware of all that,’ adds Boota. ‘Did the Begum Sahiba say anything about Advani who is proclaiming himself as the prime minister-in-waiting?’
Baig pauses before answering, ‘She is against him. She says he demolished the Babri Masjid. Who will forgive him for this sin? She says they should rename the BJP as the MTP—the Masjid Torh Party!’
‘That is also the opinion of the aam aadmi,’ says Boota. ‘The Hindus have never forgiven Muslims for the many temples they demolished centuries ago. How can Muslims and fair-minded Hindus forgive Advani and company for a crime he committed only seventeen years ago? Baig Sahib, that makes this electoral conflict a Kurukshetra of our times.’
Saturday, the 16th of May 2009 is like other 16th of Mays of years past: the sun comes up at 5.43 a.m., determined to make it as hot a day as any in the month. Being the weekend, fewer people than usual go to work. In any event, they have more important things to think of. The nation’s future is to be announced that day. Of course, their future had already been sealed in ballot boxes across the country; what is to be revealed on the 16th is the will of the people sealed within the ballot boxes. So every household that has a radio or TV set sits glued to it to know what is in store for them. So it is in the homes of Sharma, Boota and Baig. Television sets are switched on early in the morning, with members of their family, and the servants and their families clustered around them. Sharma, typically, takes a dispassionate view of the results. His sister, who took her servants with her to the polling booth and made sure they voted for the Hindu party, is deeply involved. As results start coming in, she becomes distraught. ‘What is going on?’ she asks her brother.
‘Nothing, just the results,’ he answers.
‘Are we handing over our country to the Sikhs? Can’t we Hindus run our own country?’
Sharma replies in a grim tone, ‘No need to get worked up. Sikhs are Hindus with long hair and beards. Nothing different.’
‘You tell a Sikh he is Hindu and hear what he says,’ says his sister. ‘He goes off his head jab uskey baara bajtey hain.’
Sharma protests mildly, ‘Don’t use such language, just watch the results.’
Boota is armed with paper and pen to note down the results as they are announced. Baig, who is looking through his account books, prefers to get the results second-hand.
By noon it becomes clear that the Congress Party led by Sonia Gandhi, her son Rahul and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh is heading towards a decisive victory, and the saffron Hindu parties led by Advani, the BJP candidate for prime ministership, are in for a drubbing. By the evening Advani concedes he has lost and is going to step down from the leadership of the BJP.
The news is received in the homes of members of the Sunset Club in different ways. Sharma is upset that the Hindu parties have fared so poorly and that there will not be a viable Opposition in Parliament. He ponders over the future of Indian democracy. Boota has no such misgivings: he treats the results as a personal victory and rewards himself with three large helpings of his favourite single malt Scotch. At Baig’s residence the Begum Sahiba is overjoyed. ‘Shabash,’ she exclaims, and scoffs at Advani: ‘Mazaa chakhaa diya—serves you right. Aur torh masjidein, nikamma kahin ka—go break some more mosques, you useless, good-for-nothing man! And you dare call our Manmohan nikamma!’
The next morning Sharma is calm, as is expected of him as a philosopher-civil servant. Boota is in poor shape. He has a terrible hangover and he is more constipated than usual. He makes many attempts to relieve himself but to no avail. In the afternoon he looks for his glycerine suppositories in the fridge where he usually keeps them. He can’t find them. In desperation, he uses his index finger and inserts it in his rectum to open a passage for the accumulated shit. It has become hard as cement and all he gets is a soiled finger. He tries it three times with no success. He gives up and sits back in his armchair, not knowing what to do. Then suddenly pressure builds up in his belly. He is back on the commode. This time his bowels open up with a loud explosion, like a cork popping out of a bottle of champagne. The turd comes out like balls from an elephant’s bottom. He gets up and examines the full toilet bowl with satisfaction. His head stops throbbing and he dozes off for almost an hour, waking just in time to catch up with his friends in Lodhi Gardens.
Baig notices his sallow complexion and slower pace. ‘Bootaji, you look as if you have been celebrating the election results all night!’
‘I have,’ replies Boota, ‘and paying the price. I have been sick all day.’
‘Learn moderation,’ advises Sharma. ‘Elections come and go. One party of corrupt politicians loses, another party of corrupt politicians wins. Nothing really changes.’
‘You are hundred per cent correct,’ says Baig. ‘For the last many months I have heard nothing besides elections, elections, elections, as if there was nothing else left in the world to talk about. Let us agree that from this evening we will not talk about elections any more. Give me your hands.’
Sharma and Boota put out their palms to be slapped by Baig and reply, ‘Agreed. No more elections.’
6
MONTH OF THE
SCORCHER
It is said hell is a very hot place. If you want a foretaste of what may be your fate, you should spend the month of June in Delhi. The night before the month began there was rain. Dilliwalas awoke to a gentle, cool breeze laden with the fragrance of the first raindrops on parched earth. ‘This can’t be the monsoon,’ they say, ‘but it is on its way to Delhi. If it is pouring in Kerala, it will not be too long before it reaches us.’ It was an illusion. June 2009 was as long and tedious as any in years past. Temperatures hovered between 40 and 43 degrees—day after day, including on the longest day of the year, the summer solstice of the 21st of June. Guru Nanak summed up the agony of June in his
Baramasi:
In Ashadh the sun scorches
Skies are hot
The earth burns like an oven
Waters give up their vapours
But it burns and scorches relentlessly
Thus the land fails not
To fulfil its destiny
The scene is not as bleak as it appears at first sight. June may be hot as hell but it also ushers in the season of mangoes, the very best in the world. Indians are passionately fond of mangoes. It is said that the greatest Urdu poet and the pride of Delhi, Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib, ate a dozen every day. One day a friend who was not particularly enamoured of the fruit was sitting with him when a donkey happened to pass by. It sniffed the leftovers of a heap of discarded mango skins and seed stones and walked away. The friend remarked: ‘See Mirza, even a donkey does not care for mangoes.’ Ghalib, who was known for his ready wit, replied, ‘Yes, it is only donkeys who don’t like mangoes.’
There are nearly two thousand varieties of mangoes, ranging from the humble pea-sized to the melon-sized, each with a distinct flavour. The most pricey are Alphonsos from Konkan, and they are the only ones which are exported. However, Dilliwalas prefer those grown in western Uttar Pradesh—Dussehris, Langdas, Chausas and Ratauls. Baig, besides owning a lot of real estate in Delhi, also has a large mango orchard near Lucknow. He does not bother to market his fruit. Instead, he sends basketfuls to his friends, and has plenty left for his family and staff. Among the recipients of his bounty are Pandit Sharma and Sardar Boota Singh.
Sharma loves mangoes but his sister, who does all the buying of fruit and vegetables for the house, thinks they cost too much; she only buys bananas. Baig’s mangoes are the only ones they get to savour through the summer. Boota also relishes mangoes. Some of his rich Bombay friends send him Alphonsos. By the time he is finished with one large basketful, another arrives. He never has to buy any. But he has to guard against eating too many, and rations himself to one in the afternoon. They are said to be laxative and he can do with mild laxatives because of his chronic constipation. But he also has problems with blood sugar and incipient diabetes. So his motto is a mango a day keeps the doctor away.
THE SUNSET CLUB Page 8