The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  There is nothing unnatural in the world. Nasti akrath krtena—the uncreated is not created by an action, says the Mundakopanishad. Krta—what is created or made; Akrta—what is not created, something real (vastu) that exists without being created. And the same vastu is presented in other Upanishads as satyam, truth. So much simpler to be ignorant and prejudiced, isn’t it?

  Yes, prejudices are comforting, like pasta and dal—you don’t have to think. You can order without looking at the menu. Satyam Shivam Sundaram was quite a hit but flew over the cuckoo’s nest. Nothing is born, nothing dies. Is, is all there is.

  No worries if all this sounds like Greek or Latin or Sanskrit or Tamil. Language is your friendly foe in this game of hop, skip and jump. That square to the left is moksha. If you have language, you may wield power, but if you wield power, you don’t need any language. Money speaks, wealth whispers. You can call people vermin and expect them to bow to your declarations just because you wield power. It is the ‘bigger car’ thing. It shows itself by the number of fountains you have in your garden, by the length and the breadth of your bookshelf in your drawing room. It shows in the way you stand in front of mountains and oceans or underneath the splendid vastness of a clear night sky.

  It shows in the way you stand in front of humans you think are more powerful than you.

  In the grand scheme of things there is no other. The vermin, the venerated and the vomit is you. In your bend is your bent. There is a distinct one in India, called the Indian crouch—rounded shoulders, heads down, repeating the last word that sounds important. Packing order, packed like sardines in a box. You don’t exist, musafir, and neither does your boss. The Chandogyopanisad says, before creation, this world existed only in sat. Correct. Saturday. Since ‘sat’ existed before the creation of this world and your laptop and your neighbour’s golf clubs, it includes time and is outside the concept of time. Eternal. Aparajit. Your atman is satyam. You are satyam. Kun faya kun.

  So many of us still wonder why vegetarian cows that were fed offal turned ‘mad’. What else can we do when we are so crippled by our own arrogance that we dare to interfere with nature? How else are we supposed to behave when we have no idea how that unknown part of our brain functions? No seriously, we must not blame ourselves. We are looking for ropes to tie the muses, the air, the fire, the atman, the invisible. A rope to tie the nas. Nasbandhi.

  Sterilisation. The Emergency. The young and the old, the dying and the dead. We know about the dramatic suspension of civil and political rights across the country, but how much do we really know about what happened to people who were not human? They were a number, a quota, a quantity from a certain direction. It was an identity. I am sterilised, therefore I am alive. I can no longer reproduce because I am a bhangi, a musahur, a shudra, a paryan. Too many of us rats anyway. It was the miracle cure to get a ration card which could eventually, in the next life, lead to a passport. This life, universe, past life, energy, next-life quantum leap, but for the here and now, it will have to be a frog. Not necessarily in a well—a free frog.

  In twenty-first century India, there are wells from which some men must not drink. There are homes where the underlings must not cast a shadow that precedes them.

  Make a note to yourself to send a note to the sun to shine only on you.

  In some parts of the country, women, children and men are massacred every day because they dared to or just happened to be standing on the wrong side of the road. Women are burned to extol unknown virtues and absolve society of some collective karma. Like one hundred jumbo jets crashing every day. Collective karma or human error? Collective stupidity or curse?

  What, then, is the probability that nothing has started and therefore nothing will end? Maya is also the name of a civilisation. In this grand cosmic dance, we are all toys but some are made in China. So they must be destroyed. They are inferior and of poor quality and cannot go on forever like Duracell. Brahmin blood, Thakur blood, French bread, brown bread, universal dread.

  The fear of the invisible is greater when accountability is higher. The fear of not mattering is heightened every time a bigger car, the fifteenth carpet, the sixth yacht and the fourth island is acquired. For it is the same people who say: what is all this—we come naked and go naked. This is karma.

  By that token, we should all be walking around naked. Maybe some of us are. We are a land of over 1.2 billion visible and an equal number invisible. Satyam and asatyam?

  We get enamoured by the visible revolutions. What of the hundreds of invisible revolutions that take place around us all the time? And within. Are they bloody, too? Do they wither away without reaching their ends?

