The train pulled up with a backward tug, taking everyone by surprise. Army-fatigue-covered trunks tumbled from the doddering heads of coolies. Passengers struggled to hold on to the railings, opting to pass along their suitcases to strangers in nervous trust. Toilet doors swung open and shut, revealing huddles of ticketless passengers. Smokers relishing their last wholesome drag panicked for some purchase as the vestibules they were standing on swayed wildly. Men with datuns wedged in their mouths jostled with bare-chested men saronged in tartan gamchhas to win the race for the exits. Agitated crowds collected at all doors, wanting to get down, wanting to get in. That it was a three-minute stop at the Mughalsarai Railway Junction didn’t help matters.
Clasping the corrugated wooden handle of his tea canister, Kalki managed to slither in unnoticed. He conquered the compartment passageway, foothold by foothold, and howled.
‘Chai…e….chai….e…’
‘Arey chotu, a chai here, quick,’ motioned a man while scratching his belly that had managed to iron out the ribs of his sleeveless ‘dora’.
‘…Kindly pay attention! Coming, from, Rajender, Nagar, going, to, Kalyan…’
‘Ji, saab.’
‘Arey, listen. Two teas here too, jaldi.’
Kalki juggled the kullarhs deftly. ‘Aaya memsaab, bas one minute,’ he cried while pouring tea from a good height to work up some froth.
‘…the, two, one, four, two, Babu Rajender Prasad Super Express…’
‘Arey Chotu, how long does the train stop at Mughalsarai?’
‘Bas three minutes—arey, there you go, saab, it’s moved.’
The train jerked free and went into labour. It grunted, it pushed, it pulled before at long last, it picked up speed.
‘…via, Patna, Ara, Buxar, Mughal, Sarai, Satna, Jabalpur, Bhusaval, and, Manmad, is…’
Canister dangling like a pendant from his neck with the help of a doubled-up naada, the kullarhs stacked up cosily inside his vest, Kalki made a run for the exit. A minute later he stood at the threshold, not bothering in his daring to grab hold of the door railing. His composure belied the speed of the train.
Scanning the platform, he spotted his friend Karim.
‘Arey Karim. What are you doing here?’
Noticing Kalki, Karim burst into a run, laughing and flailing his arms, his strides getting shorter and comical as the train finally caught speed.
‘Oye, Kalki. Get down, saaley.’
‘…now, arriving, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, platform, number, one, thank you…’
Without a thought, Kalki jumped off the train. Soon, he dampened his jog, catching Karim’s shoulder in the process. ‘Saala…that was cutting it close, Karim.’
‘Listen to me. Rajdhani just passed by teen number. I saw the pantry clearing the bins—all that machhi and bhaat.’
‘Rajdhani, you said. Bound for Howrah?’
‘We need to hurry. Teen is Raju’s area.’
‘I know that Raju saala—nothing escapes his ugly mouth. And if it is Rajdhani, forget it.’
Karim held the canister close to his ear and shook it. ‘Chai all gone?’
‘No, yaar. With a three-minute stop, I can’t cover more than one bogie. And I have been alloted a freight train platform. I mean, who decides on this division, haan?’
‘Arey, all this is handled by the coolies and the stationmaster himself, saala. You and I are small flies, brother.’
‘All evening I have managed only six rupees. Minus the cost of kulhars and what are you left with? And now my night shift starts on ek. It can’t go on like this. I simply have to move to a different platform.’
‘Let me see what I can do, Kalki.’
‘Pucca?’
‘Haan yaar; now hurry or there’d be nothing left for us. Arey Kalki, I just remembered—Bansilal had asked me to go look for you.’
‘When?’
‘An hour ago. He sounded angry. But it’s still ten minutes till your shift, isn’t it?’
‘Arey, you don’t know, Karim. Saala, one minute late and I get docked half my wage.’
‘Come, let’s take the tracks—overbridge will delay us.’
