Warm sunlight bathed the valley and the houses that surrounded it. Pristine white smoke billowed from the chimneys of slanted roofs. Clear blue sky met fresh green pasture. Tall and strong pine trees broke through the mist and appeared to touch the few cottonwool clouds hurrying past. Horses grazed and children played around them, running excitedly after rabbits that wanted to be caught and cuddled.
A man lay cushioned over the flaming red and yellow leaves of a nearby chinar. Diagonal to him, resting her head on his chest, with her eyes closed, a contented smile on her face, was his young love, dressed in an intricately embroidered pheran and decked in jewellery that sparkled as it caught the sun. Bimla took one last look and then, with one swift run of her right hand, switched the month on the calendar to May.
Meanwhile, outside the mud and tarpaulin shack, the morning sun beat down in all its fury, forcing even the bloodied mongoose and the gaupicchaar to abandon their fight unto death and take shelter under the pitiful shadow of the lone kikar Shimmering translucent waves gushed from the scorched earth, robbing one of all sense of depth, making the kikar amorphous and trembling. And the loo, it howled at the full sun.
Only the vultures were appreciative. They enjoyed the abrupt coming and going, rising and dipping currents and acted dead in order to glide, only to come alive abruptly and plummet earthwards to collect in swarms around a carcass. An emaciated goat scampered across the area in an attempt to ward off a few overanxious vultures, raising a cloud of dust that welcomed Amma as soon as she emerged from the second mud and tarpaulin shack.
The sun hit her at once. She looked up to curse it but remembered it was a God and so stuck her tongue out and tugged at her earlobes. Hurrying across to the other shack, she tripped on the protruding root of a pipal stump. Now she did mumble a curse and, while dusting her sari and counting her bruises, noticed that one side wall was covered in sarkari posters. She was irritated by the vandalism of it—the posters seemed to have been pasted in a hurry. Amma could not read or write, and so could not understand what the posters meant. She could only appreciate their artistic quality—she liked a couple of them and many a time would even be thrilled that her walls had been chosen for defacement. But this collection appalled her. There was no figure or scenery, or a sunflower or even a flag—this one just had writing all over, that too in bold red. Amma could not know that it read STERILISE AND LIVE LIFE, and then in the next line, HUM DO HAMARAY DO. She went around the shack and angrily called out the name of her tenth child.
‘Kalki?’ she screamed, and then searched for the familiar response: the clang of a hastily dropped tin or a catapult, the frantic run of little legs. She paused and strained her ears, but other than the gargling drone of the loo and the brisk fluttering of a tarpaulin end, there was little else on offer. Livid, she butted the husk-and-cane door open and rushed inside.
Amma froze, then jerked back in response to what she thought was right in front of her—of all things, a snake charmer absorbed in his act, his cheeks puffed to their bursting point, swaying his ‘been’ and making imaginary infinity signs with his head.
Amma thought she was hallucinating—it must be the sun. But it was Bimla on her haunches, blowing air strenuously through a wooden pipe to resurrect the chulha.
Upon hearing the muffled drag of the makeshift door against the earth, Bimla paused momentarily and turned around. Through the dense blue smoke, she saw an imposing silhouette poised on the threshold, hands on waist, legs taut and apart, hair all over the place. Maa Kaali, no less. As the tears spread thin and her eyes adjusted, she realised it was her mother.
The silhouette approached, turning to flesh. Bimla hardened, her little palms wrapped tightly around the wooden pipe, the pipe clamped in between her teeth. Out of breath, she waited.
‘Bimla,’ cried Amma. ‘Have you seen Kalki? I am going to thrash him.’
Bimla removed the wooden pipe from her mouth and gulped some spit.
‘But, Mai, I thought he told you where he was going.’
‘Why, where has the rascal gone?’
‘Bholaji came running in a few minutes ago. Said he needed Kalki and four other musahur boys for the panchayat entertainment.’
‘And you allowed him to go?’
