by Farahad Zama
She turned to her husband and said, ‘There’s nobody about. There are always people walking by or just sitting in front of their houses looking at the road in every village I’ve been to, but here, the place is empty. It looks abandoned.’
Mr Ali nodded. ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ he said.
The road turned and twisted until it came to an open square in front of a pukka building with a statue of Gandhi in front of it. There were a lot of people here. There were many police with lathis standing in little groups. Red and orange marquees, not unlike the one used at Irshad and Aisha’s wedding, had been erected down one side of the square. The marquee in the middle was bigger than the others and it had a long banner in front of it on two long bamboo poles with the words, ‘Justice for Farmers’.
A police constable came up to them and the taxi stopped. He bent at the waist and put his head at the taxi’s window.
‘Why have you come here?’ he asked.
‘We’ve come to see our son,’ said Mr Ali.
‘You are not allowed to come into the village,’ said the constable.
‘Please,’ said Mrs Ali, leaning forward and turning towards the constable.
The constable looked at her and said in surprise, ‘I know you, madam. You were the mother on TV.’
Mrs Ali said, ‘Yes, I was.’
The constable said, ‘We were all watching TV in our house when we saw you. My mother was most affected. She said that she totally understood your feelings. We are Christians, madam, and she said a special prayer for you at Mass, the next Sunday.’
Mrs Ali said, ‘Oh, that’s very kind of your mother. Please give her my thanks.’
The constable nodded and asked them to park the car to one side and walk over to the big marquee in the centre.
As they were walking towards it, another police constable tried to stop them but the first one shouted out, ‘It’s OK. I’ve given them permission.’
‘The power of celebrity,’ said Mr Ali.
‘Don’t mock. It’s letting us see our son,’ said Mrs Ali.
At the entrance to the marquee, a young man stopped them. Mrs Ali recognised him as one of Rehman’s friends from the city who had appeared at the trial alongside her son. He seemed surprised to see them.
‘Sir, madam . . . Has anybody told you?’ he said.
‘Told us what?’ said Mr Ali.
‘Rehman was perfectly fine until two days ago. He probably ate something that disagreed with him, because he was sick and suddenly fell ill.’
Mrs Ali was worried now. She went quickly into the marquee with her husband and the young man following her. There was nobody inside.
‘Where is Rehman?’ she asked.
‘Over there, madam,’ said the young man and took her to a corner that had been curtained off.
They went behind the curtain. Rehman was lying down on a charpoy, a rough cot strung with hemp rope. He was sweating. There were three other men standing round the cot.
‘What’s happened to my son?’ cried Mrs Ali and rushed to the cot.
Rehman propped himself up on a pillow with difficulty. He grimaced and said, ‘I’m all right, ammi.’
She sat down on the cot next to Rehman and hugged him. ‘You are burning up,’ she cried.
Rehman patted her hand and turned to the men. ‘Leave,’ he said. ‘Section one forty-four is still in force. Only five people are allowed here at a time. Let’s not give the police an excuse to arrest us.’
The men left quickly and Rehman turned to his parents. Mr Ali was now sitting on the other side of the cot and he put a hand on Rehman’s forehead.
‘You are really unwell, son,’ he said.
‘It’s all right, abba. Just a fever,’ said Rehman.
‘What did the doctor say?’ said Mrs Ali.
Rehman didn’t say anything. His friend who was standing at the foot of the cot said, ‘He hasn’t seen a doctor yet.’
‘How come?’ said Mrs Ali, turning to the friend. ‘He’s really unwell. Even if he doesn’t want to, you should have forced him to see a doctor. What kind of friend are you?’
The friend appeared embarrassed. He hung his head and shuffled his feet. She turned to Rehman. ‘You are going to see a doctor now and I won’t hear a word from you.’
Rehman dropped back on the cot. ‘Ammi,’ he said in a weak voice, ‘there is no doctor in this village.’