The boys jumped from the platform ledge and scurried across the tracks, taking care not to land their feet on the putrefying filth discarded from the trains and platforms. They avoided the sleepers and kept to the rails, steadying themselves with outstretched arms like condors in flight. Abruptly, Karim noticed some movement.
‘Look. There’s Raju and his dogs. What yaar Kalki—all because of you.’
Kalki picked up a rock and hurled it with all his might. ‘There they go running behind the yards...oye saalon. Come back, you thieving dogs.’
‘Bastards. They seem to have finished off nearly everything.’
‘Wait, don’t lose hope; let me see now.’
Kalki rummaged through the heap of discarded food. ‘Can’t make out any fish.’
‘Dhutt. Arey dhuttt.’
‘What is it, Karim? What?’
‘Rats. Saala, can’t even have one meal in peace.’
‘Don’t take it out on rats.’
‘Why. You related to them?’
‘Leave it.’
‘No no, tell me na. You want to marry one. Is that it?’
‘Don’t push it, Karim.’
‘Achha na, I was only joking. I love rats. No seriously.’
‘Come away, there’s nothing here. Those dogs got away with the best bits. Maybe the next Rajdhani.’
‘Haan yaar…’
‘…kindly pay attention! Coming, from, New, Delhi, going, to, Cuttack, the…’
Kalki tossed away the mango peel he had extracted from the heap. ‘Karim bhai, hear that? That’s Behrampur coming in on ek. It’s time for my night shift at Bansi’s—he’ll kill me. Chal, I’ll see you at school tomorrow.’
‘To hell with school.’
‘Come on, don’t say that.’
‘What “don’t say that”? I’ll be selling mugs and chain locks and nail cutters till I die—it is my fate.’
‘Our fate is not in anyone’s hands.’
‘Not in anyone’s hands. So you like it when people throw your salary at you from moving trains, is it? You like shooing away rats to get to your lunch and your dinner, hain? Saala bastard, not in anyone’s hands…’
‘Enough of your bakwaas; look, I am off.’
‘…two, three, zero, two, Barhampur, Express, via…’
Karim caught hold of Kalki’s hand playfully and swung it. ‘Come, I’ll accompany you to ek. My shift on aath doesn’t begin till ten.’
‘Hurry then or I’ll lose half my wage.’
The boys walked alongside each other, Kalki on the rail and Karim hopping and skipping the sleepers. Karim picked up a stone and lobbed it high up in the air. He ran forward to catch it.
‘Haan, haan. What’s a one day wage, yaar?’
Kalki clucked his tongue. ‘Saala. You have your mausi to buy you your schoolbooks. Maybe you should tell her to buy some for me too next time. That way I can forego the night shift and sit on my ass all day like you.’
‘…Kanpur, Central, Allahabad, Mughal, Sarai, Gaya, Parasnath, and, Dhanbad, is, arriving, at, Mughal…’
‘You think mausi’s generosity comes free? You take my place tomorrow onwards, bastard—let me see you carry forty buckets full of shit from the cowshed to the gobar-gas plant every morning. Saala.’
‘Achha yaar, leave it. Remember what the Gita says: “Do your job, don’t worry about the fruits”.’
Karim made Kalki slow down by catching his wrist. ‘Who is Gita? Your night-shift company, is she? Good-looking, is she? Is she?’
‘…Sarai, at, platform, number, one, thank you…’
‘Gita—Bhagavad Gita, you stupid...’
‘Oh. And anyway, what’s new in what it says, hunh? We are only doing our jobs, aren’t we, and we have never gotten close to as much as a half-eaten apple—wrinkled guava maybe...’
Kalki slapped his forehead. ‘No, you brain-dead son-of-a-mule. Fruits, meaning, not “fruits” but reward, benefit. You understand?’
‘Saala. Give me real fruits any day.’
‘Bas, enough yaar. No point telling you anything.’
‘And anyway, where have you been getting all this gyan from, haan?’
‘Arey, Bansilal’s stall is full of such books. Gita, Ramayan, Quran, Mahabharat—you name it.’
Karim smiled as he hauled himself up the platform ledge. ‘Oh. So now you have become a panditji.’