‘But Mai, Bholaji was adamant. He even snatched the slate chalk away from Kalki and his friends—they were all off to school, you see. I think it was Lokender and Chander and...’
‘When did all this happen? Where was I?’
‘Only a few minutes ago. All of them rushed to the Thakur well.’
‘What did Bhola say about this, this entertainment?’
‘Nothing much, just that it was a four-five minute job for Kalki and free lunch afterwards.’
Amma strode forward and caught hold of Bimla’s ear, dragging her head along.
‘You gadhi. Anyone walks in and takes my only son away and you just sit there blowing air?’
‘But, Mai, I...’
‘Quiet. Now don’t stand here like a fool. Go and find out what’s happening at the panchayat.’
‘J-ji.’
‘And listen—don’t let yourself be seen. Hide behind the kiln and just observe. And any sign of trouble, you get back here—no, first run and fetch Baba, you understand?’
‘Ji, Mai.’
‘Go, now go. This mui Emergency has come twenty years too late, I am telling you. I’d have been the first in line for my copper-T, compulsory or not. Go.’
Bimla tiptoed out of the shack, then broke into a sprint, swaying and banking like a runaway bullock. Soon, she was at the kiln. She hid behind an unfinished fortification, its protruding bricks forming precise rectangular shadows that brought her some relief from the sun. She removed a loose brick and looked through the peephole. The panchayat was underway. She could see the panchas huddled up in a semicircle on the elevated platform by the Thakur well. Below them and spread all around were their subjects, squatting and fanning themselves with their turbans. The womenfolk were in ghoonghat and sat a fair distance apart. Bimla removed a second brick; now she could hear the conversations and the chit-chat clearly. But her brother was nowhere to be seen. Bimla pressed her face in to get a better look. She could finally make some sense of Badey Thakur’s utterances, his thunderous voice sending a shiver down her spine even at this range. She listened.
At the panchayat, Badey Thakur was getting restless.
‘Arey, Mahender Singhji, enough of chai-shai. Shall we wrap up this panchayat business, this heat is just too much.’
‘Ji, Badey Thakur.’
‘And will someone ever replace the gobar in this hookah?’
‘At once, Badey Thakur. Arey Gajraj, you heard.’
‘And wh…Arey, Panditji, looks like our entertainment has arrived. Are those the five boys my son had asked for?’
‘Oh, they are here already? Ji, Badey Thakur, they are the ones.’
Badey Thakur was not impressed. ‘They look tiny to me, pandat. Why Baldev, what exactly do you have in mind? Your last entertainment special with the bhangi kids didn’t exactly set the house on fire, did it?’
‘All in good time, father, please be patient. I give my word. You won’t be disappointed.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
Baldev tried some patter. ‘Have heard a little about that boy on the right, there. His name is Kalki—same age as our Judev. Judev spotted him catching fish late one night in the Thakur pond. The little rat punched Judev in the face and shot off like lightning. This is going to be good fun.’
‘Alright, then. Bring the boys closer, make them stand in line.’
‘Yes, father.’
Badey Thakur shifted his attention to other matters.
‘Arey, Mahender Singhji, Rajwardhanji.’
‘Ji, Badey Thakur?’
‘Bhai, what is to be done with this sterilisation business?’
‘Hmm, it’s a little tricky, Thakurji.’
‘What is it you say, Rajwardhan?’
‘I said it could be a little tricky, Badey Thakur. I mean, we do need to show the sarkari babu that we have carried out 200 voluntary nasbandhis—if we need that seed and fertiliser subsidy, that is.’
Badey Thakur let go of his hookah. ‘Of course we need it, Rajwardhan. Do you even know how much loss I incurred from the failed crops last year?’
‘Absolutely, Thakurji. We are all with you on this. It’s just that...’
‘Just what?’
‘Just er...’
‘I will tell you, Badey Thakur, Rajwardhan’s maybe feeling shy,’ Mahender added in the awkward pause.