‘No doctor? What do you mean no doctor?’ said Mrs Ali.
‘You grew up in a village, ammi. You know better than me what villages are like,’ said Rehman. ‘There is no doctor here. Even if there was a doctor, there is no pharmacy.’
She fell silent.
A young man came in and said to Rehman, ‘Sorry to disturb you, Rehman, but I’ve got a student union president from Vijayawada on the phone. He is asking how many men you want him to bring here. He says he can mobilise over five hundred college students.’
Rehman thought for a moment and said, ‘There’s no point in bringing them all here. They’ll just be stopped outside the village by the police.’
He closed his eyes and Mrs Ali mopped his brow with her handkerchief. He opened his eyes and said, ‘I know. Tell him to organise a protest rally in Vijayawada supporting us. In fact, this is a great idea. Ask him to speak to student leaders in other towns. Let’s do it as well. Let’s take a few days to organise this properly and have simultaneous protests across the state. We’ll rattle the government to its bones.’
The young man who had come in was excited too. ‘That’s a fantastic idea. I’ll get to it right now.’
Rehman tried to get up but failed.
Mrs Ali said, ‘Rehman, you are so weak. Come back with us to the city. You can see a doctor and return when you are better.’
Rehman shook his head. ‘No, ammi. We are almost at the end here. We just have to be strong for a little longer and we’ll win. I cannot leave now.’
Mr Ali said, ‘Don’t be stubborn, Rehman. You are not well. Who knows what disease you’ve got? You don’t get a high temperature from eating something dodgy. This is definitely different. I can feel it. The sooner you see a doctor, the better.’
Rehman’s friend said, ‘You could be right, uncle. He said that there were traces of blood when he was sick.’
Rehman glared at his friend and his friend quickly covered his mouth with his hand.
‘Don’t silence your friend,’ said Mrs Ali. ‘It sounds really serious. Please come home with us.’
They argued for several minutes until Rehman fell back on the bed in exhaustion, but he did not give in. Finally, Mr and Mrs Ali said their goodbyes and left.
When they came out of the marquee, Mrs Ali gave their phone number to Rehman’s friend and said, ‘Please call me every day and tell me how he is doing.’
‘I will, madam,’ said the friend.
They walked back to their taxi. A young woman hailed them as they were about to get in. It was the same journalist who had interviewed Rehman and Mrs Ali at the courthouse.
‘Sir, madam,’ she said. ‘My name is Usha. Can I have a quick chat with you on camera? The police won’t let me go into the marquee. I have been waiting since morning to speak to your son but I haven’t seen him at all.’
Mrs Ali declined initially but the young woman persuaded her.
‘Your son is really brave, madam. He’s a hero and our viewers will love him,’ Usha said.
Soon, the camera was pointing at Mrs Ali and Usha.
‘You asked your son not to come back to Royyapalem. Now that you have seen him here, what is your opinion?’ the journalist asked.
‘As a mother, my fears have come true. My son is unwell but he will not give up the struggle. The protest is going strong and he says he cannot leave here now,’ said Mrs Ali.
‘I am sorry to hear that your son is unwell. What’s wrong with him?’ Usha looked concerned.
‘He has a high fever. I don’t know what’s wrong with him,’ Mrs Ali said and tears flowed dow
n her cheeks. ‘No doctor has seen him and he refuses to leave the village and come to the city. The government wants to build big industries here, but there isn’t even a doctor in this village. The people in power should get their priorities straight.’
The young woman signalled to the cameraman. ‘Wrap,’ she said.
Mrs Ali was very depressed after coming back from Royyapalem. She was also severely embarrassed over the next few days. The clip of her talking to the journalist, entitled ‘A Mother’s Further Anguish’, was played again and again on TV.
A couple of days after they had come back, she overheard Mr Ali talking to Rehman on the phone.
