Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

by K L Chowdhury

  I was speechless after that eloquent emotional outpouring from his tortured being. I looked past him, closing my eyes awhile to seek an answer from Shiva.

  ‘This guy has poured his heart out and spoken the whole truth. Now it is between him and you; I don’t know why I should be dragged into it.’ Shiva blinked naughtily, aggravating my dilemma.

  I didn’t know what more I could do than giving Shiben Ji a full medical check-up for which he had come to see me. I wrote out a prescription and asked my nurse to see if we had some of the drugs in the physician’s samples. I also called my clerk to return his consultation fees.

  He declined to take the fees back. ‘Sir, it is your due. If I accept it back, I will have closed my road to your clinic for the future.’

  ‘No, that won’t be the case; you’ll be welcome to see me again, and you need not pay fees any time in the future,’ I reassured him as he stood up to leave.

  Before I called in the next patient, I closed my eyes to seek Shiva again.

  ‘So, you returned the fees to him and gave him some sample medicines and satisfied your own conscience, eh?’ Shiva taunted me.

  I blushed, but quickly gathered my wits, ‘At least I have some conscience, my Lord; but I am not sure about...others. This wretched fellow has been propitiating you all his life, yet…’

  The nurse was puzzled to find me in some sort of trance.

  Did I see a frown on Shiva’s visage? I was not sure, nor did I think much about it as I engaged with the next patient.

  Nearly six months later, Shiben Ji was in my clinic again.

  ‘Namaskar, sir. This time I have not come as a patient but I couldn’t wait to tell you…’ he said excitedly without taking a seat.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  He produced a file from a bag he was carrying and placed it on my table.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘My ration card.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Nothing really but I want you to see that I have got my brother’s name deleted. Now this card bears only my name.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I am really pleased, although you stand to lose ₹500 every month?’

  ‘So does the relief official,’ he replied.

  We both laughed.

  ‘How will you make up for your loss?’

  ‘It is not a loss, but a gain,’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘How can a loss be a gain? And what made you change your mind?’

  ‘After I returned home from my last meeting with you, I went straight to the temple. Your words still ringing in my ears. You had spoken about clean hands and a clear conscience. I sat there, asking Shiva what it meant. I must have been there for quite some time, my eyes closed, waiting for an answer. Then, suddenly, I felt a strange sensation passing through me, nudging me to action. I prostrated in front of him, swore that I would get the name of my brother deleted from the ration card, and rushed home. I lay in bed, restless, waiting for the next day to meet the relief official. Although he did not like it, I sat there in his office until I got the ration card updated and my brother’s name deleted.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t regret your decision.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. On the contrary, I felt free and relieved of self-loathing and guilt. The next day, I saw the local medical practitioner and offered to work as his assistant. He was reluctant to have me although I knew he needed help in his burgeoning practice. I volunteered to work for free to begin with. If he felt I was any good, I would welcome a small remuneration. Loneliness was eating me up; I needed to stay busy even more than I needed the money.’

  ‘Finally, it seems you landed where you always belonged— in a pharmacy.’

  ‘You are right, sir. I am rediscovering myself. After a month’s probation, the practitioner offered to pay me ₹600 a month. Besides, I make a few extra bucks.’

  ‘By fair means, I hope,’ I teased him.

  ‘I give injections to the patients. They pay me ₹5 for a shot at the pharmacy, ₹10 on a home visit. I make a few hundred that way.’

  ‘In that case, you truly are a gainer.’

  ‘At last I feel somewhat like old times when I was at Mir Behri Kana Kachi.’.

  ‘I am glad for you, glad that you regained your faith, glad that you are rendering valuable service to the community.’

  Then, with a diffident look on his face, he stammered, ‘And Chuni has returned.’

  ‘Chuni?’

  ‘My wife, sir. The one who had left me.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Seems she came to learn about my improved circumstances and decided to come back.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Didn’t you once say that forgiveness is a great virtue?’

  ‘I might have. Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, sir. It is all because of you,’ he said, and took his leave.

  ‘Me?’

  But he was already out of the room.

  I closed my eyes to seek Shiva again.

  ‘So, you feel vindicated?’ Shiva winked tantalisingly at me.

  I blushed. ‘I am sorry for my condescension last time, my Lord.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About conscience.’

  ‘Conscience, ah!’ Shiva wore a benevolent grin.

  THE MYSTERIOUS WAYS OF TRIPUR SUNDARI

  Last evening, a friend phoned to inform me that frenzied mobs had attacked Kashmiri Pandits staying in makeshift camps in Kashmir. They had also stormed into several temples, including the one at Lagripora, inflicting extensive damage. My thoughts immediately went to Shadi Lal. How will he feel about the desecration of Tripur Sundari, the presiding deity of Lagripora, his native village? Will he seek a larger, deeper meaning into this fresh assault on the temple? Will he interpret it as yet another evidence of the inscrutable design of the deity? Will he return to Lagripora to sanitise the temple and restore its sanctity yet again?