‘Achha yaar, enough. Now give me a hand…’
The boys stood on platform one, inspecting their whereabouts like two soldiers dropped behind enemy lines. Kalki scratched his head. ‘Oye, what’s the matter? Number one looks deserted. And who is that fat dog with one arm longer than the other?’
‘Why, that’s Bansilal, you fool. And by the looks of it he is carrying a gun.’
‘That’s not a gun, you mule, that’s a fly swatter.’
‘I am sure he’ll use it like a gun on you. Anyway, happy night-shifting, see you sometime tomorrow.’
Kalki shouted after Karim. ‘Not sometime, saaley, early morning. School—understand?’
But Karim was already a fair distance away, refusing to look back. ‘Didn’t hear you. Goodbye, Kalki.’
‘Saala,’ mumbled Kalki, shaking his head. He consulted the platform clock and calculated he was five minutes late—acceptable given the time. But then again, the country was in a state of Emergency. Five minutes were five too many. His thoughts were interrupted rudely by a near collision with the behemoth that now stood right in front of him.
‘Oye, Kalki-ke-bacche. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Good evening, Bansilalji. What happened? You look like you are in a bad mood.’
Bansilal reached for Kalki’s ear. ‘Saaley kuttey, how dare you.’
‘Ji?’
‘I said, langoor ki aulad, how dare you talk back to me like that?’
‘…’
‘That’s better. Keep that trap shut—you should know who you are talking to, you understand?’
‘Ji...’
‘Again!’
‘…’
‘Didn’t hear you. You said something, boy?’
‘…’
‘Sure you didn’t?’
‘…’
‘That’s good. Now listen—Yes…where was I. Yes, where were you? Aren’t you late? Haan?’
‘…’
‘You don’t understand the value of time, hain?’
‘…’
‘By my watch, you are seven minutes late.’
‘But saab, I...’
‘Haan? Haan? Didn’t hear you...’
‘…’
‘There are boys who will work better for half the money I pay you. But I say, no. I say I am a kind man, I’ll help this rotten bastard trying to make something of himself. Listening?”
‘…’
‘I say, “Go on, get lost. I already have my little Kalki musahur.” That’s what I tell them. And what do I get in return? Do I get some respect from you? But for me, you’d be picking and eating shit from the tracks. Do you understand me, boy?’
‘…’
‘I let you read all the stall books, no extra charge, no pay cut. You try and read such good stuff from a library, they’ll fleece your little ass. But I say, “Arey Bansilal, think of the punya you earn from this”. Who will even look at you, let alone help you go to school, haan? Didn’t I write a letter of recommendation for you? Didn’t I write that Kalki is a very intelligent boy and that he has read all my stall books, haan?’
‘…’
‘Who else would you have got that letter from? A coolie? From that bastard Raju? And what would they have bragged about you—that you can pour a cup of tea in a kulharr without spilling a drop?’
‘…’
‘Are you listening, boy, or am I just talking to myself?’
‘…’
Bansilal formally lifted his gag order. ‘Oh. Yes, you can respond now.’
Kalki opened the floodgates. ‘I am so sorry, Bansilalji. Cut my head off and put it on display at the stall if it ever happens again. It was all the fault of the platform clock, Bansilalji.’
‘I am listening.’
‘Please don’t even think of paying me my wage for tonight.’
‘I wasn’t anyway...’
‘You have been like a father to me, saab, what more I can tell you.’
‘You can tell me more.’
‘But for you I couldn’t have even dreamt of going to school. You are like a god to me.’
‘Carry on.’
‘I cannot apologise enough. I have a valid excuse, but saab, in reality, no excuse is valid enough.’
Bansilal was pleased by this. ‘Good, I like that.’
‘It is my weakness. It has always been my weakness, the desire to show off.’
‘Accepted, accepted…’
‘I must ask you to trust me as you have never trusted me before.’
Worry lines started to form on the fat man’s forehead. ‘Wha–, what’s going on...’
‘I belong to the world…’
‘All that’s fine, but...’
