The Heat and Dust Project

by Saurav Jha

  ‘We are?’ I ask, flabbergasted. This is the first I am hearing of Mathura.

  ‘We can’t hang around and haemorrhage money here. Hurtling pace.’ He snaps his fingers.

  ‘Oh nice,’ Neel says. ‘If it weren’t for the date-type thing with Norkim, I could have come.’

  ‘Neel,’ I tell him meanly, ‘how much did the tutorial charge for these classes?’

  ‘Don’t be such a killjoy.’ He scowls. ‘Seventy-six thousand. I am not going anywhere. I will attend classes on the Constitution of India. Happy?’

  38

  It is possible that we have finally morphed into travellers. Our constant bickering from last evening eases as soon as we sit in the bus to Mathura. I feel a little flicker of good cheer inside; S relaxes perceptibly. We begin to find each other tolerable again. We can even bear to laugh at each other’s jokes. People crowd in, bringing the distinctive smells from their worlds: Paan Parag, travel, ittar, besan batter for pakoras. The conductor jabbers away with the driver. Salesmen get in from the front door and after showcasing their wares – peanuts, amla digestives, Chinese toys and pirated Hindi books – exit from the rear. The familiarity soothes us both. Paharganj had dulled us into an uneasy stupor; we are glad to be on our way.

  The moment the bus leaves the depot (the noisy, smelly, insanely crowded Sarai Kale Khan), my phone begins to ring. It’s an unknown number, and initially, the reception is scratchy. Finally I realize it’s Zvika.

  ‘Hey guys,’ I say, ‘so great to hear from you. Where are you? Still in Rishikesh?’

  ‘Just reached Delhi,’ he says. ‘Paharganj. We’ve checked into Hotel “Yes Please” (snicker, snicker). You?’

  I groan. ‘We were in Paharganj till this morning! We’ve just left for Mathura in a bus. It’s near Agra. You guys have already done Agra, no? Damn. We’d have loved to see you.’

  Zvika conveys this to Motty in Hebrew and we hear twin groans.

  ‘So much bad luck! Anyway, we thought we’ll check with you guys once in case you were here.’

  ‘How long will you be in Paharganj?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Zvika says. ‘There is so much to see. Your country is just too big. We have to go to the south also. I want to start travelling tomorrow itself. But Motty wants to wait a little. Rest. Like an old man. Rishikesh was really great. How were your journeys?’

  ‘Lovely, very lovely. So SJ will email you our coordinates then. Is this your new number?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve finally got a SIM card. So, happy journey then.’

  ‘Have a good time in Paharganj. Try the German Bakery, okay. Give my love to Motty.’

  Our initial euphoria wanes a little when we find how very slowly this particular bus moves on the highway, stopping again and again. And then some more. It seems to be waiting for passengers who have not even left their homes yet. I try reading a book I nicked from the Paharganj hotel – a novel with the intriguing title London Is the Best Place in America, but soon it begins to get shadowy outside. There is no real light inside the bus. In any case, I cannot remember too many details of this journey. The notes are cryptic. Make what you will of this scrawl:

  Haryana:

  1. ‘Hell or Helmet – Your choice.’

  2. Vandalized stadium.

  Our co-passengers are also quite the traveller’s delight. They spit incessantly from the windows. Sometimes they clear their throats in elaborate fugues before spitting. In between the spitting and the chatting, they find time to shell groundnuts briskly and pop them into their mouths. At dusk, we stop at a local dhaba. When we get up to disembark, in the grey light spooling in from a couple of tube lights outside, we find the floor of the bus strewn with groundnut shells. There is constant crunching underfoot.

  The dhaba is in the middle of a depressing clearing by the road. Eatery, corner shop, perhaps even animal shelter of sorts (several large pigs sleep contentedly in a muddy patch). Men line up against the back wall to pee. We stretch our legs and look elsewhere. Giant billboards on either side of the road proclaim the leadership of certain Yadav strongmen who, they would have us believe, are deeply involved in the development of their constituency. I am irresistibly drawn by the aroma of frying – a powerful smell of old oil that masks the stench of urine – and we share a giant double-fried alu paratha. It is greasy and satisfying in a primal way. I can’t find a ladies toilet, and in sheer annoyance, buy a large bar of Cadbury’s to distract myself.

