“Remember that aunty I told you about in the letter I sent
last November? This morning she looked such a faint image of what she looked
yesterday. I had gone for a walk to the park but then I just decided to sit on that
bench. Rains have caused considerable damage to the plaque that reads the name
of the dead man in whose name the bench was installed. I would otherwise be
quite interested to know who the man was, who died to make space for the rest
of us thankless lot.
I sat there long. Leaves were beginning to melt into the
diffused sunlight. The track was covered with their pale shadows. People were
kicking about the ones that had fallen off the trees. They were staggering… drunkenly,
unarmed… across the sky.
These street lights are beginning to annoy me. They stay on
till late in the day. I am thinking of writing a complaint note to our council
representative once I’m done with writing to you.
She, aunty wore the same taant
saree today as well, but the thread work has started to fragment. Her white pallu had hues of blue on it. I think
she is using too much fabric whitener. I was meaning to ask her today to go
slow on it. But then I realised, who am I to say anything to her? I use it too.
Someone’s underwear fell on me, mid-way through the walk. A
bunch of boys stopped playing football and started to giggle. Honestly, I was really embarrassed. If it was
a shirt falling or even a dupatta I
would have been fine. You know what I mean na?
Robin… it is called Robin… the whitener that I use. It has a
colourful bird on its packet. I think it’s a robin. Maybe that’s where they get
their brand name from. Funny, that
whitener would be blue in colour. Haina!
I don’t know what to cook for lunch today. This is one question
I never have an ideal answer to. Remember, how when we were together, I always
left it to you to decide and you would invariably settle for either gobhi or bhindi. Even the sabziwala
knew our kitchen drill.
I had answers then.
You gave some… but your questions were many. Stop asking questions Gautam. Sometimes
silences make more sense.
Love,
Pal”
Pal… the loose and perhaps the only definition of ‘love’ in
his life… his superlative… the woman who redefined his boundaries and then
forced him to disregard them… the sensual embodiment of freedom and yet his
philistine captivator - Pal, in a moment of unrestraint, left Gautam behind, as
mere residue of a fractured partnership. Monthly letters with no address to
write back to, were offered to him as an insufficient pension in lieu of a long
inning.
*********************************************************************************
Moisture was reeling down his scarlet cheeks. It was hot. Light
had gone off again. Someone downstairs in the building compound was cursing the
government for all their sufferings. The ceiling fan was lazily motioning itself
into a deathlike silence. Harish had fashioned his beard into an obnoxious
stubble, lately. The mirror was standing over the bathroom washbasin to look
straight into him… reminding him of his abject misery.
Harish… He was raised on the sprawling mustard fields of a
small hamlet – Thathi Bhai in independent India’s Punjab. His father was an
influential jaagirdaar – landlord,
who had amassed ample property from the village poor over unlawful pretexts but
no one had the courage to question the efficacy of his word.
Two days back he had publically accosted Harpeet Cheema’s
fifteen-year-old daughter Preeto to be beaten with leather slings by ten men,
under the grand peepal tree, in an obscure corner of the village. Her crime -
she had fallen in love with a Muslim boy from Bhatinda, whom she met on a bus
ride on her way back from her grandparents’ home in the same city. Harpreet and
his family of a wife, ten other daughters and one son stood watching until the
ordeal lasted… rest of the village recoiled into their comfort zones… a dust storm
hit the scene of unrelenting drama as Preeto’s injured body was left to
naturally be devoured by the earth. Harpreet’s family returned to their modest
home that evening where ten other daughters were reminded of the consequences
of falling out of line, over basic bread and daal (lentil soup). The son, youngest of the lot, meanwhile was
wondering where the ten leather slings came from and how he could get hold of
them… one each for the surviving sisters.
On the previous Sunday, Jaagirdaarji, as Harish’s father was reverentially addressed, read out
Harish’s destiny in two lines.
“Go to some foreign country and work there. Bring pride to
the family name.”
Pride – it was some crude logic that equated pride to one
son living ‘abroad’ in many Punjabi families. The colonial hangover had the
most lasting impact on this community.
Harish had passed matric from the only public school of the
village, unsurprisingly named Guru Nanak Public School, after the founder of
the religion. By the standards of the village he was over qualified.
The next day, a day prior to ‘the Preeto justice’ – as would
the episode find name in the annals of the village history, Harish left
lock-stock and barrel, for Delhi. Some well-wishers had given him the details
of an employment agent and so he headed straight for Rajouri Garden in East
Delhi after alighting at the Old Delhi Railway station.
“Afghanistan is the latest favourite of all you Sikh
youngsters. Bada paisa hai vahan.
Lots of money,” the agent emphasized; his office – a near mock brothel. “A very
lucrative opportunity has come up in the construction industry in Kabul. You
will earn $800 per month plus a trip to-and-fro India every six months, a place
to live, food and clothing and a mobile phone with unlimited talk-time and
sms.”
This last promise in the verbal offer came handy. Mr. Agent
had hit the right spot with it. Harish was a victim of the mobile phone
boom in India where the word ‘unlimited’ was used for pretty much everything,
from the sex drive of men his age to the time taken in getting a customer care
executive over the phone to resolve a simple problem with the mobile connection.
Faith was another permanent fixture in the long parody of
the Indian psyche. Wherever electricity, technology, air and water failed,
faith intervened. On the basis of mere faith, not a legal document, Harish accepted
the offer and flew to Kabul with his father’s dream and cash in his secret
pocket on the inside of his pants, placed between his groins and left thigh.
War had settled over Kabul’s fate like an enduring dust
cloud. Life was surviving between sprints from one hide-out place to the other.
A stopped heart stumped his toe like a sudden pebble, as Harish walked to the
construction site where he was due to start work in a day.
Afghanistan has 10 million land mines. Kabul is the most
heavily mined capital of the world. When one of those 10 million exploded,
Harish’s amputated left leg became a number in the UN report on the War torn
nation. His hopes were scattered across the street, alongside broken car
windows and a gush of blood. Silence followed the explosion. It left behind questions.
Harish spent a lonely 15th August in a Sikh
Temple in the capital, until the Indian Embassy made arrangements to crate him
back to India.
He had promised his father Pride in return for the years and
money spent on his up-brining. In his father’s mind his son continued to live ‘abroad’,
as Harish sat rotting on a wheelchair, used by seven other deceased orphans in
the orphanage across the brick wall that separated Gautam’s plush villa from Harish.
********************************************************************************
As Gautam lay dejected on his antique teak wood bed, in the
care of an asylum nurse, the wreckage in Harish's world was pain too. Pain of a different nature, nevertheless, pain.
Yet for either, theirs’ lived to remain the only reality…
the only suffering that could possibly, ever take a man down.