‘I am an imbecile. I see only half the picture.’
‘I am glad you have seen reason but...’
‘It is the brain, the little grey cells on which one must rely. One must seek the truth within, not without.’
‘Why, that’s good. I mean, the way you have put it...’
‘In that case I shall require four weeks’ wages in lieu of notice.’
‘What?’
Kalki ducked his head and squeezed his tongue out. ‘Arey sorry, saab, forget the last bit.’
‘Why. W-what’s going on? Is there—are these some lines you have picked up from...’
‘Ji, saab, from my partners Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.’
‘Why, you bastard. You making fun of me?’
‘…Kindly pay attention! Coming, from, New, Delhi, going, to, Dibrugarh, the…’
‘I knew you’d like them. You have that reader’s eye—ear.’
Bansilal was pleasantly surprised. ‘Do I?’
‘Sure you do. Why else do you think Wheeler & Sons have kept you in charge of their stall for the last fifteen years?’
Bansilal puffed up his chest a little. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Kalki was unforgiving, certain that sarcasm was lost on Bansilal. ‘They can judge a man’s intelligence, his interest in literature, in fiction, in crime…’
‘…two, four, three, six, Dibrugarh, Rajdhani, via, Moradabad, Bareilly…’
‘You think so?’
‘Of course. You have educated so many travellers, saab. It has been your gift, your contribution to humanity.’
‘Now don’t stretch it, boy. That’s not a line from a stall book, now is it?’
‘Arey saab, you are too modest. You don’t know what the world thinks of you.’
Bansilal agreed. ‘Well, I can guess sometimes, but...’
‘Leave it na, saab. Let bygones be bygones. As I was saying, from today I’ll redouble my efforts in your service.’
Bansilal pinched Kalki’s cheeks, first one then the other. ‘Kalki, you are a good boy. I am happy to have bought you from Deodhar. You are the best investment I have made in years. Worth every paisa.’
‘…Lucknow, Varanasi, Ballia, Chhapra, Hajipur…’
‘Arey saab, leave it na.’
‘No, I am telling you it is true.’
‘Arey saab, why make fun of your humble servant.’
‘Arey ban-cho when I say it is true, it means it is true.’
Kalki scratched his head. ‘Er, then saab, about today’s wage…?’
‘Achha achha saaley, I won’t cut it.’
‘Saab, there is only one of your kind.’
‘That there is.’
‘…Barauni, Katihar, Kishanganj, Jalpaiguri, Cooch…’
‘I mean it.’
‘Bas, now don’t push it. You know I only mean well when I scold you.’
‘…Behar, Alipurdaur, Kokrajhar, Bongaigaon, Guwahati, Lumding, Diphu, Dimapur, Mariani, and, Tinsukia…’
‘Of course, saab.’
Bansilal gave Kalki a gentle push. ‘Now get in or customers will think the stall is empty.’
‘Ji. You first, saab.’
Bansilal shook his head slowly. ‘Alright, alright…saala. But you are alright, Kalki.’
‘…is, running, seven, hours, late, from, its, scheduled, time, of…’
‘Thank you, saab.’
‘Enough now. Let’s get some business rolling…haan, yes madam? Can we help you?’
‘…arrival, and, will, arrive, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, zero, five, forty, hours, on, platform…’
A young woman, wearing an ill-fitted blouse safety-pinned to a heavy sari, shuffled her feet by the magazine racks nervously. She raised her arm to reveal it half-hidden by maroon bangles that fell against each other. The half that was not hidden was hennaed intricately. Her hair parting was daubed with the brightest of red sindoor. En route to her honeymoon, this was perhaps the first occasion when, coaxed by her husband, she had ventured out on her own to explore the workings of the world. She stretched a hand out, uncertain where to point it.
Bansilal tried to be encouraging. ‘Anything in particular? Arey, Kalki beta, please show madam the latest magjeen-shagjeen.’
‘Yes, sir…here, madam. Here’s the latest Women’s Era, Stardust, Illustrated Weekly—or would you want Griha Shobha? Nootan-kahaniyaan?’
