The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation

by Yakub Totanawala

  ‘Ay, pig, are you threatening me? Bastard! Kill me if you want, I don’t care. Your exposures begin tomorrow. The game is over. Fuck off, now.’

  The agent massaged his neck and glanced at others. They dropped on their knees and surrounded me.

  ‘But what’s the problem? We are executing your demands,’ said a man.

  ‘I lost five Chharas.’

  ‘We didn’t do it,’ said the messenger.

  ‘Ketanbhai Rathod did it.’

  ‘What? Who told you?’

  I presented to them the proof. They gaped at Sanjay’s disclosure and stared at the floor. The agent wiped his sweat and contacted his bosses.

  ‘Sincere apologies to you, Vickybhai. We request for a settlement. We’ll do as you say,’ he said.

  With my teeth clenched and nostrils flaring, I leaned forward and glared at him. I flashed my last three fingers and said, ‘Three pending demands, plus two more.’ I lifted my index finger. ‘Ketanbhai must not see tomorrow’s sun.’ I raised my thumb. ‘And my three township deals. No further communication. Media blast begins from 9 am tomorrow.’

  I pushed back, closed my eyes and released a deep sigh. He moved aside to discuss it with his chiefs. He then approached me, blinked at me, shook hands, and left.

  In the evening, Mr. Patel, the township builder, called me.

  ‘Mr. Vikram, let me surprise you today.’

  ‘I reject your contract, Mr. Patel.’

  Silence prevailed for a few seconds.

  ‘But...why?’

  ‘Because I have learnt that politics is business. And I choose business.’

  ‘So, I am offering you business. I have orders to grant you the contract.’

  ‘Extra 5% for re-accepting. Add it and send the papers again. Goodbye.’

  Hah. Same with the other two. By late evening, the three premium lost jobs landed home with 5% extra charges.

  Post dinner, the news flashed about Ketan Rathod having committed suicide. The newsreader said, “Police found a note stating no one as responsible. Troubled by depression, he took the extreme step.”

  Game over. Naah. It had just begun.

  For their safety, MPP provided me a Y+ security cover. MPP and VD stayed in my contact, all because of the 64 GB pen drive. They updated me on the movement at New Delhi, the seat of power in India.

  Chapter—38

  Freedom

  The next day, I received a huge jolt. A protest by the DNTs broke out in Central India demanding social rights. Many tribes participated. They damaged and burnt public properties, buses, railway coaches, and government offices. The riots spread to the North region. The centuries-old suppression had spurted out. I had met them many times, encouraging them to unite and fight for freedom, which had resulted in this revolt. But I never provoked them for violence. And the timing was wrong, too. I had overpowered MPP and PL to fulfil our requirements, and their rebellion could hamper it. The anti-elements in both parties could use this opportunity to ruin my goals. And my family, though in hiding, was in danger again.

  The Home Minister blasted me for the protest, and I convinced him of my innocence. I contacted DNT leaders, but they rejected my request and pressed for vigorous agitation. Their behaviour shocked me as I had united them to fight for our rights, and they opposed me. The violence started in West and South India. By evening, a DNT chief had spilt the secret.

  Zubair Pasha of PL and Vijay Parikh of MPP were the aspiring MLA’s denied a portfolio by their parties. And many members, including the late Ketan Rathod, disliked the DNTs due to their social beliefs and voting equation. They secretly rebelled and provoked the DNT leaders. They spread rumours of my compromise with MPP against personal and community benefits. Citing the Chharanagar property registration as proof, they convinced the DNTs of my betrayal, which made them revolt. India was in flames, as arson, looting, and murders engulfed the nation.

  The administration clamped an indefinite curfew and gave shoot at sight orders. The police shot hundreds of DNT people and jailed thousands of them. The cops attacked their colonies, dashed into their homes, and fired at them.

  Death swaggered outside, but I had to step out. I sought additional security to reach out to the DNT leaders.

  The team arrived, and we left immediately. For two days, I interacted with various tribes. I met Pardhi, Bhill, Kanjar, Mina, Gond, Sansi and Ramoshi head in Gujarat and Maharashtra State. And sent messengers to Santhal, Lodha and other clans and communicated through technology mediums. I told them about the kidnapping of my family and also about the possibility of the fulfilment of our demands. And about the mischief of selfish men to provoke them for rebellion. I convinced and pressured them to trust me and observe peace.

