NAUTANKI WALAH

Shilpa called. Come over Seema, Rabia is here and we have something interesting to tell you. I took an auto and went across. We had all been to the same school and class in Loreto Convent. Over a coffee I was told the news, Shilpa was bursting with it. A procession in support of the Emergency is going to be taken out tomorrow, believe it or not! It would be headed by Nirupam Khera, the principal actor in ‘Ramnath Halwai Nautanki’. Trucks have been commandeered to bring in the slogan-shouting idiots. It is starting from the university and will end at Baradari. An order for fifty national flags has been placed with the Khadi Bhandar.

‘Whose idea is this?’

‘We believe it is Nirupam Khera’s, fellow is harbouring political ambitions now. Don’t you remember, Ramnath Halwai, best vegetarian restaurant in town, aloo gobi and matar paneer dripping with desi ghee? We took our Goel-and-Garg bhenjis there. Remember the end of Vanita’s chunni landed in the buttermilk, and in her hurry to extricate it, the glass toppled and broke, table and floor covered with butter milk? You were there, Seema.’

Of course I was. Then disaster fell on the restaurant owner, the food inspectors raided and came away with reams of blotting paper. The income tax people had put them wise—had come across invoices. Nothing like blotting paper to add ballast to khoya sweets. The Ramnath Halwai Nautanki became Ramnath Galakandi Nautanki thereafter. Nirupam Khera had become its star ‘actor’, if you can use such a word for a nautanki hero.

Rabia said, ‘Don’t you remember the hit number?’ I shook my head. Shilpa exclaimed, ‘You’ve been out in the hills too long.’Then Rabia sang the ditty, shaking her body in the manner of nautanki dancers, placing her hand on her heart, as she sang:

launda patwari ka bada namkeen,

bada namkeen, hai bada namkeen!

launda patwari ka bada namkeen.

(The patwari’s son was very salty, the ditty basically said.) The number was sung by Nirupam’s partner. A dispute arose between the two girls as to whether she was Nirupam’s wife or not, but the argument remained unresolved.

The next day we were all there to watch the charade. Route and venue had been changed. The procession was now to start from the circle in front of the Assembly and move to the Aminuddaula Park, where stirring meetings and rallies had been held during British times. This time it was Rabia’s car, but Barkat was driving. He was still underage and did not have a driving license. The crowd here was much more than we expected. Chaps were being unloaded from tempos and pickup trucks. Then two busses came in, one from Hardoi, another from Sitapur, and we saw hordes clambering down, all carrying banners praising Indiraji. Barkat suggested we move to the Aminuddaula Park, because once the procession started the crush would be impossible to navigate. There were many boys from the Youth Congress and plenty of hai hais were being shouted. The crowd was already chanting slogans against the CIA and foreign correspondents. ‘Videshi patrakaron ko/ juthe maro salon ko!’ Foreign correspondents should be beaten with shoes. People were holding placards carrying similar slogans. One hoodlum, he looked like one, carried a banner which said ‘down with indiscipline’. ‘Mark Tully Bharat choro’, ‘Alfrud Humming Bharat choro’. I whispered to Shilpa asking her if Alfie was still hiding in her bedroom. She turned red, blood flowing to her cheeks. Rabia sensed or perhaps had caught a whiff of what I was saying and laughed. We did not want Barkat to hear.

We waited an hour at the Aminuddaula Park, and the procession finally wound its way there. Jingles galore were heard, some of them borrowed from Delhi. ‘Gari ka number 88/ Gari pahunchi India Gate/ India Gate se aayee awaz/ Indira Gandhi zindabad.’ Nirupam Khera whom people had seen riding a ramshackle bicycle only a month earlier was now ensconced in a Jeep. A roar from the crowd greeted him as he climbed on to the stage, festooned with Congress banners, tricolour, spinning wheel and all. He himself was festooned with marigold garlands and a shawl. Suddenly the hubbub died down. ‘Friends,’ he began, ‘today is a day when patriotism has triumphed over treason and nationalism has won against foreign collaborators. We are here to felicitate the saviour of our country and national honour, Indiraji. Shout with me, Vande Mataram! We all remember how she defeated the Pakistanis singlehandedly in Bangladesh. Even Atal Bihari Vajpayee called her “Durga Ma”. I wish to speak to you on discipline.’ (He pronounced discipline as “dispaleen”.)

‘Look friends, leadery is no joke. It is a God-given talent. One out of many millions has it, this quality. Indiraji has it from her sanskar. What kind of a country are we? You have heard the saying “seven Kanujias, nine cooking fires”. Can such a country progress? Six people sit at breakfast; one wants aloo paratha, another methi-ki-roti, a third wants fried eggs, the fourth demands omelette without onions, another wants omelette with onions and green chilies. You think our Bharat Varsh can progress this way? Mrs Gandhi says only aloo-kaparatha today, nothing else, and some yogurt. Jolly well eat and be happy! Eat and ismile! Now that is discipline, that is leadery!’ The crowd roared in approval. Chest-thumping Youth Congress leaders spoke one by one. We wanted to leave before the meeting was over, but could not just slink off. When the sloganeering started at the end of each speech, we shouted ‘Ram Nath Halwai ki jai’, ‘Nautanki waleh ki jai’. Some of the bystanders who heard us just gawked, some smiled, but sensing the mood Inspector Ambika Singh again came to our aid, herded us back to the car and saw to it that the crowds on the fringe parted to give way to our vehicle.