The woman pointed accusingly at a magazine. ‘Is that the latest Filmi Kaliyan?’
‘…number, four, Thank you…’
‘No madam, latest comes tomorrow by Rajdhani. This is last month’s…have you read it, but? No? It has the latest on the Rakhee–Neetu Singh tiff. We’ll give you forty percent off—no saab?’
Bansilal nodded approvingly. ‘Yes yes, why not.’
‘Okay, then. That Filmi Kaliyan, and that Griha Shobha.’
‘That’ll be seven rupees, madam.’
‘Here.’
‘Thank you…come again.’
The woman snatched the magazines from Bansilal’s hands and hurried out of view. Bansilal gave a knowing smirk and fell back on his stool. He took the fly swatter and sliced the air a few times. Turning to Kalki he asked, ‘Oye, Kalki? Ban-cho I didn’t know Rakhi and Neetu were tearing their plaits out?’
‘Arey saab, who cares. Filmi Kaliyan got sold na? Bas.’
‘Saala. You’ll get me into trouble one day.’
‘Why, saab? Will Rakhee aunty and Neetu didi get down from Kalka Mail with brooms in their hands and come looking for our stall?’
Bansilal spotted another customer coming their way. ‘Quiet.’
This time round it was a middle-aged man, wearing spectacles thick as the bottom of a goli-soda bottle. He brushed away an imaginary speck of dust from his dog-collared shirt, which stuck to his upper body like a swimsuit. Unconcerned with his fashion statement, he joined his thumb and forefinger and placed them right under his beaked nose. Then, smoothly, he broke the two-digit formation apart, running each along his handlebar moustache down to the last bristle. He repeated the procedure and said: ‘Arey bhai, listen.’
‘Yes, sir...Kalki beta.’
‘Yes sir, how may I help you?’
‘Arey, you have that latest one by Agatha Christie?’
‘Which one, sir?’
‘Arey, that latest one. Can’t remember the name, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Arey, you know the one na—she came out with it only this year.’
Kalki tilted his head forward a little. ‘But sir, didn’t you know? The queen died last year. It was in all the papers...’
‘Which queen? Who died?’
‘Agatha Christie, sir, the queen of crime.’
The man was taken aback. He removed his glasses. ‘Oyay chhotu, saaley—you making fun of me?’
‘No sir, I was only...’
‘What “I was only”? What is this stall? Who is the proprietor?’
Bansilal came off his stool. ‘What…? Yes sir, it is me, Bansilal. Why, what happened, sir?’
‘Ban-cho I’ll complain to your headquarters. Give me your full name.’
‘Arey sir, no need to get this angry. Please, let me handle this. Kalki! Apologise. Right now.’
‘But saab, I...’
‘I said, apologise to our respected customer here right now.’
Kalki turned to the man and bowed. ‘Sir, Bhagwaan-ki-kasam, Dharti Mata-ki-kasam, my intention was not what you think. I was only trying to second-guess what book you were looking for. Please, I apologise, from the bottom of my heart.’
‘Yes, alright. Better be careful next time. Now, what was I asking for.’
‘About her latest, sir. Yes sir, in that case you want Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case. Excellent choice, sir, if I may be permitted to say so.’
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted in the first place.’
‘Yes, sir, here it is—Curtain. Sixteen rupees, fifty paise.’
‘Here, take the money…Any good, this? Well, how would you know.’
‘Indeed, sir, if I may be allowed to say so, it is excellent. Madam Christie wrote it forty years ago, almost during the same time as her Murder in Mesopotamia, but it smells and feels like Poirot is at his best.’
The man gaped in wonder. ‘Arey Bansilal, who is this boy, bhai? How is he speaking such good English, hain? And smells. Feels. Hercule is his chacha or what.’
Bansilal added his two-penny. ‘Arey saab, you will cry buckets at this poor boy’s story.’
‘Some other ti...’