  They relented, and riots subsided by day’s end. But the mainstream society opposed and demanded action. Media escalated the tension. The administration utilised the situation to vent out its anger. The atrocities on DNTs peaked. Human beings failed in all their beliefs, values, religions, and constitution. They burnt their houses, slaughtered and jailed men and children, and assaulted women. The DNT leaders complained of police torture. I called up the Home Minister.

  ‘Saheb, end it, please. The administration is murdering them. Stop them and process our requirements before the beast in me takes over. This is a request, because I am still in my senses. Kindly take the necessary steps. Over to you.’

  ‘I’ll take care. Don’t worry,’ he said.

  The attacks subsided. By night, the leaders confirmed the ceasefire. Peace was established across the country.

  And bloody hell, they did it. While the media gripped the public with riots coverage, the Home Minister proposed a resolution to scrap the HOA. It passed through Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha, and President’s approval without fanfare. The Prime Minister declared an address to the nation on 27th February. Media notified the PM’s 9 pm’s live telecast.

  Guddu and I floated in space. We arranged a gigantic screen at the playground and gathered our tribe to hear the premier.

  The PM began his speech in Hindi with his greeting “My beloved citizens.” He spoke on humanity, and the upliftment of the downtrodden. He connected it to competing with China and the world. And linked the issue with employment, Women’s Empowerment, and god-damn Foreign Direct Investment, Nation’s GDP, and Inflation, and terrorism, and Kashmir dispute, and Pakistan. I rocked sideways on my chair, tapping my feet and biting my nails, lips and fingers. He said everything except what we were waiting for. We tolerated the final torture before the liberation. My mistake. I should’ve added a sixth demand; to declare our freedom without lecturing on it. The tribesmen dispersed on the field along with the animals.

  At 10 pm, he said, “My government reviewed various reports and took a historical decision. The tribes branded as ‘Criminal’ by the British, have been living with this stigma.” Chharas roared and scurried to settle before the screen. He continued, “Our independence did not liberate them.” Few members whistled. “How can they enjoy freedom being oppressed? Post-Independence, the then government repealed the ‘Criminal Tribes Act’, but tied another noose. It implemented another inhuman act and enlisted them in it. So, they were back to square one. The criminal tribes were renamed as ‘Habitual Offenders.’ Even now they are branded and treated as born criminals. Shouldn’t we liberate these communities?” asked the premier on television and Chharanagar roared “Yes” in response.

  Members stared at the screen, and Guddu gaped, holding his chair. My heart pounded. I grabbed my chair, straightened, and leaned forward. The animals rushed near the display unit.

  “You would have understood by now,” the PM said, “I am talking about the ‘Habitual Offenders Act.’ My chest and neck muscles tightened. The guys whistled, and the womenfolk clapped. “Today, my government has passed a resolution, and I, the Prime Minister of India, declare the abolition of the ‘Habitual... Offenders... Act...’.”

  We gaped at the screen like statues. Lightning struck me within
and thunder roared in my mind. Blood gushed inside my veins, which pounded my heart. “FREEDOM,” I screamed with saliva spitting out and face shaking. Chharanagar echoed. The screams pierced through the clear skies. Tears streamed out as I clenched my fists and trembled with lips quivering. Guddu yelled, releasing out the pain of ages of oppression and thumping his fists on his chest. “Freedom”, I shrieked again with arms raised. Guddu leapt on me, and I jerked back. Don’t tug my hair, Guddu, it’s hurting. “Freedom,” we shouted.

  Tribesmen unleashed themselves. Several cried, wept, wailed, and many bounced in joy. They danced, whistled, and did the craziest things in celebration. The tricolour wavered, and the playground boomed with “Freedom” chants. They kicked the mud and splashed it on each other. Many lay on the ground, thumping their hands and legs. Animals frolicked and licked the members.

  A dozen more men leapt on us, and we fell. I held up my head to avoid spoiling my hair. Hey, I am a millionaire; don’t jump on me... and I don’t bathe in the dirt, said my mind. Shut up, said my spirit. This is not dirt; this is your soil. I thumped my head on the ground, gasping, and closed my eyes. I merged with my roots.