  Our co-passengers have congregated by the bus, and now that they have eaten their fill, they are burping happily and wiping greasy hands on flimsy serviettes a young boy is handing out along with the parathas. One woman hitches up her sari to clean her kid’s ass, having secured a tumbler of water from the dhaba (she’s thrifty, does not believe in spending fifteen rupees to buy a bottle of water). The boy looks impassively at the crowd around, many of whom smile at him and make small talk. The mother finally throws the dirty diaper under the bus, soaps her hands, adjusts her sari coyly and then clambers up with the little boy.

  By the time the driver and conductor finish their meals, it is pitch-dark. Bats hover above our heads in the inky air. I look at S, who is sporting a long face. ‘Who died?’ I ask him, but he just shakes his head.

  ‘I am beginning to worry now. Check the time. Given the bloody speed of this bus, it doesn’t seem likely we’ll get to Mathura before nine.’

  Ten:

  How to Row Your Boat Ashore

  ‘Goodbye, Professor Godbole,’ she continued, suddenly agitated. It’s a shame we never heard you sing.

  ‘I may sing now,’ he replied, and did.

  His thin voice rose, and gave out one sound after another. At times there seemed rhythm, at times there was the illusion of a Western melody. But the ear, baffled repeatedly, soon lost any clue, and wandered in a maze of noises, none harsh or unpleasant, none intelligible. It was the song of an unknown bird. Only the servants understood it. They began to whisper to one another. The man who was gathering water chestnut came naked out of the tank, his lips parted with delight, disclosing his scarlet tongue. The sounds continued and ceased after a few moments as casually as they had begun – apparently halfway through a bar, and upon the subdominant.

  ‘Thanks so much; what was that?’ asked Fielding.

  ‘I will explain in detail. It was a religious song. I placed myself in the position of a milkmaiden. I say to Shri Krishna: “Come! Come to me only.” The God refuses to come. I grow humble and say: “Do not come to me only. Multiply yourself into a hundred Krishnas, and let one go to each of my hundred companions, but one, O Lord of the Universe, come to me.” He refuses to come. This is repeated several times. The song is composed in a raga appropriate to the present hour, which is the evening.

  ‘But He comes in some other song, I hope?’ said Mrs Moore, gently.

  ‘Oh no, He refuses to come,’ repeated Godbole, perhaps not understanding her question. ‘I say to Him, Come, come, come, come, come, come. He neglects to come.’

  Ronny’s steps had died away, and there was a moment of absolute silence. No ripple disturbed the water, no leaf stirred.

  — E.M. Foster, A Passage to India

  39

  It is long past nine and apparently past bedtime in this strange new town.

  And yet, though this is the impulse of the hour, it is only a half-truth. It is neither strange – since I was a child, Mathura featured heavily in the Krishna lore one heard and so it is familiar in a profoundly non-literal way – nor new. In fact, Mathura is one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in India. If in the age of the Buddha, it is recorded that Mathura suffered from bad roads, dust storms and an infestation of wild dogs, between the second century bc and third century ad, it was a leading metropolis on the trade route, renowned for its magnificence, prosperity and the generosity of its populace.

  We sway on a rickshaw, squashed together
, bags and all. The buildings are silent in the dark. A few windows gleam yellow or white behind thin curtains, but the cold seems to have lowered a net on the neighbourhood. Though the bazaar where we found the rickshaw was full of people, here, in the old part of Mathura, near the ghats, there seems to be no one about. The houses and dharmashalas, imposing structures with traditional facades, are impassive in the night. Shops are shuttered. Kiosks are locked up. Street lamps are few and far between, and where one finds them, the copper light they pour on the uneven littered streets invariably throws into relief one or two thin men, all muffled up, walking briskly or cycling. At one point I look up to the sky and, on the tangle of wires running past a derelict building, at least a hundred grey pigeons are asleep. I point them out to S. But he remains grim, disinterested in anything but the destination. I strain my ears. Is that the lapping of water?

  The bus had dropped us off at the highway and after walking nearly half a kilometre, we came to a bazaar where we found our rickshaw-wallah. He knew the place we’d booked in the old town and agreed to go, but he did warn us it would take a while. We had no option but to agree.