  Simon said silence like a cancer grows. But Simon was neither Greek nor Indian. He was just an out-of-work rhymester strumming his guitar and manufacturing melodies along with his college chum. So now we will be taught philosophy by college kids, huh. They will write Iliads; they will pen Upanishads, huh. Get away, man. You’ve lost your harmonica.

  Silence like a cancer grows. It grows and grows and grows until it infects every last cell inside of us, and then it begins to ooze out like pus from our every pore, waiting to infect others. But this is where it fails, this is where the silent revolution meets its end. Because we have Tata Memorial. Followed by a stiff course of chemo to ebb this growth of silence. We make silence benign all over again.

  What is it that you were doing for the last 5,000 years? Yes, good, carry on, carry on.

  We can’t see the invisible running. We can only hear their receding footsteps. Thank God, we say, thank God they are receding.

  Everything you see will live after you. Now go and clean your street and post a selfie. Don’t cover your nose. You are smelling elsewhere.

  Only when the invisible becomes visible does the boy become a man.

  Invisible no more. No more.

  5

  2004—The Naked and the Dead

  Hato, hato,’ cried SP Kharbanda, slicing through the crowded platform with his baint.

  It was an important day and his edginess was palpable. Ajay felt embarrassed at his subordinate’s antics, more so, when he heard the whispered curse from a passer-by: ‘Saala mamu. Look at him get his path cleared by that oaf.’ He squirmed and decided to intervene.

  ‘Arey Kharbanda, where’s our car, bhai? These foot-overbridges never seem to end.’

  ‘…coming, from, Firozpur, going, to, Mumbai, the, nine, zero, two, four, Firozpur, Mail, via, Faridkot…’

  ‘Bas sir, only three-four minutes,’ answered Kharbanda, his nose hair flipping in and out, now visible, now hidden, in step with his deep, beefy breaths.

  ‘…Kapura, Gangsar, Jaitu, Goneana, Kotli, Kalan, Budhlada, Bareta, Jakhal, Tohana, Narwana…’

  ‘You said that ten minutes ago.’

  ‘…Uchana, Jind, Julana, Rohtak, Ismaila…’

  ‘Bas, sir.’

  ‘I hope you also understand my problem of the…’

  SP Kharbanda was insistent. ‘Bas sir, in a minute.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  The zigzagging became more frantic. ‘Arey, move. Hut udhar...ji, sir, please come…’

  The two eventually made it to the VIP car park. SP Kharbanda brought himself to a stop. ‘Here we are, sir. Nice and open. Just give me a minute…oye. Arey, driver?’

  While Ajay steamed his glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief, SP Kharbanda walked a full circle around him, completing the first of the seven vows. Ajay realised Kharbanda’s discomfiture and tried to help.

  ‘I think those gentlemen by that paan shop might be the ones you are shouting for.’

  ‘Haan, sir...arey, driver? Oye inspector. Yes, you there.’

  Bidi, paan and gutkha were cast off at once as the coterie scrambled towards the epicentre. The inspector thought it fit to offer what, to him, felt like a reasonable explanation. ‘Sorry, sir, we had just gone for a–’

  SP Kharbanda exploded. ‘Shut up. Ban-cho, is this what you are paid for? Haan?’ />
  The inspector apologised, head firmly down. ‘Very sorry, sir.’

  ‘Saalon, I’ll demote each one of you. And you—Kuljit. Kaminey, have you forgotten you were a do-paisa taxi driver once?’

  Ajay tried to calm things down. ‘Leave it, Kharbanda; let’s just get on with it.’

  ‘No no, sir, these ban-chos need to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘I said, Kharbanda, you do realise, what I told you…about...’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir...saalon, you are having paan, smoking beedi, when DIG saab here has to go for soo-soo?’

  Ajay could not believe his ears. ‘Kharbanda!’

  ‘Ji? Oh. Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to...’

  ‘I said that’s enough! Bloody chuck it all—I’ll just take a taxi.’

  ‘Arey no no, sir,’ pleaded Kharbanda, his forehead embossed with wrinkles that resembled the ruts to a quarry on a rainy day. ‘Here, please, get in. Inspector. Air condition on—full blast.’

