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Thursday, February 14, 2013

Suttal Suttal

Suttal = Sleep

In Motihari, a Panchayat Rozgar Sevak was murdered.

The first shot grazed his elbow. He ran, not because his elbow ached, but because the shot resounded in his ears. The second was a better shot-- the bullet tunneled through his back and emerged from his paunch, dripping in blood that looked, in the faint moonlight, like petrol.

"It was really dark. He may have escaped", the Mukhia told his men later that night, between chuckles, "If he wasn't shouting in a frenzy .. And what was he shouting? .. 'Suttal, suttal'*[1] "

The group exploded in laughter.

"Imagine Mantriji running, his legs spread wide, belly and all, and shouting in the darkness--", the Mukhia said snorting, "--Suttal, Suttal"

Someone brought another round of chai. They slurped, drawing heat from their cupped hands. The fire between them blazed, the fireflies danced in the trees.
Someone else suddenly said, '"Suttal, suttal", and the second 'Suttal' was drowned in another wave of tumultuous laughter.  

*

In Motihari, a Panchayat Rozgar Sevak (PRS) was murdered.

That evening, the PRS was particularly busy: he helped distribute wages and noticed that the Mukhia was behaving oddly. The Mukhia was doing a double-role from the Bhojpuri movie he had seen the previous week, alternating furiously between the hero’s doting grandmother and the evil step-mother. Relations between the PRS and the Mukhia had been precarious for a while.  

How had it come to this?, the PRS wondered.   

Wages were disbursed in the usual manner. The Mukhia landed with a stack of money, three hours late; the labourers queued up, uncomplaining. He called out their names. They approached, saluted and went away with a wad of notes; as they left, the PRS had them sign on a blank piece of paper. The Mukhia slapped a youth whose walk he found callous and swore at a middle-aged man who thrust his left hand out. "Never use your left hand", he barked, "Learn to respect the Goddess Lakshmi".

Later that night, three-hundred-kilometres away, Raghuram Pandey's phone rang. The ring-tone was a famous, steamy Bhojpuri song, sung in a manner that was uncharacteristically earnest and funereal. He had sung it himself, having got a sycophantic nephew to record and set it as his ring-tone. He waited for the first line to finish before answering the call-- he hated interrupting himself. 

The voice on the other line announced flatly that a PRS from some Panchayat in Motihari had been murdered by the Mukhia. The name of the Panchayat struck a bell somewhere, but he had to confirm.
"Is the PRS the chap with the NREGA-tummy? Previously thin, now fat?" he asked.
"Yes"
"Okay", he said and, without much ado, cut the call.
When Raghuram Pandey, President of the Bihar Panchayat Rozgar Sevaks Union, went back to bed, his wife asked him if it was something important. He yawned, scratched his back, and turned over. In seconds, his snores reigned over the night’s quiet.

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

The Minister looked at the file placed in front of him. The file had a bunch of paper-clippings and a survey-report. The survey had been conducted by some obscure organization in Delhi he had (unsurprisingly) never heard of. Attached to the report was a one-page summary of its contents, neatly hand-written by his secretary. 

The summary informed him that the survey had exposed corruption in the NREGA: the report (ominously titled “Terrorism of the Poor”) estimated that ‘leakages’ in the scheme had cost the state a whopping 6000 crores. The media had had a field day: the findings had made the headlines in seven major newspapers.  

He glanced through the file, called his secretary and said, softly:
"Order an enquiry".
Before his secretary left, the minister showed him a headline from one of the clippings he found particularly clever:
"MaNREGA ab bana DhanREGA"

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

Ali called Raghuram Pandey, who he thought was a first-rate opportunist. Ali usually did mass-interest stories-- a euphemism for crime largely-- for the Hindi daily he wrote for. A PRS murder wasn't mass interest, but this was a lean period for Patna-centric crimes (which, of course, grabbed maximum eyeballs). Irritatingly, Raghuram Pandey always took his time answering the phone.