  When we finally arrive, I realize that we have struck a good bargain. The hotel, a Bengali-run establishment, is on the Bengali Ghat and looks on to the hauntingly beautiful black river. The raja of Burdwan had this ghat built on the Yamuna, and the hotel, across the road which runs along the ghats, is built on a plot of land that was granted by the raja. Ever since Gaudiya Vaishnavism was established in eastern India by Chaitanya hundreds of years ago, devotees from Bengal have been flocking to Mathura. It is a simple but substantial building, redolent of Bengali architecture from north Calcutta, pale yellow with red stripes marking its shuttered windows, now shabby with age. The durwan has been waiting for us, and greets us in Bengali. A middle-aged man quickly emerges from inside, the quintessential dada of Calcutta neighbourhoods, wearing a woollen cap and brown sweater, speaking a faintly accented Bengali. We get done with formalities in a trice. He takes us upstairs to our room which is ready.

  The house has been designed in the traditional way, a central courtyard ringed by a corridor with trabeate arches and rooms that open on both sides to ensure cross-ventilation. There is substantial jaali work on the whitewashed walls. The corridor is dusty. Coolers and unused furniture clutter the corners. Since we’ve been given discounted rates (I’d spoken to the owner’s wife in Bengali), we don’t get a room with a view of the river, but if we walk down the corridor, there is an open space at the end commanding fine views. The room is cosy. The mosaic work – a pattern in green, yellow, white and brown – is reminiscent of old Calcutta too, but the wood panelling on two of the walls is more like in hill stations than in pilgrim towns. I immediately ask for a cup of tea. I’ve not had any tea in the evening, and it’s given me a headache. There is a little carved wooden desk in the corner with a matching mirror angled on it, and that is where I write my notes as I sip the very milky tea. S freshens up in the bathroom. In anticipation of our arrival, the staff have kept two veg thalis for us.

  We eat in the dining room downstairs, and the food is hot and evocative of home. Masur dal with nigella seeds – that underrated spice not used too often in north India but a mainstay of Bengali cuisine. Alu bhaja. Begun bhaja. Fine-grained rice. Afterwards, we walk to the river. There are marble benches and a cupola-like structure on the ghat that gleams in the dark. A boat is moored just off the steps and it bobs about. The breeze bears a suggestion of spirits and other creatures in the distance, but neither of us speaks out their names. We investigate the lane at either end, though the dark imposing houses are silent and reveal nothing. We return to sit on the benches. Far away, the water and the night sky meet. On the back of the breeze comes a soft slow rhythmic hum, but we can’t be sure of its source. Suddenly there is a flash of white which recalls me to the present.

  A swan?

  With a graceful gait, it glides on the black waters, slowly coming into focus.

  And then we see it. It is not a swan, but a pelican. And far more majestic.

  ‘Is it a good omen?’ I ask S, who seems delighted at its appearance.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He smiles.

  It is half past eleven, and in the stillness of the night we hold hands for a while. A fine mist begins to cloud the surface of the river and then, as it sometimes happens, the mood dims perceptibly. A certain reserve descends on us. A sense that we will never be able to paraphrase what we feel here, now, enters our throats and holds us back, even as we feel the thing. But what is the thing?

  Neither of us voices are doubts aloud, perhaps for fear of disappointing the other – though the other has already disappointed and been disappointed. I stare at the undulating river until my thoughts are lost. The pelican is gone.

  ‘Can we come back here again – and live for a month?’

  ‘But we’ve just arrived,’ he says, surprise registering in his voice.

  ‘Still,’ I say. ‘We will come back once more – and that time I shall know.’ Know what to do with these sensations.

  Abruptly, I get up and turn to go in.

  Something has soured in me and I am not sure what it is. Perhaps it is just exhaustion.

  40

  The next morning we wake up late and have breakfast, if not in bed, then near enough. S eats at the table in the corner while I recline against the bedpost and chew. Alu parathas served with tomato sauce, yet another Bengali quirk. The strange sourness in me last night has now been transmitted to S. He checks his mail in silence, addresses some of his correspondence. I walk down to the common verandah. The sun has climbed high. The river is bright. People are walking past the river but the steps of the ghat are deserted. The boat we saw last night is no longer there. I come back to the room and see S lying down, palms crossed on his chest.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask him.