‘Shy? Of what, Mahender Singhji?’
‘Badey Thakur, there is no problem as such. We can have 200, even 400 nasbandhis. It’s just that, er, do we, I mean, do Thakurs need also to participate in this?’
The pandit saw his chance. ‘And if you allow me to speak, even pandits and banias too, Mahender Singhji. Please don’t forget us.’
‘Of course, of course, pandat. Yes, so as I was saying, Badey Thakur, our women are very scared of this, and so, too, are our men. Gajraj was telling me nasbandhi causes terrible after-effects in virile men.’
‘So you mean…?’
‘What I mean—we mean, Badey Thakur, is…can I suggest something?’
Badey Thakur sucked on the hookah robustly. ‘Go on.’
‘I have the last census records with me. It shows there are forty families of bhangis and twenty-four families of musahurs residing in our village.’
‘Not in our village, Mahender Singhji, not in a thousand years!’
‘No no, Badey Thakur, I meant residing on the outskirts. They are well away, you know that. Anyway, that gives us sixty-four families. Each family has at least two adults—that makes it one-twenty, not to mention the many girls and boys between twelve and seventeen. We are looking at no less than 200, 250 nasbandhis. No need to touch Thakurs, pandits and banias.’
‘But would these people agree? Mother and father are alright, but what if they create trouble for the twelve to seventeen year olds?’
‘You don’t worry about it, Badey Thakur, that’s our problem. No Rajwardhanji?’
‘Indeed, Mahender Singhji.’
Badey Thakur scratched his stubble. ‘Hmm. But we have to be smart about this. We’ll start with a pay raise, reduced working hours, free dispensary visits, free school books, that sort of thing.’
‘Pay raise, Badey Thakur?’
‘Don’t start panicking, Mahender Singhji, it’s just a promise, what. Yes, it could work.’
Mahender Singhji thudded his fist into his palm. ‘It will work, it must work, it has to work.’
‘Leave it with me for a few days. Meanwhile, inform the doctor saab—the Thakur one, not that Pandey. Pandits are shaky at these things—no moustache, point two-two.’
‘Yes of course, Badey Thakur.’
‘Also, contact the sarkari. Get him to start preparing the subsidy papers. Make sure we get a hefty sum for all our troubles.’
‘Yes, as soon as possible, Badey Thakur.’
Badey Thakur turned philosophical. ‘This Emergency is good, I tell you. Trains are running on time, villages are prospering, population is coming down. Talk Less, Work More.’
‘Indeed, Badey Thakur.’
‘Alright, now enough of this serious business. Arey Baldev, what’s going on? Is there something planned or not?’
Baldev hurried over. ‘Yes Father, upon your command.’
‘Yes yes, bhai, I haven’t got all day.’
‘Yes Father, at once.’
Baldev turned his attention to the boys. ‘Hey, you lot. Look up. Face the panchas. Start with your jaat, your name, your age, your...’
‘I said, Baldev.’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘Ask them to also tell us how many brothers and sisters they have, and their names. Kyon, Mahender Singhji? Make a note of their names. We’ll get twenty volunteers straight away.’
‘Ji, Badey Thakur. Excellent idea. Shubh kaam mein deri kyon.’
‘Haan then, bhai, Baldev, resume.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Baldev paced the rostrum with renewed urgency. Hands clasped firmly behind his back, head looking up, he roared at the line of pathetic little boys, a few of whom looked as though they’d faint any moment.
‘You, your name is Kalki, no? You start first. Your jaat, name, age, and how many brothers and sisters you have. I said, start.’
Kalki shuffled nervously but managed to somehow overcome his terror. ‘R-respected Badey Thakurji. I am a musahur. My name is Kalki. I am ten years old. I have nine sisters, all elder to me. Their names are Mala, Sarla, Bimla, Bela, Ganga, Jamna, Devki, Nandi and Kamla.’
‘Next.’
