I
My wife wanted to watch a movie in a theatre. I told her I had
work to do. She made a face that could have meant either one of “I work all day
too” or “You always say the same thing” or both. Maybe it meant both. Perhaps I
should ask her.
When she’s in the kitchen, her brow furrowed, her hair
bundled, her neck smelling of soap and sweat, I walk up to her from behind and,
clasping her waist, whisper in her ear: “What does that face mean?”
“Leave me alone”
“Ah”, I say, and withdraw, gently unclasping my hands. Two
years with the woman and I can barely read her face, I muse. As I am leaving,
she turns and asks:
“What face?”
I make the face and say: “That face”
She laughs and, in a voice chiming like temple-bells says:
“I don’t make that face”
“Clearly, I am not the one with the acting skills here”
She makes the face at me and asks:
“That face?”
I nod my head in assent.
“It means: why did I
even bother” she says.
“Ah”, I say, and then again, “Ah”. I was this close, I tell myself. Two more
years and I’ll get there.
I walk up to my bike, a second-hand black Bajaj-Pulsar DTSI
150. It was my uncle’s, who bought himself a new one after his party won the
previous election. I dust its front with a rag—a daily ritual. When it starts,
it hiccups, then grunts, then roars into action.
Soon, I am flying along the pot-holed lanes of Seemanahalli,
past dry cotton fields, cracked earth and thirsty roadside shrubs.
*****
II
I am in the middle of most things. Take, for instance, the
official photograph at the Panchayat Office: I am standing in the second row,
directly behind the seated Sarpanch. I am not a Panchayat official. I had
merely arranged for the photographer—pocketing a small commission—so I had paid
him in advance to position me there.
But, it was not as easy. When the official photograph was being taken, I pretended to stay away from the limelight, ostentatiously preferring to stay behind the photographer and directing proceedings from there. When the elders were seated in place—with the rest standing smartly behind— the photographer took one look at the arrangement through his lens and declared, somewhat ambiguously:
“Height arrangement is not matching in the second row”
He paused. Everyone looked at each other confusedly, some shuffling in the second row ensued. The photographer, his face fixed in an unsatisfied frown, looked at the skies, then at the trees in the background and pretended to capture the dignitaries in a hand-fashioned frame.
I was afraid he was overdoing it.
He finally turned to me and said imperiously, loudly enough for everyone to hear,
“Sir, you should be there. Second row, perfect height and
weight—symmetry and balance are important”
It worked like magic.
“Arrey, Manjunatha”, the Sarpanch called out to me, “Why
aren’t you in the frame? Come, come. You are a most important man”
And so, there I am, standing between ward member number six
(Devi Naik) and ward member number eleven (Prasad Havadiga).
*****
Barely three kilometres along the muddy track, under a fierce dry sun, I spot a familiar sari-clad figure walking towards me. I slow down and turn around to ride alongside her, my engine gently purring.
“Where to?” I ask.
“To your village” she says.
Her name is Gulabi, a government contracted health-worker.
“To my village? Why? But, the Sarpanch is not there; and the
office may be closed”
She stops walking when she hears it. I break softly.
“Jagannatha”, she
says under her breath and curses her fate.
I sense an opportunity.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want a TB patient”
“But, the Sarpanch is not suffering from TB”, I say, trying
to buy time. My mind is racing along—where can I find someone suffering from TB
in our village? There’s Meenamma’s husband, coughing all day, but he could just
have fever. What about Kanaka’s
mother? A thousand moons must have passed since she started having her bouts of
manic coughing. But, the woman’s smoked a beedi all her life.
I surmise from a cursory look at Gulabi’s face that she’d
just passed a comment on my pathetic sense of humour; I laugh distractedly.
“I know a couple of possible cases” I say, “But, I cannot be
sure. Do you want to try?”
“Oh, I need just one
more case. If I can find 3 TB cases in this Taluk, my job is done. The
government pays a lump-sum for every three cases. I have identified two. I also
know of an old man who has TB in Murki—but he lives by the edge of the stream.
Six kilometres from the nearest bus-stand. By the time I find him, he might be
dead!”
“I think”, I say and pause, gathering my thoughts, and
continue, “I think I have just the thing you are looking for. Why don’t you
meet me at the Seemanahalli Panchayat Office—I’ll
have a list ready for you”
Her smile embodies relief and gratitude in equal measure. I do
an about-turn and calculate how much time I have—about half-an-hour at
best—enough time for a little meeting with Suresh Anna.
*****
III
Suresh Anna has one thing a middle-man would prize above
everything else—information. He is also unambitious, unassuming, uncommunicative
and underestimated, thus ensuring that he would never graduate from an
industrious lower-panchayat staffer to enterprising middle-man or local
political player.