  The guys piled over me. I gazed at the sky. Stars twinkled, acknowledging the acceptance of humans by humans. A circle formed beside the moon and a ball of light sparkled. I jerked and stiffened as the faces of my parents emerged. They smiled and disappeared. I grabbed my companions and cried.

  Men blasted firecrackers and beat drums loudly. It was magical; a dream came true. The commotion deterred PM’s speech. We had received our freedom. Thanks to the Prime Minister, Home Minister, the MPP and PL. And thanks to the 64 GB pen drive.

  Media teams arrived. The whole night they interviewed us regarding our community, our struggle, survival and pains, our experiences of discrimination, demand with the government, our views of the society, people and governments, and about our squatting, urination, reproduction, and so on. I expressed my gratitude to every group and individual who worked for our betterment. We received abundant greetings from the DNT communities. Ecstatic with their liberation, they took to the streets again, but to celebrate.

  The next day was 28th February. Media overflowed with the coverage of the DNTs and especially the Chharas. It publicised the details we knew, and knew not, about ourselves. Guddu and I featured in every newspaper and TV channel and we became exhausted, giving interviews. No cushioned bed and pillows, no alcohol, no women; yet we enjoyed. More than my carnage role, the media covered my transformation. That was happiness.

  The Naroda Patia residents had organised a felicitation for me that day. I reached at the scheduled time at 9 am and paid homage to the victims. The well of death empathised with my true repentance. Post massacre, every time I visited Naroda Patia, I cried rivers of tears.

  I climbed the stage arranged near the well, glanced at Munni’s house, and occupied the royal chair. The speakers praised and thanked me for their house registration clearance. They honoured me with dozens of garlands on 28 February. Sixteen years ago, at the same day, time and place, I had wreaked havoc. And the residents had cursed and sought my refuge. But that day, the occupants showered flowers and prayers on me. My every organ experienced solace. Happiness drowned me.

  Zaheer’s survival narration ran through my mind. Facing Dadaji’s abode, I bowed my head and thanked them for saving Zaheer and his father. And for sheltering my family. After the event, I edged towards the bungalow and called up Zaheer. He welcomed me in. Dadaji and Dadima had expired. Sonam Aunty and Santosh Uncle greeted and appreciated me. I touched their feet for being human and celebrated my success together. I requested Santosh Uncle for another favour.

  ‘Ameeti needs care. I’ll be grateful if you allow my in-laws to stay with her.’

  ‘Oh, sure. My pleasure. Please invite them,’ he said.

  I invited them and instructed Zaheer to make their arrangements.

  I headed to the MPP Headquarters with Guddu. At the reception, Praveenbhai waited to welcome us. He opened his arms, but I fell at his feet. He patted my back, lifted and embraced me. I hugged him and shed tears on his shoulders.

  We had pleasant discussions with MPP members and thanked them for our liberation. And I consumed the pending Masala Tea.

  ‘We need a copy of PM’s signed order,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll present it to you soon in a ceremony at New Delhi,’ said Praveenbhai.

  We lunched with them and headed to the Commissioner’s office. Aware of the HOA abolition, the Police Commissioner promised cooperation. ‘We will release the DNTs held under “Habitual Offenders” clause. We await the formal directive,’ he said.

  A historical ceremony of handing over the PM’s order copy was organised three days later at New Delhi. The government squeezed out every drop from the DNT fuel pipe to derive the best mileage.

  Manoj’s health improved and was discharged. Guddu, Manoj and I, along with four associates, reached the capital. I had invited DNT representatives and social workers who toiled for the welfare of the DNTs. Flowers, sweets, hugs, and greetings, and tears ruled the day. The President of India handed the order copy of HOA abolition or the “order of freedom” in our words. Guddu, Manoj, and I received it. I screamed thankfulness to the entire political fraternity, the Humanitarian organisations, and well-wishers. And particularly the Prime Minister, the Home Minister, the State and Central MPP and PL. In my heart, I thanked the 64 GB pen drive.

  We returned to Ahmedabad with the order copy. Chharanagar celebrated, and the gatekeepers also rejoiced. The government declared a sponsorship program and mandated primary education for DNT children.