  ‘Do you think I should sign a contract with that power magazine and do a couple of articles for them every month?’

  I know which power magazine he’s talking about. Somebody we know has just joined as the editor. (The guy is a bit psychotic – he’d killed seven cats in his childhood. Told us so himself quite casually. He used to be a colleague of S’s at one time – and to all appearances is a clever, suave chap. Hopefully reformed.)

  ‘Will they pay well?’

  ‘Decent, I guess, but before that I will have to meet them in Delhi.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘They haven’t said yet. The day the promoters of the magazine come from Bombay. I am still not sure I should say yes though.’

  ‘If it’s a regular gig, it’s not such a bad thing, is it?’ I remark, sitting down on the bed next to him. Fact is, I am a bit stretched by the constant worry about money that itches just below the skin and shoots nervous tics up and down. It’s exhausting. I lie down next to him and say, ‘I know it’s soul-killing. But still. Worrying constantly about money is soul-killing too.’

  He grunts something in reply.

  We lie still, my right foot lightly touching his left. Outside our window, a pair of mynahs nip and trot on the sill and their shadows do the same on the opposite wall, the one that faces us. A pale yellow wall with paint peeling where the door hinges.

  Finally, S gets up.

  ‘So I’ll write to them then and say I am interested. If I can get a connection, that is. The Internet is patchy. Not sure if the photon will connect. Do you want to get ready for the day?’

  I begin to root for clothes in the backpacks. If there is a laundry service here, we should get a few of our clothes cleaned and be prepared for the onward journey. I have no idea where we will go next. Every time I think about it, a window slams shut in my head. It’s peculiar. The mynahs fly away, and their place is immediately taken by a pair of pigeons who coo dramatically. Their shadows seem fatter, now that the sun is higher still.

  Lunch is served in the dining room
at one. It’s a Bengali veg thali again, though with items different from last night’s dinner. The paneer is made in the traditional style, with cumin and ginger paste; the grains of rice are fluffy and separate. We lick our fingers clean. Dada gets the plates cleared and tells us the Chaubey-jis want to meet us now, if we are free. They are in the next room. ‘The Chaubey-jis?’ S asks. What dada tells us in Bengali, casting dark glances at the next room, translates into roughly this: the hotel is owned and run by a Bengali family but the Chaubey-jis have some sort of stake in it too. Sweat equity or whatever, going back many years. They are locals – priests perhaps, I gather from the name – who have been sort of associated with this hotel for many years as guardians and liaison men. It is all a bit vague. But dada’s loyalty is to the Bengali owners and he considers these people outsiders who merely stir up trouble and muddy

  the waters.

  When we enter the next room, the elder of the two men welcomes us. He is in a white dhoti and cream kurta, holding on to a stately lathi even as he sits. I have a feeling he likes to bang it on the ground to emphasize a point. The younger man, whom he introduces as his nephew, is busy organizing chairs for us. The nephew wears grey trousers and chappals, a brown sleeveless sweater over a cream half-shirt. A navy-blue muffler is folded on his shoulder like a gamchha might be in summer.

  ‘I have heard that the Chaubey-jis of Mathura are great gourmands,’ S says.

  It is clearly a good opener. The old man laughs happily and tells us that it is one hundred per cent true. And which other place can boast of butter, ghee and cream as authentic as those of Braj? The land where the lord himself was a cowherd!

  It is, however, quickly established by S that we have not come here on a religious tour. Implicit in this is the conviction that we are not going to need their services after all, and we don’t want to waste their time. But the two men, though their earlier shine is dimmed, remain seated. They seem eager to chat even though business is not likely. The old man begins a discussion on UP politics. The politicians are corrupt and thuggish. They appear only at election time, and their philosophy is jiski lathi uski bhains. The public is sheep-like. There is unbelievable inflation. Sugar is at forty-four rupees a kilo now! That Sharad Pawar, sugar baron, single-handedly responsible for this. And how much more money laundering, how much more? All the money raised in the name of cleaning the Yamuna has been siphoned off. Good DMs come occasionally but they are not allowed to work by the politicians. The rest are corrupt to the core. There was one Dr Harikrishna Paliwal – a legend among DMs. His children used to go to school in a rickshaw, his wife never wore a sari worth more than three hundred rupees. But how many like him are there?