‘Respected Badey Thakurji. I am a musahur. My name is Chander. I am twelve. I have four brothers and six sisters. All sisters are elder to us. My four brothers are Ravinder, Dharmendar, Lokender and Inder. My six sisters are Bindiya, Parvati, Santoshi, Sharda, Gopi and Kajri.’
‘These ones…are these your brothers, Chander?’
‘Ji, Badey Thakurji.’
‘Mahender Singhji, have you noted down all the names?’
‘Yes, Badey Thakur. Just one thing—if that Kalki there is the youngest as he said, and ten, then according to me all his sisters should qualify for the voluntary programme.’
‘Yes why not. They are old enough.’
‘And the six sisters of this lot; they should, too.’
‘Yes, of course. So, how many on the list already?’
‘Ten, and eleven, and two parents for each—that’s twenty-five, Badey Thakur.’
‘How many musahur families did you say there are, belonging to our village?’
‘Twenty-four, Badey Thakur.’
Badey Thakur was exultant. ‘Wah. Achaa, now listen. Once we are done here, take Baldev and Ranbir down to their end of the village and get all the names on paper. Tell them Badey Thakur has arranged for free medicines and mosquito nets. And get that Thakur doctor by this evening and put a tent up near the dispensary.’
‘Ji, Badey Thakur.’
‘Well, good. Haan bhai, Baldev. Is this going to take till tomorrow?’
‘Er, no Father…now listen up, boys. You have to play a game, nothing much. You will compete with each other for these—Panditji, please show them—these four rats with stones tied to their tails. The rats will be thrown into this well...’
‘No-no…Baldev. Not our well, never. Rats are still fine, but these musahurs? Have you lost it, boy?’
‘Don’t worry, Father, after the entertainment the water will be purified with gaumutr, as Panditji here assures me.’
Badey Thakur looked suspiciously at the pandit.
‘Pandat?’
‘Ji Badey Thakur, there is nothing the gaumutr cannot purify.’
‘Good. Continue, Baldev.’
Baldev rolled up his kurta sleeve. It slid down. He rolled it up again. ‘Haan, so as soon as you hear the gun, you jump into the well. Don’t worry—Misraji here tells me it is only forty feet deep. And the water is only nine feet. For the first round, we’ll drop four rats for you five boys. The boy with the most number of dead rats to his credit at the end of four rounds will be the winner. We will also bet on you. Badey Thakur himself will decide the odds. If you please, Badey Thakur?’
‘Well, Baldev, what a roundabout way of entertainment, hain. You sure have put some thought into it.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘You want me to set the odds?’
‘Yes, Father, if you please.’
Badey Thakur scratched his cheek thoughtfully. ‘Let me see now. Open your mouths, all of you.’
The boys did so.
‘Good teeth, good teeth. Show you hands. Yes, rough alright. Hmm, I say ninety paise on Kalki, eighty on Chander and the rest…well, they look quite hopeless—make them all fifty paise.’
Baldev was ecstatic. ‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Now hurry up. This is taking too much time.’
Baldev nodded and looked up at the audience. There was a faint smile on his face, the smile of a confident ringmaster.
‘Alright, brothers and sisters. Now’s the time to place some nice bets...You there, yes, you. You, too? Certainly…Panditji, you? Certainly…on Kalki? Yes…and you, Mahender Singhji? On Chander? Seven rupees? Yes, you too sir, why not? Wait, sir…just a minute, let me note it down…Yes of course, and you too…’
Like cows at a cattle auction, the boys stood rooted and wide-eyed, the muscles on their bodies twitching involuntarily, failing even to dislodge the humble fly. Because they had no idea what was happening, what a bet was, what ‘odds’ were, their fear was not total. The bliss of the unknown protected them. But the signs were all of horror, and more.
Chander nudged Kalki with his elbow. ‘Kalki, I think I can’t feel my legs already.’
‘Oh God, Chander, what’s all this? I can’t believe Bholaji would put us up to it.’