'Pandeyji, Namaskar', he began, when the man eventually answered.
Pandey responded unenthusiastically. Ali, for him, was a lazy bum and at an irksome stage of his career: too big to be taken lightly, too small to garner any serious attention.
'Did you hear about the PRS murder case in Motihari?', Ali asked.
'Yes-- very sad', Pandey said.
'Any comments? Allegedly, it was committed by the Mukhia?'
'We condemn murder’, Pandey said in a flat monotone and added, ‘but we would not like to jump the gun here. We are waiting for more evidence'

Later that evening, Ali received an e-mail from Raghuram Pandey that had an attachment he downloaded after repeated, frantic checks for viruses. It had a perfunctory two-line statement in perfect Hindi, reminiscent of an NREGA instruction-manual:

'The Bihar State PRS Union mourns the death of one of their own in Motihari. We await further details and hope the deceased’s family is duly compensated'

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

Sixteen days before he was shot, the PRS had had tea with Bablu. If, like sunrises, death could be tracked back linearly to a single cause, then this conversation-- slow, meandering, simmering with only the lightest tension-- would perhaps be the best candidate.

Bablu informed him— in Bihar’s distinctive garrulous drawl— that a few months from then, all payments to the villagers would be routed through him. He was a banking correspondent, BC for short. He was to be the final link between villagers' bank accounts-- registered in banks separated from the villager by a gulf both geographical and social-- and the villagers themselves. Equipped with a biometric device and tonnes of money, he was to be a walking, talking ATM. He had met the Mukhia, who he had found very personable. What’s more, they—the Mukhia and the BC— had agreed to split the spoils two-way.

"50-50?", the PRS exclaimed, "Oh!"
"What was your share earlier?", Bablu asked.
"50-50"

It was actually one-third, but he didn't know why, he felt like lying. He didn’t like this new, third cog in the corruption band-wagon: what was once a smooth bike is now a clumsy auto, he mused.   
"Ah", Bablu sang and paused awkwardly. The Mukhia had told Bablu something else— that the PRS’ share was only one-third. "I like you”, the Mukhia had declared warmly then, “I will give you a higher share than what I used to give Mantriji". The old bastard had lied with a straight face!

"But, how will you make money?", the PRS asked Bablu, "I heard your machine talks when a payment is made? So, won't the villager know he's being cheated if you give him some money and the machine says he is entitled to more?"

Bablu’s face contorted into what he hoped was a clever smile: he came off looking, at least in the PRS’ eyes, like a monkey with spectacles. Holding the smile for a while, Bablu responded, in a sing-song manner that resembled a terrible vocalist’s morning riyaaz:   

"The machines were made by a partner company-- we ensured that a mute button was installed"

The PRS chuckled unhappily.    

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

Sixteen days after the murder and four days after an enquiry was commissioned by the Minister, auditors descended on MNREGA Offices in separate teams across the state-- from Siwan to Araria, Kaimur to Sitamarhi-- arriving in cars, bikes, buses, autos and, on one occasion (because the auditor's driver had overslept and switched his phone off), a bullock-cart. A total of nineteen district administrations had begun enquiries into the 6000-crore scam. When, later, reasons were asked of the remaining districts for their absences, most officers complained of a curious head-ache, almost as though the head-ache bugs had awoken that very morning with the collective intention of targeting District Chief Social Auditors of the MNREGA.

Where the officers did manage to show up, documents were seized, notes were copiously taken down, money was exchanged.      

Across the state, The Panchayat Rozgar Sevaks panicked. PRS’ were easy pickings—the Mukhias, democratically elected, answerable to none, rarely, if ever, were apprehended; on the other hand, PRS’ were contract-workers, not even full-time government employees and functioned at the lowest level of the heirarchy: the Panchayat. 

Some PRS’ hid in their homes, others mysteriously 'lost' documents; one, apparently distraught, PRS claimed that Agni-- the Lord of Fire-- had consumed his office that very morning (and, therefore, destroyed all evidence against him); and another was found atop a grape-fruit tree. When, later, those absent filed in their applications for leave, several claimed to have had a head-ache.
On that chilly December morning, the head-ache bugs had chosen to go after one more class of people after all-- curiously, those seemed to be NREGA-related staff too.