  Inspector Ghorpade slammed shut one of the back doors after Ajay had clambered in, and then ran around to open the other for SP Kharbanda. Look busy, he thought. ‘Ji, sir.’

  ‘You and Ramesh and Omnath follow in the decoys.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  SP Kharbanda ducked his head through the window even though the door was wide open. ‘Sir, shall I join you? At the back, I mean. Otherwise no problem, no problem, I’ll follow in the decoy.’

  ‘No, Kharbanda, please, get in. We need to talk—it’s important.’

  Kharbanda felt as though he had been knighted. The few and well-oiled tufts that were allowed to lengthen naturally on one side so they could be indentured and brought all the way to the other in multiple arches, those well-oiled tufts were no longer at their prearranged places, exposing the bald head. Kharbanda did the needful, then wiped his palm on the back of his trousers. ‘Yes, sir…chalo driver—and not less than sixty, you understand.’

  ‘Sir,’ responded Kuljit the driver, in a manner befitting more an army major than a ‘do-paisa’ taxi driver.

  With sirens blaring, the Ambassador shot through the heavy traffic, which had already been parted for it by one of the decoys.

  SP Kharbanda continued where he had left off. ‘I am sorry about all this, what just happened, sir. I really am.’

  ‘Leave it, Kharbanda. And stop behaving like I am the home minister.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I think before we begin, you should know. The directive has come from the very top...can we talk safely here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, absolutely. Driver, do you understand?’

  Kuljit shouted through the Ambassadorial cacophony. ‘Ji, sir, I am able to understand.’

  SP Kharbanda was not quite sure if Kuljit’s answer was to his satisfaction but he thought it best to say and ask less. ‘He understands, sir.’

  ‘Good. There’s talk of president’s rule in Maharashtra. You with me?’

  ‘Err…’

  ‘The directive is to—well—to confirm that the killing of Saane was at the Opposition’s behest.’

  SP Kharbanda acted as though the air had finally been cleared. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Personally, I am quite pleased that this Saane was cleaned up.’

  ‘Yes, sir, me too. He was a real bastard. Saala.’

  ‘You might not be aware of how extensive his...’

  ‘Believe me, sir, it is no secret. The bastard was all set to give away thousands of hectares of agricultural land for all this SEZ-Ves-EZ tamashaa.’

  ‘All that and...’

  ‘Imagine, sir, how much he must have made in the deal.’

  ‘Yes, now we...’

  ‘And here we are, not sure whether we’ll be transferred to Leh or Ladakh next.’

  ‘Well, anyway, to come back to...’

  ‘I tell you, sir, we are wasting our time in this force. Politics is the real deal, Sirji.’

  ‘Well, Kharbanda, if we could...’

  ‘Sometimes I think I should go back to my pind and...’

  ‘Kharbanda!’

  SP Kharbanda bit his lower lip. ‘Oh, sorry sir, sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so as I was saying, once my team’s job is done, the case will be transferred to the CBI. You see, Kharbanda, this is a masterstroke.’

  ‘I don’t get what...’

  ‘The centre doesn’t want the CBI first up. They know the Opposition in Delhi will start crying foul—the CBI is this…that, a puppet, pawn. You get me?’

  SP Kharbanda scratched his stubble, a greyish-black tinge that was threatening to take over the face and neck. ‘A little, sir.’

  ‘So now we do the dirty work, we furnish proof that Saane was done in by the Opposition, and once we have done this, once we have wiped the shit, IG saab will simply wriggle his ass and pull the flush.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Arey hand over the file to CBI, I mean.’

  ‘Now I get you, sir. The ban-cho minister-jaat, sir. Oh, sorry, sir.’

  ‘Arey relax, Kharbanda. In fact—just between you and me—the IG has been promised a plum post once all this is over.’

  ‘Must be, sir.’

  ‘The real aim here is to deploy president’s rule.’

  SP Kharbanda enquired, childlike. ‘But why, sir?’