I park my bike by the flag-post and climb up the stairs of the Office. Huge empty black-boards, each reserved for its own specific government scheme, adorn the walls. The Office comprises three rooms—a large waiting room; a room for the computer operator; and a room for the Sarpanch and his secretary.
They are all empty today—it’s empty a lot these days. It’s simply too hot to work. There is, however, one man. Sitting on the staircase at the backside of the office, Suresh Anna cups a glass of tea and sips meditatively.
“Anna”, I say.
He turns around and smiles—there is rarely any malice in his
smiles, only warmth.
“What’s up?”, he asks
and shifts to a side, motioning me to sit by him.
I don’t have time to waste on small talk. So, I jump
straight to the matter:
“Does Kanaka’s mother have TB?”
He look at me and asks, a little apprehensively:
“Who is it? Someone high up in the health department?”
“No, no”, I hasten to assure him, “It’s one of those
contracted health-workers. The poor woman has to find three TB patients in the
Taluk. She has found two, but is struggling to find the third”
“Oh” he says.
Anyone else would have asked me what my interest in the
whole matter was: was I getting any money out of this, or was it just the
woman. No such thought crosses his mind. He walks into the office, pulls open a
couple of drawers, before he finds a sheet of paper.
“Here”, he says, handing it to me, “TB patients—or people
who show similar symptoms—in the past year. I’ll have it Xeroxed for you”
I scrutinize the list—six names, in addition to the two I
had speculated about. This man was a warehouse of apparently useless
information. And such neat filing too!
“Who is this Shambhu?”
“It’s our Shambhu—bendekai
Shambhu”
“Oh—the poor man has TB?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not”
I make a couple more enquiries about people’s addresses.
Needless to say, I am given perfect directions. By the time I leave, I am left
wondering where I would be without this man.
*****
IV
“Mutthayya”, I call out, “O Muthayya”
We are standing by the tulasi plant that grows from a pyramidal platform at the centre of Mutthayya’s yard. His house has a worn-out tiled roof, his walls are faded and look like they may implode any time soon; a couple of hens potter about; a cycle leans against the wall. A woman comes out and as most women here, her hands are greasy and when she peers at us, her body is bent like a bow:
“Who is it?”
“Amma, it’s me, Manju”
“Who Manju? Are you the one who is Krishnappa’s nephew?”
People never ask about my father, always my uncle. My father
was a hard-working, honest marginal farmer who toiled come sun or rain; my
uncle moved from being a carefree, good-for-nothing young man to a callous
family-man to a small-time political player.
“I am”, I say smiling.
“Come, come” she says, and throws a suspicious look at
Gulabi.
“Amma, this is Gulabi—a contracted health-worker from the
Taluk Office”
“Oh” she says, somewhat relieved and adds, “Do you want some
water?”
We both nod our heads in assent. It’s been a fairly long
walk and the sun is harsh. Biking it around is out of the question—she is a
woman, I am a man. Muthayya’s wife draws water from the well, puts it in a
steel pot and brings it to us. We gratefully accept it.
“Actually, we wanted to meet Muthayya” I said, getting down
to business.
“He’s gone to the farm”, she says.
“Farm? With his health condition?”
“Why? He’s as fit as me; and if not for so much work at
home, I’d be with him too”
I let my eyes traverse the length of her body—she’s as fit
as an ox; what’s more, she doesn’t lumber along like one.
“Ah”, I say, “But,
wasn’t your husband unwell?”
“He was, he was. The doctor said it was TB— but we got some
medicines, and he recovered. Just like that” she says, snapping her fingers to
indicate speed.
I look at Gulabi—her face wilts; she maintains the same
sorrowful expression as she peers at the blinding sun above.
“What a pity” I say, instinctively shaking my head, and,
without realising it, repeat my words, “What a pity”
It’s only when I look at Muthayya’s wife’s face that I realize I have said something wrong. Her eyes betray a potent mix of confusion, incredulity and anger. I turn red-faced to Gulabi, my eyes pleading. She comes to my rescue:
“He means”, she says, faltering and adds, “that it’s a pity … it’s a pity we couldn’t meet him. What a miraculous recovery your husband has had!”
The relief I feel manifests in the form of highly inappropriate laughter; it’s like I am mocking Muthayya’s recovery now. Throwing me an ugly look, his wife proceeds to explain to Gulabi the directions to Mutthayya’s field. Gulabi listens patiently, then thanks her gratefully, and, as soon as we are out of sight, turns in the opposite direction.
The sun is merciless and our list is long-- the last thing we want to do is to pay social visits to men who were ill.
*****
[To continue]