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

Eight days and twenty-six chais before a bullet grazed his elbow, the PRS had met with the Mukhia at his residence. The Mukhia gave him tea in a fancy cup, one he usually reserved for officers. It was comforting, but they still had terms to negotiate.

The PRS decided to be direct: ask for a flat thirty-three per cent of the overall commission from payments made to workers. He laid down his arguments methodically. Technically, the work itself was now split three-way. He managed the works, the BC made the payments and the Mukhia supervised. So, it made sense to make a neat three-way partition of the spoils too. He also appealed to the Mukhia’s human side: he was a poor man, had five mouths to feed. Moreover, he had access to funds from only one scheme; the Mukhia had a whole host of schemes to work with—pensions, rations, house-construction.

The Mukhia listened with interest, not interrupting even once. When the PRS was done, he said flatly: “Fifteen per cent to you, twenty per cent to the BC and I take the rest”

The PRS was understandably aghast and stuttered.

The Mukhia explained, patiently, like a friendly headmaster: “Look at this tea-cup. It is fancy and looks like it contains a lot of tea from the outside; but it’s base actually starts half-way up the cup. So the cup you hold in your hand has, in fact, very little tea. That’s how we work with this MNREGA too: pretend to be doing a lot of work, deliver a little and pocket the rest. The trick now, for you, is to serve more tea-cups. That will make up for your decreased share. Work harder, pocket your share—that belly needs some trimming, anyway”

The PRS stared at the his feet, ground into silence. When he found words, he strung them together:

“But, Bablu-- the BC-- said he is getting fifty per cent”

“Bablu is new to the game and quite cocky; with time, I am sure he will fall in place too”, he paused, then added, “just like you have

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

Six days before he was relegated to history’s quagmire, the PRS was asked to remember the past.
Even though he was fleeing when he was shot, in the larger scheme of things, he went down fighting. The PRS and the Mukhia were caste-mates, both from the land-owning Ahir community. The PRS complained to some caste-elders about his being sidelined and his shrinking share in the NREGA-pot; some sided with him, others clicked their tongues in disapproval, still others asked him to work out a compromise solution, or lay low for a while and act when the opportunity arose. He was careful not to bad-mouth the Mukhia, for within the community, information flowed like the Ganga during the rains— freely, everywhere.

One evening, he arrived home to find the Mukhia sprawled on his favourite easy-chair, staring intently at the TV screen. Visuals of snakes climbing trees flashed on the screen, repeatedly, in slow-motion. Below, a ticker screamed: ‘Breaking News: Flying snakes in Araria’. The PRS entered and quietly touched the Mukhia’s feet. The Mukhia blessed him, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.
They had two rounds of tea; the Mukhia rambled, uncharacteristically. He spoke of the PRS’ house, how things had changed over the years. Where was the TV five years ago?, he asked. Where were these extra bed-rooms? Where was the marble-flooring in the prayer room, the Silver Flute for the Lord? Five years ago, he said, you only had faded pictures of the Goddess Laxmi and Rani Mukherjee; this Laxmiji, he said, gesturing in the direction of the prayer-room, how did she descend from that photograph and stamp her glorious imprints on this house?

“Who”, he finally said, getting down to business, “Who got you your job? Do not forget us humble-folk in times of wealth. You may regret it”
“How can I forget you?”, the PRS replied, “I have only had praise for you—you have made me what I am”  

“Mantriji”, the Mukhia said sternly, “Yesterday, Netaji—that old hag—told me gently to take care of the community’s interests and not act selfish. Selfish? How am I being selfish? Everywhere—in every aspect of my life, in my past, my present, tomorrow-- I make place for this community, like Laloo did for the Yadavs, Nitish does for Bihar. And now, to be spoken of like this! This is not good; this is not good”

When, later, the Mukhia left, his Bolero leaving behind a trail of dust-smoke, the PRS remembered the day he was offered the job; then too, the Mukhia had left against a dying sun; then too, the pits of his stomach were churning, working overtime; only then, the Mukhia had cycled out, his towel fluttering in his wake.

Six years had flown since. How had it come to this?   