‘What do we do, Kalki? Shall we make a run for it? I mean, we could...’
‘Forget it, Chander. These people here—they’ll chase and lynch us. And how can we even get through them?’
‘What was that thing about naming our sisters?’
‘Beats me. Some kind of threat, perhaps. Listen Chander, we just have to do it, understand? You understand?’
The boys began to drift away from each other a little. The youngest among them, Lokender, all of five, noticed a rivulet winding its way slowly from its source towards his two little feet. He hadn’t even realised or felt the wetness over his legs, but now that he was aware, he forgot about the more pressing matter of life and death and began to worry instead about the ridicule his action may bring. He inched his foot out and rubbed the little pool in front of him into the mud.
Badey Thakur was getting restless. ‘Enough now, Baldev. Stop all bets and get on with it.’
‘Er, yes, Father. At your command, we can start the proceedings…how many bets, Panditji?’
‘117, Chotey Thakur. Many have placed multiple bets.’
Baldev was rapturous. ‘Good. Alright boys, to the parapet now. Bhola will help you. Bhola?’
‘Ji Chotey Thakur, at once. Come, you lot.’
Kalki saw his chance. ‘Bholaji, wait till my father gets hold of you.’
‘Shut up, Kalki. Quiet. This is no time for talk. Even my head is on the block, you understand? Now get going and stand alongside, yes, good. Chotey Thakur, they are ready.’
‘Good. The rats now. Panditji?’
‘Ji, here, Chotey Thakur.’
‘Yes, show them to the crowd and throw them in the well one by one.’
‘Ji Chotey Thakur…there.’
‘Great. Now listen up, you boys. Keep an eye out for the signal. You’ll hear the gun go off for every round. Father, if you could please…’
‘Yes yes.’ Badey Thakur snatched the Enfield from Gajraj and raised it in the air, barrels pointing at the sun god. He fired.
‘Alright boys, you heard the gun. Now go, go, go!’
The boys plunged one after the other into the well, making five distinct splashes.
Baldev rushed to the parapet and pulled himself up using Bhola’s hand. He looked into the darkness and began his commentary, egged on by the rapturous crowd.
‘They are in, they are all in, brothers and sisters. Looks like one of them—I think it was Lokender, the youngest—fell right on top of Chander’s head...There’s a mad scramble, I tell you. This is great...’
‘Baldev, a bit louder—the crowd must know what’s happening to their money.’
‘Yes, Father…brothers and sisters, I can see the boys now…’
Meanwhile, down below:
‘Chander?’
‘Kaal-Kalki? Hain-Haan-uunhh!’
‘Sorry! Hain-uunhh. Couldn’t help it, Dharmender—you didn’t spread out fast enough…where’s Chander? Lokender?’
‘Hain-uunhh. Hain-Haan-uunhh!’
‘Chand...Chander?’
‘Kalki, I am here. Where’s Lokender? My brother, where is he?’
‘Don’t panic, don’t panic. Listen, not much time, Chander, only four rats are in here. Means one of us will have to go without them—me. You understand? Let’s do it. You must, for your brothers. Come, on the count of three.’
‘Alright...’
While up above:
‘Yes, brothers and sisters…Lots of thrashing…they look dazed…Lots of crying, too. Hey you, hear me down there? What’s the story? They are there, the three of them. No Chander, no Kalki. This is too much. I can’t believe my eyes. C’mon Kalki, you rat. C’mon Chander! Do it, you bastard...you can do it! Get my money, you musahur. Double it. Triple it! Get it. Get the rat...’
Badey Thakur was thrilled. ‘Why, Mahender Singhji, this seems to have gotten the crowd excited. Look at them shouting and screaming. I tell you, the secret is always money. Get money involved and see them bastards wallow. They didn’t sound as excited when I told these of my plan to buy three new tractors, did they?’
‘No, they didn’t, Badey Thakur. Your boy seems to have hit the bullseye with this invention of his.’