‘He ran away from his village last year and landed up at Mughalsarai. I took pity on him and gave him this job. He is very intelligent, saab, even goes to school every day. He has read all the books we have stocked here. Backwards. His favourites are of course Agath...’
The man cut Bansilal in mid-flight. ‘I don’t have time, boss—train’s about to leave.’
‘Some other day then…Arey, Kalki beta, go on na, whatever you were telling sir.’
‘Ji, saab. So as I was saying, your choice is perfect for your travel to—Cuttak, is it?’
The man looked suspiciously at Kalki. ‘What is it to you? I may be going anywhere.’
‘No no, I was just asking so I know how much time you have at hand, sir—to finish the novel, you see. Well, anyway, it is sure to keep you awake all through your journey.’
A chin was scratched. ‘You think so? I mean, Agatha’s lost her touch recently, no?’
‘You might be right there, saab—about the late madam, but this was written almost forty years ago.’
The man clearly felt out of depth. He pretended otherwise. ‘Ah, I see what you mean.’
Now there was no stopping Kalki. ‘What a story, saab, what a story, I tell you.’
‘Yes yes, no need to...’
‘Captain Hastings goes to see Poirot for one last time. Poirot is very sick—in a wheelchair.’
‘Yes, well, enough...’
‘Poirot tells Hastings there’s a murderer in the house and that he will refer to him only as X.’
The man tried to cut in. ‘I said, listen boy, that’s...’
‘This X was not a suspect in five previous murders, but four of the five suspects in those murders are dead.’
‘Oye, listen, I said enou...’
‘Remember, sir, a fellow named Norton. As you read the Curtain tonight, you’ll find that Poirot has di...’
‘Oye, you little ban-cho. Stop! You bast...’
‘But before the great man has left us, he leaves Hastings with some clues. A copy of Othel...’
‘Right, that’s it, ban-cho. Saala, come here you bastard, you are not listening...’
Kalki emerged from his trance. ‘What…What, sir?’
‘Ban-cho, you are telling me the whole plot. You think you can get back at me like this, haan?’
‘Arey no no, sir, you misunderstand. I was just trying to spruce up your interest in Curtain.’
‘Saaley, to hell with your curtain-shirtain...Oh ban...Is that? That’s my signal.’
‘Arey saab, wait.’
The man waved his fists. ‘You bastard, I’ll see to you next time. And you too, Bansilal.’
‘…Kindly pay attention! Coming, from, Firozpur, going, to, Dhanbad, the, three, three, zero, eight, Gangasatluj, Express, via, Firozpur…’
‘Sir, believe me I was...’
‘…Cantt, Mallanwala, Khas Makhu, Lohian, Khas, Malsian, Shahkht…’
Bansilal pleaded with the man, now darting his way around stray dogs and tin trunks. ‘Sir, please.’
‘…Nakodar, Nurmahal, Bilga, Phillaur, Ludhiana…’
Kalki and Bansilal looked at each other. The background station hum was shattered by belly-slapping laughter.
When both had recovered, Bansilal said: ‘Abey Kalki, I could hardly wait. Look at that bastard running for his coach. Saaley, you want me to go bankrupt? Is that it?’
‘…Dhandari, Kalan, Sanahwal, Doraha, Khanna, Govindgarh, Sirhind, Rajpura, Ambala, Cant…’
‘Arey saab, just the opposite.’
‘…Barara, Jagadhri, Saharanpur, Roorkee, Najibabad, Nagina, Dhampur, Seohara, Moradabad…’
‘How so, my little Kalki musahur?’
‘Arey saab, this pirated edition has seventy pages upside-down and twenty missing.’
Bansilal instinctively swatted a fly on the face of an annoyed Shatrughan Sinha. ‘What?’
‘…Rampur, Bareilly, Pitambarpur, Daryabad, Patranga, Rudauli, Sohwal, Faizabad, Dev, Nagar…’
‘Yes. I found out the hard way. The bastards who do this…I had to hitch a ride all the way to Patna to get to a good copy of Curtain and read the end of the story.’