‘Your mother is feeling very down. She is not meeting anybody and is refusing to step out of the house. She is not even standing at the gate in the evenings to watch the world go by,’ said Mr Ali. He listened for a while and then said, ‘What do you mean the protest is important? Do your mother’s feelings have no importance? She - and I - are worried that you have contracted some serious illness. Just come for a day, get checked by a doctor and go back.’
The conversation went on for a while and Mr Ali’s voice took on a pleading note. Rehman obviously did not budge, because Mr Ali put the phone back on its hook, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He looked tired and Mrs Ali’s heart went out to her husband. She slipped away, expecting Mr Ali to mention the call later so they could discuss it, but he never did.
Each evening she got a call from Rehman’s friend. A few days went by and the news was finally encouraging: Rehman’s temperature had come down and he was able to get out of bed for a couple of hours. He progressed well after that. One week after their visit, Mrs Ali spoke to Rehman. He was now back to normal. He told Mrs Ali that they had been able to contact student leaders across the state and were organising protest marches on the following Tuesday. Mrs Ali told Rehman to be careful.
Mr Ali refused to speak to his son. Mrs Ali was again torn between two powerful forces, neither of which would give way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aruna had been depressed all week. The spark had gone out of her. She felt like a ryot, a tenant farmer, who sees locusts swarming on his ready to be harvested field - watching his crop disappearing and knowing that his difficulties are just beginning. Aruna hadn’t told anyone about Ramanujam’s proposal - not even her sister. She went about her days like an automaton.
On Monday, Vani said to her, ‘Come to Jagadamba junction at nine in the morning tomorrow.’
Aruna said, ‘Why? I have to be in the office by then.’
‘Akka, you’ve been miserable all week. It will do you good to do something different,’ said Vani.
‘I am not miserable,’ said Aruna.
‘Yes you are. Amma’s noticed it too. We think you are working too hard. Just come tomorrow. I will guarantee that once you tell him what you saw, your boss won’t mind that you came late to the office,’ said Vani.
‘What? How do you know what Mr Ali will say, anyway? You haven’t even met him,’ said Aruna.
‘Don’t argue, akka. Just do it for me, please . . .’ said Vani.
Aruna sighed. ‘All right. I’ll come, just to prove that I am not depressed.’
‘Good!’ said Vani.
The next day, Aruna left home a bit earlier than normal to go to Jagadamba junction. When she reached it, she was surprised to see police everywhere. She stood in the shade of a shop and watched. The eponymous Jagadamba cinema was opposite her. A large poster at the cinema showed a blonde girl screaming in terror at some unseen horror. It was the only cinema in town that regularly showed Hollywood movies. All the others showed Hindi or Telugu films.
Aruna waited for a while, looking at her watch in irritation. It was almost nine twenty and nothing was happening. The place looked more crowded than normal, but Jagadamba junction was always busy, so she couldn’t really tell. Two roads led out of the northern end of the junction on either side of a small, old Christian graveyard: one led uphill to the university and the other to the newer part of town. The road to the south led to the old part of town and the road to the east led to the collector’s office and the King George Hospital. Ramanujam came to her mind and she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
She must have looked miserable, because somebody said, ‘Why are you feeling so bad, lady? You are young and you look healthy. I am sure everything will turn out for the best.’
Aruna snapped out of her reverie and looked at the old, toothless woman in front of her. She had never seen the woman before in her life. Aruna shook her head and said, ‘It’s nothing, Baamma. I am all right.’
The old woman nodded and walked away. Aruna looked around. It was definitely more crowded now. And the people were not walking. They were all standing there, as if waiting, like her, for something to happen. After another five minutes or so, she heard a noise coming down the university road. It was getting louder and louder and soon everybody craned their necks in the direction of the noise. The police were talking on their radios and had lined up along the road. Suddenly, there was no traffic.
A noisy procession of students came walking along the road. The procession went on and on and there must have been over a thousand students marching. Some of them had drums and trumpets. Many of them were carrying banners.