  The nation discovered the DNTs. Hah. They learnt more about our tribe than we do.

  The celebrations continued. It would be lifelong. Every day we visited different departments for related works. We appealed to the Police Chief to free the thousands of members around the country trapped under “Habitual Offenders” rule. The Commissioner, after completion of formalities, ordered their discharge. As a ceremonial event, he invited us to receive our tribesmen held at Satkarnagar Station. The Gujarat Chief Minister too volunteered to participate.

  The ceremony was pre-planned. I would open the cell and bring the Chharas out. Guddu would present them with a flower bouquet. We would move to campus and release white doves along with the CM. And head to Chharanagar. The Commissioner’s office would subsequently inform all stations to discharge humans held as Habitual Offenders.

  The police heads checked in. An hour later, the CM arrived and energised the media men. The CM lectured on liberty and equality and how his government uplift the oppressed. I whispered to the Commissioner, ‘Sir, the oppressed are still in prison.’ The Police Chief informed the CM’s Secretary who communicated it to the bragging CM. The CM blushed, concluded his speech and signalled for the ceremony to begin.

  The Commissioner took me to the Inspector who presented him a salute and welcomed us. He received the order copy and was directed to free the 23 detained Chhara men.

  A hundred-plus overenthusiastic Chharas and Media men surrounded the lock-up. They jumped and pushed others to witness the proceedings. The police stood away.

  A policeman guided me towards the cell where a constable waited with the keys. I smiled and extended my hand. He pricked his right ear and simpered. I scratched my cheek and darted glances around. I verified the protocol with Guddu, and he whispered the confirmation. Then why was the policeman not giving the keys? I asked again. He scratched his belly with his forefinger and flashed a shying smile. God-damn. He expected a bribe? To grease his palm so he would release my men, on PM’s order, among a crowd that includes his bosses and media? Damn him. Pity his innocence and ignorance of my 64 GB pen drive’s power. Hah. For the first time in life, I, being an Indian, a Chhara, and a builder, felt ashamed to pay a bribe. But that constable would surely progress in life for his guts.

  ‘Give me the keys,’ I boomed. He jerked and handed them over. I opened the cell. The 23 m
en gushed out and jumped on me. Chants of “Freedom, Freedom” rocked the station. The CM released one pigeon, which fluttered and rested on the station’s window. His subordinates shooed it away, and the gathering applauded. I freed the other two, and the ceremony ended as planned. That innocent constable kept brushing me for a note with Gandhiji’s smiling face. But Mahatma Gandhi had no role in Chharas freedom. Had there been an Indian currency with a pen drive image, I would have happily gifted it to every policeman. Not my fault.

  Exhausted, I sank into bed at 2 am. At 5 am, I jumped out due to the dream. A pleasing one, though. I doused the baby’s burning hut and stepped in and spotted Munni. She giggled. She showed me her chocolate and hid it behind her. The vision continued in slow motion. Her fair countenance gleamed, and blonde hair fluttered with the wind. She flashed a smile and offered me her sweet. I awakened. I considered it a sign of mercy from the universal God and the baby’s soul. Like a rock, I lay in bed, but the tears streamed. My heart and mind experienced peace, and I enjoyed the bliss. That was happiness for me.

  I remained awake. I finished my breakfast and dressed up early. The clock struck 8 am, and I left for Naroda Patia. The well of death deserved to be my sacred pilgrimage place. A visit there replenished me with relief, hope, and energy. The residents treated me as a regular guest. They would invite me into their homes and offer refreshments. They adored me and always showered prayers and blessings on me.

  I proceeded to Chharanagar and attended the chores for a recently liberated community.

  Many groups and individuals insisted to me to lead the DNTs. They pressed me to form a political group and contest elections. I rejected the very idea of it. Yet, my mind imagined my party symbol as ‘pen drive.’

  Chapter—39

  A Life Blossoms

  On 5th March, I attended felicitation programs that went on non-stop for the whole day. People honoured me with garlands, and my entire being smelt like a garden. As I slipped into bed at midnight, I received a call from Zaheer. My pregnant wife craved chocolates and was summoning me to provide her.