  I don’t even know if he had been able to organise the havan to which he wanted to invite me.

  Shadi Lal consulted me nearly two months back for pain that had lasted for more than a week. ‘It spreads bizarrely from the nape of my neck and along the back of head up to the level of my ear, mostly on the right side,’ he complained. ‘I experience sensations of pricking, stabbing, stinging and of burning at different times. It doesn’t let me concentrate on my work.’ He grimaced as he spoke, moving his neck awkwardly sideways and in a circular motion, as if trying to ward off the pain.

  ‘How long has it been there? How did it start? Did you have fever? Did you hurt your neck or head? Did you engage in any strenuous activity? Have you suffered such pain before?’ I asked questions in rapid succession.

  His answers were brief and to the point. ‘It started on its own nearly 10 days ago. I didn’t have fever and I did nothing strenuous or stressful to hurt my neck. I don’t remember having experienced such pain before.’

  ‘What brings on the pain? Does any position give relief? Can you sleep at night?’

  ‘It comes and goes on its own and I don’t think the position of my head or neck makes any difference. My sleep is fitful and broken; when the pain worsens it wakes me up.’

  A vegetarian since childhood, he was not addicted to any substance. He used a thin pillow at night, didn’t read in bed and hardly ever exercised.

  He was around 48 and looked well preserved. His head and neck seemed fine.

  I was still at a loss about the exact topography of his pain. He vaguely traced an area in the upper right nape and the back of the head. It pointed to the region supplied by the second and third cervical nerves. As if reading my thoughts, he said, ‘I had a small eruption there. Just a few pimples that appeared a day after the pain started.’

  I looked carefully, parting his long hair, to discover a few light pink fading macules.

  ‘Sir, I hope it is nothing serious and that you will help me recover as soon as possible; there is an important assignment waiting
for me.’ There was urgency in his tone.

  ‘Where are you returning to?’

  ‘Lagripora.’

  ‘I have never heard that name.’

  ‘It is in Kashmir. Do you know Aish Muqam?’

  ‘I do. On my way to Pahalgam where I was posted as a medical officer when I began my career, I would often halt at Aish Muqam to sit by the side of the Liddar for a while. I loved watching the gushing stream as it snaked along the undulating foothills.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. The road to Pahalgam forks at Aish Muqam towards Lagripora, a small hamlet that sits in the lap of hills barely half a kilometre from there. That is where I was born and grew up until terrorism raised its ugly head and we were forced to leave our homes.’

  ‘How many families?’

  ‘There were 35 Pandit families. Everyone left except an old couple who said they would prefer to die in Lagripora than suffer the barrenness of exile.’

  ‘Why are you going back now after all these years?’

  ‘To take possession of the temple land that was annexed by a Muslim neighbour.’

  ‘Since you don’t live there, why are you so desperate to reclaim it?’

  ‘My grandfather had donated eight kanals to the temple from our family properties. The temple already owned seven kanals. However, the neighbour had annexed the portion donated by us soon after we left Lagripora. Much later, when I came to know about it, I approached the revenue officials—the patwari, the tehsildar and the district commissioner—but they wouldn’t heed my pleas. The tehsildar tossed my letter into the wastepaper basket. The commissioner refused to look at the original land papers in my possession. I appealed to his conscience: “Sir, this land belongs to the temple. No religion ordains the appropriation and annexation of properties of other faiths.” But my plea had the reverse effect. “I don’t believe in the religion of infidels,” he barked; “I warn you not to make a nuisance of yourself. Since it is no longer your property, why should it be your concern? What locus standi do you have?” I had no answer.’

  ‘Who managed the temple before the exodus?’ I asked him.

  ‘There was a managing committee but it has remained in limbo since all the members are in exile. It would not be possible for them to file an application and follow it through with the officials who have adopted an unwritten policy to thwart our efforts to return to Kashmir and reclaim our temples, lands and estates. That is why I was forced to seek judicial redress. I have been fighting the legal battle for three years. Finally, with the blessings of the deity, I succeeded in getting a decree for the restoration of the land to the temple.’

  ‘That is quite an achievement. How did it happen?’

  ‘Sir, I work for Milton, a company that sells flasks, water jugs, etc. I work from Jammu but travel often to Kashmir to look after the distribution and sales. It is during my visits there that I take time off to pursue the case in the courts.’

  ‘Your passion is exemplary. What drives you?’

  ‘You must visit Lagripora if you ever chance to visit Kashmir again. The temple that houses Tripur Sundari is unique. It rises from the middle of a beautiful spring 16 feet deep, so transparent that you can see the bottom as if in a mirror. You can sit for hours in the divine ambience and watch the benevolent stream that flows out. Besides, the souls of my departed ancestors must have been in throes of agony due to the usurpation of the land they had donated. We need to retrieve the pride and glory of our temples which are in a pathetic state. What will our gods think of us if we do nothing?’

  I looked at this man of faith with amusement, even admiration, but did not hesitate to poke him a little. ‘I don’t know, but after having launched this crusade single-handedly to retrieve her land, Tripur Sundari should have spared you the herpes.’