‘He sure has, my good boy. I tell you, blood is after all blood, Mahender Singhji.’
‘It sure is, sure is, Badey Thakur.’
‘Now, let’s listen in…what’s the latest, Baldev? Louder. Louder, boy.’
But what Baldev couldn’t bring to his shouting and screaming spectators was the tragedy that was unfolding deep within the darkness of the Thakur well.
‘H-e-l-p.’
‘Is that you Chander? C-h-a-n-d-e-r? We haven’t much time. Listen carefully to me now.’
‘We are all going to die, Kalki. Hain-Hain-uunnhhh, Haan-uunhh, haan-unh!’
‘Listen to me, Chander, I can feel the rats. All four of them. The stones, I have felt them. Go under when I say. Then watch me carefully, don’t leave sight of my hands. Take the rats. Put them in your brothers’ hands. You understand? We haven’t much time.’
Baldev did not stop with the commentary. ‘Brothers and sisters. Kalki has gone under. Dharmender is thrashing his arms wildly…oye can you hear me in there? Stop that, you idiot. I can’t see anything with all this sloshing. Wait. One of them is not moving…limp…completely limp…floating…mouth open…bloody nose…Lokender. But he is clutching a rat. He’s gone, I think. Here comes Kalki…empty-handed…clutching air. Wah. What a game we have here. Bhola! I said, Bhola…throw in the rope. Get those bastards out.’
Inside the well, events had taken a terrible turn.
‘No, Lokender, no. Lokender, open your eyes, Lokender, please, please, Lokender, look at me, I am Chander, your brother! Talk to him, Kalki!’
‘I’ll kill Baldev, I promise, Chander. I’ll kill the bastard. I’ll kill them all.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, Kalki. Listen to me. We have got to save Dharmender and Ravinder. We are next in line, don’t you understand? Don’t you understand ? Take the rat from Lokender. What is done is done. Three more rounds, do you understand? Take his rat…draw his fingers open…oh my brother, my Lokender…’
‘Listen, Chander, don’t be stupid. We can’t go on, just can’t. Sooner or later, we are all going to die in here. We have got to think of something. Listen. I have an idea. The moment we climb out, we try to somehow...’
‘They’ll kill us. No, Kalki.’
‘Listen, Chander. There is no choice, don’t you understand? If we stay here, we’ll all get killed. Think. It’s our best chance.’
‘I don’t know, Kalki, I don’t.’
‘Listen, for God’s sake.’
Baldev was getting restless. ‘Hey, you. What are you murmuring in there? Shut up and climb up. Bhola!’
Bhola, with the permanent stoop he had acquired with the passage of time from having to always walk crouched in front of the upper castes of the village, now came bumping over.
‘Yes, at once, Chotey Thakur…come on, boys…yes, that’s it. Now tie that rope around, er, Lokender, tie it around him, I said. That’ll do. Now come up slowly…there…put him down. You four stand in line here…Chotey Thakur? Done.’
‘Good. Bhola, get the body removed. I really should...’
A squeak interrupted Baldev.
‘Chotey Thakur?’
‘Why, is that you, Kalki? Can you still speak? Even after this shameful performance? Yes, what is it?’
‘You’ll have to come and stand on the ledge here and see it. It’s very big, Chotey Thakur.’
‘What? What? Wait, I am coming…’
Baldev struggled up the parapet, his excitement getting the better of him.
‘Yes, now what is it you wanted to show me…’
‘This, you bastard.’
Badey Thakur saw it happen right before his eyes. For a few moments it was as though the world stood still.
‘My son, my son. Baldev!’
Mahender Singhji rushed to the well, screaming in disbelief.
‘Oh God. What has he done, the musahur. Badey Thakur, this way. Arey, Pratap, Judev, Raana, catch the bastard. Here, take Badey Thakur’s gun. Let him not get away. Come, Thakur saab, here, use this stick to get up the ledge. Can you see Baldev?’