‘Justice for Farmers’
‘Respect Royyapalem Ryots’ Rights’
‘Villagers Require Doctors, Not Multinationals’
‘Listen to People’s Tears, Not to Stocks and Shares’
‘Down with WTO’
Aruna wondered how the World Trade Organisation had got entangled in this protest. Was it a left-over banner from an earlier march?
A student at the front was walking backwards, facing the rest of the procession. He had a megaphone in his hand and he said in an amplified voice, ‘Justice for . . .’
‘Farmers,’ the students thundered in reply.
The drums boomed and the trumpets blew.
The megaphone-wielding student shouted, ‘Doctors, not . . .’
‘Multinationals,’ came the loud roar.
The procession walked slowly past Aruna. She tried to look for Vani but her sister could not be seen in the crowd.
‘Government,’ shouted the voice from the front.
‘Down! Down!’
The drums went, ‘Boom! Boom!’
The trumpets blew loud and clear.
It took more than five minutes for the procession to clear the junction. She heard someone say that the students were marching to the district collector’s office where they would present a letter with ten thousand signatures protesting against the Royyapalem land seizures. Aruna waited until the crowd dissipated and took a bus to Mr Ali’s house.
The next week Aruna’s mood did not improve. She thought it must be the weather. After the first shower, the rains had been delayed and a hot spell had taken hold. It was over forty degrees every day and it was very humid as well.
Her mother asked Aruna to take some time off but she refused. The day after that, just as Aruna was about to leave for the office, her father told her that he wanted to visit his brother at Annavaram and he needed her help.
‘Did amma put you up to this?’ asked Aruna.
Aruna’s father gave her a severe glance and she blushed. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘You are looking run down, Aruna. A few days’ break will do you good. And I really need your help: I don’t want to travel on my own,’ he said.
‘No, naanna, I don’t want to leave now. We are very busy in the office at the moment,’ she said, stepping out of the door.
At ten in the morning, Mr Ali went to the bank to pay in a cheque that a client had given him and Aruna was alone in the office. The postman had just left and she was dealing with the day’s post when the phone rang.
‘Hello, Mr Ali’s marriage bureau here. How can I help you?’ she said.
‘Hello, is Mr Ali there?’ asked a woman’s voice, sounding vaguely familiar.
‘No, madam. He is not here. Can I assist you?’ Aruna asked.
‘Maybe you can,’ said the voice. ‘We are clients of yours - my brother is Ramanujam, the doctor.’
Aruna’s heart stopped for a moment and she gripped the phone tightly. She gulped and said, ‘I remember you, madam. You came with your brother and mother. What can I do for you?’
She was pleased that her voice sounded steady.
Ramanujam’s sister answered, ‘We had a family conference yesterday and decided that we need to intensify the search. I think you should advertise again and more widely.’
Aruna said, ‘OK, madam. I will tell sir what you said when he comes in.’
‘You do that. I am busy for the next couple of days but I will drop in to your office after that.’
Aruna put the phone down slowly and stared sightlessly across the verandah. Suddenly, her composure broke and she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing.
‘Is everything OK, Aruna?’
Aruna looked up quickly and found to her horror that Mrs Ali was standing in front of her. She nodded and turned away. Mrs Ali was silent for a moment and Aruna hoped that Mrs Ali hadn’t noticed her crying.
‘What happened, Aruna? Why the tears?’ asked Mrs Ali gently.
Aruna turned reluctantly back to Mrs Ali and said, ‘I don’t know what to do, madam. I’m so confused.’
Fresh tears flowed down Aruna’s cheeks.
Mrs Ali came up to Aruna. ‘Come, my dear. Let’s go inside. Anybody can walk in on us here.’
Mrs Ali led Aruna into the house and sat down next to her on the settee. ‘There, there, don’t cry, my dear. Everything will be fine. Tell me, what’s the problem?’