  ‘Sir, do I have herpes? Do you mean Mata?’

  ‘Yes, I think you have herpes zoster.’

  ‘In that case, this must be a visitation by the deity herself. I think she is challenging me, testing my faith. But I will rest only after I have completed the job.’

  I laughed at his interpretation. ‘Do you really believe in this myth? Herpes zoster is no visitation by any Mata or deity. It is a viral infection. Come on, we are living in the twenty-first century. You are speaking like an illiterate person. Didn’t you have any schooling?’

  My inadvertent innuendo hurt him. ‘Sir, that is irrelevant. What use are our degrees if we are unemployable in our homeland? I am an M.A. in political science, but I couldn’t get a job in Kashmir. I was 24 at the time of exodus. I was denied a job in Jammu as well. That is why I took the Milton job.’

  ‘I feel sorry for what you have gone through. And yet, you are such a devotee of the deity?’

  ‘It is a question of faith. She works in mysterious ways, I must say. Had I been in state service, I would most likely have been a petty official posted at some godforsaken place. In my job with Milton, I had plenty of spare time to be with my ailing mother. I nursed her for a decade and a half without any hitch or hinder even though we lived in refugee camps. And now, I got the opportunity to follow this case in the courts of law. I believe in the law of Karma that your science does not endorse.’

  I nodded in agreement. ‘I still can’t believe that you got the lands restored to the temple. Hundreds of cases of encroachment and illegal annexation of the properties that Kashmiri Pandits left behind are hanging fire in the courts for decades. I wonder how you managed to breach the communal ceiling in Kashmir that has stymied our efforts to get justice from any quarter and dashed all our hopes of returning to our motherland.’

  ‘It is the divine blessings of Tripur Sundari of Lagripora. When all doors seem to close, She opens the doors one by one.

  ‘I had almost given up after the rebuff from the revenue officials. But the first door opened when I met a person by chance who informed me about the Preservation and Protection of Migrant Property Act that is meant to safeguard the properties and temples of Kashmiri Pandits who had left in the mass exodus. “You can approach the courts of law and invoke the Act to get the land restored to the temple,” he suggested. I didn’t know any lawyer, but the second door opened when one of the distributors of Milton in Kashmir guided me to one Mr Shafat Ahmad. I was sceptical of engaging a Muslim but I couldn’t find a single Pandit lawyer in Kashmir. The reputed lawyer was moved when he heard my story and agreed to take up the case. “This is a matter of faith. What belongs to a temple must be restored to the temple. Allah will judge everyone in the end,” he said. Don’t you agree it was the Mata behind all this?’

  I was intrigued by his logic. ‘I have no reason to dismiss your faith in the Mata. And I am quite aware of the Preservation and Protection of Migrant Property Act. But it exists just on paper, a mere eye wash. Besides, along with a proficient lawyer there has to be an unbiased and sympathetic judge.’

  ‘You are right, sir. Over the course of three years many judges sat for the case and dawdled. I feared an adverse outcome. Then, another door opened. It was a Kashmiri Pandit judge who heard the final arguments.’

  I was in rapt attention; it was turning out to be a fairy tale. ‘Well?’ I mumbled.

  ‘I know you must be wondering as to how a Pandit judge dared to pass judgment in favour of a temple.’

  I nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Well, it was not the Pandit judge who signed the final order.’

  ‘Who signed it if not him?’

  ‘He asked his colleague, a Muslim judge to do the favours. And I am convinced that my lawyer had a hand in it. He is highly respected by the judges and wields great influence.’

  ‘It certainly was an exceptional move!’ I remarked.

  ‘Exactly, sir. All the nuts and bolts fell in place as if by a miracle. And that might as well answer your question about the deity and Her mysterious ways,’ he looked at me triumphantly and smiled for the first time during the course of our dialogue. He had stopped moving his neck awkwardly. Either he had forgotten about the pain or it ha
d disappeared for a while, as if it never existed. As if he had come to me not for treatment but to relate the fascinating tale.

  ‘Well, you have jobs to do. I am prescribing a medication for your pain and hope it will work. Herpetic neuralgia can sometimes be treacherous but I hope Tripur Sundari will take care of that,’ I said.

  ‘I am sure She will,’ he replied confidently.

  ‘What next?’

  ‘I had been given to understand I might need X-rays and an MRI scan, but now that you assure me about the diagnosis, I will catch the early bus tomorrow. After the temple land is fenced and secured, I have to organise a thanksgiving havan. I have sounded all my villagers living in Jammu whom I could locate. I hope they will agree to travel to Lagripora on the appointed day. It will be like going back to old times when we used to have a community get-together on festival days.’

  ‘Good luck, then,’ I said.

  He took the prescription, thanked me and hurried out, leaving me pensive for a while. I was with the next patient when he reappeared.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. It will be an honour to have you with us on the occasion.’

  I looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘I mean the havan. I will inform you of the day and the time.’