  ‘Arey bhai, how do I know. These things don’t filter through to our in-trays, what. There must be a pucca plan. So, now you are completely in the picture, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So can we begin? We haven’t much time, you understand.’

  ‘Yes sir, I’ll start from the very beginning.’

  ‘And be brief—speaking of which, I am again reminded of my…thirty-five minutes gone already, Kharbanda.’

  ‘Bas sir, in three-four minutes. We have…yes, we are past Naoroji Road.’

  ‘Good. So tell me.’

  SP Kharbanda shuffled his bottom on the deep cushions of the back seat, sinking a little deeper. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be brie…I’ll start. Your mission is accomplished, sir—even before you have made your hands dirty on this case.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Indeed, Saane saab was killed through a supari. A fellow named Kitla, an underworld gang member, he cleaned up Saane. One shot. Here—between the eyes. Unfortunately, before we could determine that Kitla was the man who did this, the bastard was washed and dried in a police encounter. We...’

  ‘An “honest” police encounter?’

  SP Kharbanda pinched his Adam’s apple. ‘Yes, sir. God promise.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘We apprehended a sleeper. From his mobile we discovered that he—Dev is his name—was in regular contact with Kitla.’

  ‘If he was a sleeper, why was he in regular contact?’

  Ban-cho. Didn’t think of that, did I, thought SP Kharbanda. ‘Err, sir, the regular contact was in the last three-four days only.’

  ‘You and your three-four days. Anyway, go on.’

  ‘So this is where the investigation is at present. We can prove that Dev was in regular contact with Kitla. Kitla belonged to the Mitoo gang and was killed in an encounter. And lastly, sir, the Mitoo gang is on the payroll of the Opposition—I mean the ruling party here but the Opposition in Delhi—of this we have solid proof. So there.’

  ‘All well and good, but how do you know Kitla killed Saane?’

  ‘Sir, this is where the story gets a little complicated.’

  ‘Don’t worry, let it get complicated.’

  ‘Err, yes, sir. Sir, to answer your question, very simply, this is presently a conjecture.’

  ‘Conjecture? A bloody conjecture?’

  ‘But a very good and concrete one, sir, believe me. Please hear me out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Kitla wasn’t there to confess as he was cleaned up a day before Saane was found. But—and here is the crucial fact—this fellow Dev, he was caught red-handed when he was trying to retrieve Kitla’s mobile from the murder scene. Now why would Dev do th
at?’

  ‘Yes, why would he?’

  ‘Precisely because Kitla—the ban-cho monkey that he was—dropped his mobile while he was popping off Saane. He soon realised this and asked Dev to go and get the mobile from the spot. It all adds up, sir, I have double-checked, triple-checked.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on, hang on. Has Dev confessed at all?’

  ‘Err, not yet, sir. You see, he resisted arrest with some force—my sub-inspector was nearly chopped up. So naturally during the arrest, we had to use force as well. Bastard won’t be able to speak for at least a month now.’

  Ajay threw his hands up in the air. ‘Well, that’s just great, Kharbanda. Ban-cho, how am I going to make all this waterproof without a spoken confession?’

  ‘But sir, he signed the confession papers.’

  ‘Not good enough, Kharbanda, you bloody well know that. When this Dev is able to speak—tomorrow, the day after, in a week—what if he denies everything he supposedly confessed to?’

  SP Kharbanda was thinking furiously of some reply. It can’t go all wrong now, he prayed, it just can’t.

  ‘Arey speak up, Kharbanda—throw some ideas at me.’

  A brainwave reached the deserted shore. ‘Sir, this one month time I am absolutely sure of—I’ll wage my ban-cho VIP on it. I have seen his condition.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Err, not good, sir. A miracle if he can eat anything more solid than dalia for a month.’

  ‘Where are you going with this?’

  ‘A month is a long time, sir. In a few days the case will be the CBI’s headache. No?’

  ‘Well, that’s true...’

  ‘And they’ll scream hoarse how they have cracked this case—peddle this Dev story also?’

  ‘Yes…’

  SP Kharbanda was ready with his closing argument. ‘So? If they find their main link in the case has started to bubble up from his ass, well, it’s their headache then, isn’t it?’