‘Arey Baldev? Baldev, my son, can you hear me? Mahender Singhji, I can’t see anything. I can’t see him. Baldev? Say something, son. Mahender Singhji, get someone in there, quickly. Someone get him out, maybe he has fainted. He can’t swim…oh God, he can’t swim.’
‘Don’t worry, Badey Thakur...Arey Jaswant? You get in here.’
Jaswant dragged his feet. ‘Me? But Father...’
‘Yes, you. You good-for-nothing. Take the rope and go in…now.’
Badey Thakur watched Jaswant being lowered into the well. He clutched the hookah stem and brandished it as though it were a sword.
‘I want him. I want that bastard Kalki alive, Mahender Singhji. Don’t let anyone dare kill him...there he is, running away.’
‘Yes, Badey Thakur.’
‘My dear son. What harm did he ever do to anyone? He was only entertaining us.’
‘Yes, Badey Thakur.’
‘Now listen, Mahender. You gather a party and run over to his basti. Lock everyone of them up. Set them all on fire, you hear me? All of them. Forget the nasbandhi-vasbandhi. Just get all of them.’
‘Ji, Badey Thakur—on my Thakur blood. I will shoot myself in the chest if there is a single musahur left alive by tonight.’
‘Jump in, Jaswant, what are you waiting for? Let go of the rope...my son, my dear Baldev…he moved! He moved, Mahender Singhji, he moved, I swear he did.’
‘I am so sorry, Badey Thakur; so, so sorry.’
Badey Thakur, his head shaking with rage, tears flowing freely from his bloodshot eyes, looked up and screamed, a terrifying roar, unheard ever before.
‘Kalki. Today is the end of your world as you know it! Either you will live to see tomorrow or I will! It is the end of your world!’
‘It is, Badey Thakur. It is.’
‘He moved, Mahender Singhji, he moved. Baldev moved.’
What is the probability that you will be born a human being in your next life? How do you know you are a human being in this life? By the work you do, the money you earn, or the people who avoid you? There is no birth and there is no death. There is only suffering for those who cannot see a tribhangi in a bhangi, atmagyanam in gyanam.
What is the probability that the woman sitting opposite to you in the train is a goddess? Her legs are a little apart, her hair is all over the place, her eyes are bloodshot and there is Agni sitting next to her combing her hair in all her glory and fearlessness. Bloody Mary or Ma Kali?
Mimamsa. Swachhata. Bhiksha. Bhakti. Gyanam. Jigyasa. Daivikam. Netritva. Kaushalam.
Mala. Sarla. Bimla. Bela. Ganga. Jamna. Devki. Nandi. Kamla.
Mottled. Scarred. Broken. Blemished. Gnawed. Jarring. Defective. Negligible. Killing.
Jholi kab bharegi?
A long, long time ago, Greeks and Indians sat opposite each other, legs folded, asses on ankles. The kerchief was dropped and the qawwali commenced.
Calliope. Mimamsa.
Clio. Swachhata.
Euterpe. Bhiksha.
Erato. Bhakti.
Melpomene. Gyanam.
Polyhymnia. Jigyasa.
Terpsichore. Daivikam.
Thalia. Netritva.
Urania. Kaushalam.
Ennéa Moúses. Navarasa.
Ennéa Spóroi. Navadhanya.
Ennéa Planítes. Navagraha.
For every Greek rejoinder there was an Indian retort and vice versa. The clash of two civilisations was going to end in a tie. And then, an Invisible Man entered the arena. No one could see him, only feel his presence.
The Ring of Gyges, cried the Greeks.
Atman, replied the Indians.
But what is atman? Is it karma? And is karma a precise mathematical calculation of crime and punishment, credit and debit, male and female? Is it a natural process of seasons following each other as night follows day follows night, or is it an assembly line? The unnatural is for the unwise and the different, the dirty, the diseased is for those without drishti?
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.