‘…Ayodhya, Goshainganj, Akbarpur, Malipur, Bilwai, Shahganj…’
‘You are something, boy. I tell you Kalki, you are something.’
‘…Kheta, Sarai, Mihrawan, Jaunpur, Jalalganj, Khalispur, Babatpur, Varanasi, Kashi, Mughal, Sarai…’
‘Saab, about my daily wage…’
Bansilal flicked the dead fly off Bihari Babu’s face. ‘Yes yes, in my appreciation of your service, I’ll give you not money but that very ban-cho Curtain—the one in your hand.’
‘…Saidraja, Bhabua, Road, Kudra, Sasaram, Dehri, Gaya, Hazaribagh, Gomoh, and, Tetulmari…’
‘But saab...’
‘Final it is, bhai.’
‘Saab, please…saab…yes, madam? You want? Manorama?’
‘…will, arrive, at, Mughal, Sarai, at, twentythree, twenty, hours, on, platform, number, seven, Thank you.’
Bar bar din ye aaye, bar bar din shit laaye; tum karo safai roz ye meri hai arzoo. Happy Burday to you! Happy Burday to you! Happy Buuuurday, dear Marga-r-i-t-a, Happy Burday to you.
Wake up, wake up, children. It is midnight. The clock has struck, the mouse and the scavengers have run out; hickory, dickory freedom. Say your prayers to Bapuji before you leave. Chapter and worse.
Chalo, chalo, jaldi, jaldi. Time and tide wait for no child. Neither does open defecation. Ram, Rahim, Vasudha, Josephine, Leyla, Kalki! Chalo, chalo, time to pick up the tatti. Easier when fresh—doesn’t mix with the dog and bull shit that follow a little later. Now pay attention. Be attached to your work, which is picking up shit and not the fruits. And certainly not the money, because money can lead to a landfill. You don’t want vultures circling over you, do you now? Embrace your destiny with pride. Nishkam karma. In the eyes of God, we are all equal. Karmanye Vadhikaraste—no to the fruits, no to the fruits, you bhangi. The attachment has to be to the duty. Pick up shit in this life so maybe, just maybe you can pick up a human existence in your next. Imagine being human—ooh!
Haina, bolo bolo. Kalki ko potty se, potty ko Kalki se, pyaaaar hai, pyaaaar hai.
Now, now. Please stick to your task. Children between four and seven—you clean the latrines, go on. Your hands are smaller and more nimble to scoop the poop. And don’t touch anything you are not supposed to. You must not steal. It is very bad to take what is not yours. God is watching and keeping notes, especially over the scum. Because scum is like the disease that can spread unchecked, unlike the creamy layer which is like cream and has to be spread carefully. There’s never enough to go around, see. Cleanliness is next to godliness and godliness begins with not being a petty thief who steals toothpaste, you hear! Creamy layer only steal cream, not chappals. Chi.
Damn. Toilets are being built, so sad. No more open defecation. Business will go down the drain. Seminars must be held on the importance of open defecation as a business model for an economy that is perpetually orange. What? Yes, yes, forever taking off—neither green nor red. Forever orange. What will the scavengers, those little children we pretend don’t exist, eat? Our children, mine, yours. Born dead—dead right. But they look so happy.
That’s the beautiful thing about India. Even the poorest of the poor, the Nelson and Gina, the pavitra and the paapi—they all look so happy. Their eyes are sparkling and effervescent. Yes, with temperature—fever. No, no, they are glowing with joy. Poor people are so happy with so little. It is the rich who are difficult. Never happy. In the favelas and townships in Mexico and South Africa, you would be stoned for driving a Lambo. There, Ferrari red is bloody red. But India is truly a free country where you can do what you want. Children will run alongside in delirium, breathe in your exhaust. They are so kind they won’t even scratch your car. Freedom. Weep. Freedom sweep.
Haina, bolo, bolo.