*

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

An emergency meeting of the Bihar PRS’ Union was convened. Ali was the only reporter present—he had landed there by chance, having boarded the wrong bus and slept off. Stuck forty-five kilometres from Patna, with nothing much to do, he was, for once, glad to receive a text message from Raghuram Pandey announcing a meeting in a run-down former computer-centre around the corner.

In the midst of what Ali would recall as the original graveyard of unused computers—‘like aborted lives, condemned to die before birth’—Raghuram Pandey resurrected a man from the dead, lionising him as an honest man with a thirst for work, a brave soul who stood up for the truth in the face of immense pressure, who thrived under tension. “A true hero, a soft-spoken man”, he bellowed into a microphone that wailed and echoed, “Mantriji of Motihari is a PRS we must stand up for, whose death teaches us that enough is enough

For the first six-and-a-half minutes, as Ali stared around, watching the crowd grow softly restless under their sorrowful exteriors, disbelief flooded him. He always thought of the PRS’ as a sorry lot—inefficient simpletons; the Trishanku’s of the state’s hierarchy, condemned to spend their time in an uneasy nether-world between the promised heavens of permanent government offices and the hell-like portals of unemployment.

But, however unfortunate they may be and however slowly their minds may work, surely, it wouldn’t take them sixteen days to register sorrow? Where was this rage, this dejection, when he had made the call to Raghuram Pandey two weeks ago? Where was this crowd of people, their collective fires, their thirst for justice?

Someone in the audience blew into a kerchief; another yawned loudly.

And then Ali saw it—a rolled-up newspaper stuck out of the back-pocket of the PRS sitting in front of him. From it, stared the headline: “State Officials begin audit of the NREGA; Documents seized”.
“We will go on an indefinite strike”, Pandey was saying, punching imaginary Mukhias a foot above him, to a roar of approval from the crowd.
The headline connected the dots in Ali’s head, the lines formed a brilliant, if obvious, picture. He chided himself for not seeing it earlier. This strike was as much about the dead PRS as the NREGA was about work on demand.   

The ulterior motive was simple: who would the Auditors bring to the book if the PRS’ went on strike? How would anyone audit a scheme if it’s most populous functionaries are in absentia? How does one audit a scheme whose wheels have come off, that would not run— not until the audit is called off? The PRS’ were the scheme’s past and future—custodians of whatever little institutional memory that existed, protectors of any shot at progress. In his note-pad, Ali scribbled, admiring the child-like simplicity of it all: ‘No PRS -> no scheme; no scheme -> no audit’

Later, Raghuram Pandey, in the spirit of modern democratic protests, lit a candle and held it aloft, encouraging his people to follow suit. ‘To Mantuji’, he said, loud and solemn, before a hissing voice corrected him.
‘To Mantriji’, he said hastily, slightly flushed.

Seventeen days after his death, Mantriji—Panchayat Rozgar Sevak, Rampur (North) Panchayat, Motihari— became the poster-boy for a strike that was never meant to be about him.


The strike ran a full seventy-two days.

Meanwhile, the Minister busied himself with a trip to London and a series of rallies across the state; the Auditors went back to their offices with three newspapers and six chais—tired from their exertions on that December morning, when they hounded PRS’ in air-conditioned cars.

Ali landed his first big break, covering the dramatic saga of an MLA whose wife was molested by Railway Officials in the second-AC compartment of a Kolkata-bound train.

Raghuram Pandey addressed several meetings and managed to hold out long enough for everyone to forget going back to the Audits. 

Mantriji’s wife got her first month’s widow-pension, a feat that took the average villager up to eight years to achieve—she used it to buy the Regional Entertainment Pack on her TV connection, something her late husband would never have allowed.  

In Motihari, a PRS was murdered.

And, even three months later, when it was night and the stars threatened to shower like embers from glittering firecrackers, as he rose to go to bed, the Mukhia would announce to no one in particular-- “Suttal, Suttal”; and guffaw.  



[1] ('Sleep, sleep')

1 comment:

Krupa Ge said...

I love that in this Gangs of Wasseypur-sque tale you've woven in little gems of great literary merit, like this "stars threatened to shower like embers from glittering firecrackers"...

:-)