Like that, we are very brilliant. Even our poor children are clever. Lack of opportunity. What to do? They breed like rats, these poor people. But see how they MT—multitask. After cleaning the latrines, some of them have graduated to washing cars. And those who have the misfortune of being able to read can be paper boys. Not girls. Because the borrowed cycle is gents only. See, it is a little difficult. Young girls have no underwear so can’t ride a gents’ cycle—you have to be sensitive to these unseen challenges in the context of the poor and very poor in India. It is not the same thing as being wretched in Brazil. Obrigada, nagada, nagada.
We see them everywhere. MTing. Carrying school bags heavier than themselves to accompany their master’s vice. Running back and forth like rats between errands—tailor, mochi, vegetable chopper, dhobi and in some cases, homework doer. Punkh hote toh ud jaati re…but right now being a punkhawallah would do. Chop chop. Work those arms, little girl.
No need to get any health insurance or pension or for that matter, anything that even distantly resembles a right. We boast that we give them our used clothes and our leftover food. They would be dead without us, no? If they take a day off, we complain about how there’s no one to walk the dogs, make tea, unwrap biscuits, bring water, turn on the switch, sharpen the pencil and close the window.
We don’t say they actually help our children do their homework. That would be too much. After all, we found her in Dhanbad on a railway station with lice in her matted hair and nose running like the Ganga. If it had not been for us, she would have become a prostitute. She can thank her stars. We have bought her binoculars and nail polish. So she can feel a little sophisticated. Also perfume from Sarojini Nagar and Stayfree from Khan Market. So she stays free. And—and—to-and-fro train fare for her to visit her village every two years. Last year, she even accompanied us to our VIP box at a T20. Good karma. Now she wants to go by plane. See, next she’ll ask for Ray-Bans and Victoria’s Secret—these people are really quite greedy.
We’ll write about you. Observing poverty, hunger and disease is lucrative. It is the stuff of grants and theses and trips to Scandinavia. No worries. Our pickers of night soil and rags, eaters of banana and mango peels will always be there, generation after generation, to tick off the boxes. Looks good on a biodata. Sorry, sorry, CV. Biodata when talking about a ragpicker or a shit collector is really being unkind. Extracurricular activities: Worked for a week in a slum in India where there was no electricity, no 24/7 hot water and no private toilet. And gawd, were the children dirty. But I survived and here I am working for an investment banker.
Haina, bolo, bolo.
There is always a karmic distance to maintain between the lives of the wretched and the rich. Wretched, rich. Wretched, poor. We do so much for them. But what have we done for ourselves? To free ourselves from the tyranny of ordinariness?
And then, suddenly, one crosses the road. Goes from here to there and from there to here. Like a benevolent cuckoo that laid eggs in a crow’s nest. Someone who decides to give karma a miss, leaving everything with just a heart and a dream for a compass. Someone who questions all, trusts all, questions nothing, trusts nothing except the now and the here. Apna haath Jagannath.
The one who dares will be individually feared and collectively condemned. The one who dares to seek knowledge and live life in a ‘non-karmic’ way will be damned. Oh, the joys of inverted commas—a great escape. First we will pretend it is not happening. So will the interloper. In India, everybody lives outside the law anyway. Everyone pretends. The poor, the rich, the middle—we all pretend. Survival is pretence.
Campris?
What a splendid marketing tool. Better than the church that has the world convinced it is 2,017 years old. Immaculada.
Who are these children? Do they know they are children? How, if they have never had a childhood, never really stolen food from the kitchen or swung a bat to play? How are they children if they have not felt the warmth of a mother’s bosom, her smell and her fragrance, the transmitters of culture and traditions, the neurons of character construction and destruction? Did you ever steal ghee, bhangi boy?
How do you know you are a child if you have never cried over a whim or a fancy? How do you know you have arrived even if you have had the best of education? How do you know the other children of midnight don’t think you are one. Say it! Are you the one who escaped or the one who got entangled?
It takes eight minutes for sunlight to reach us. And forever for the sun to rise.
But the son also rises. Didn’t the father say so— ‘He will rise! ’ Maybe your own shadow is upset with you.
So are you midnight’s child? Say it! Before you rush to die.