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')

Slap

He sang in the morning, sang to the dying stars; he sang to his whitewashed walls, his own voice bouncing off them; he sang for his morning coffee, one-and-a-half tea-spoons of sugar; he sang for spring, for leaves that twirled and girls who flowered with the blooming chrysanthemums; second-most-of-all, he sang because he could unite, even if only in short, elevating bursts, music’s sacred triumvirate: shruti, laya and raga; but most-of-all, he reflected, he sang to communicate joy.

He sang for free. It cheapens your music, they warned him, those Sabha owners, his ‘well-wishers’. People will tire of you, they cried. In response, he let loose four typical phrases in Todi. They shook their heads in appreciation, clicking their tongues, beckoning imaginary birds. 'People have sung the same phrases for centuries', he then said, 'have you tired of them yet?' Most of them made like they understood, but he knew from the looks on their faces that they didn’t—their eyes seemed to humour him, like he was an old man lecturing them on the benefits of walking barefoot.  

For twenty-two years, he had sung across the peninsula, often travelling six-hours second-class between successive performances, changing into a fresh veshti backstage, powdering his neck and smearing, in haste, a handful of vibhuti over his forehead. He sang for his audience, picking ragas and songs based on the demographics of his crowd. Kanakadasa stormed into a concert in Shimoga and, when in Thoothukudi, if a Dikshitar Krithi was the Sun—the centre around which the rest of the concert pivoted—then a song each by Bharatiyar and Umaru Pulavar were twin moons, one resplendent, the other an inspired apparition.

His grandfather was close to the Wodeyar Kings, a Minister of some sort. His father ran the family trust with the tremendous wealth his grandfather had amassed, feeding the poor and funding the education of the children of the neglected. His father encouraged him to sing, to see music as an entity in itself, beyond the maya of existence. Until he was twelve, his father pushed him to sing and learn, and he did, sometimes grudgingly. Then, one morning, he instinctively shut his eyes as he practised and sang Mayatheetha Swaroopini. 

He opened his eyes to see his father and mother sitting in front of him, watching him intently; his mother’s face mingled contentment and tears, brimming with unspoken pride, his father smiled like he knew. Three full hours had dissolved in one raga, the passing of time had never tasted so sweet. There is Maya, he declared to his father, beyond the Malavagowla. 

Ever since, music was the language he thought in, the force that allowed him to navigate the prosaic and scale the pristine. Sometimes, music let him blur the boundaries between the mundane and the magnificent. When he first set sight on his wife’s breasts, he said, more to himself than her: they are like Khamas’ Nishadas, distinct, yet equal.

And within him, unknown and unacknowledged, rested a quiet pride, not so much in his art as his philanthropy. He threw his doors open to the public. Anyone, beggar or businessman, rasika or novice, could walk in when he practiced. Wherever he sang, even at the Academy, no tickets were sold. One year, the Academy, citing rules, disallowed him from performing—this created a storm of gargantuan proportions in his microscopic music circles and the suspension was revoked. As the years rolled on, he lived off his grandfather’s dwindling wealth and his fans’ goodwill.

Within him, he felt, was something that transcended price-tags, to put a value on it would be to de-value it; and to share it without restrictions was service. Award citations extolled his selfless heart, a newspaper dubbed him ‘the voice for the voiceless’; in an interview once, he called himself the ‘servant of God and of the people’.

*

That morning, he wanted water. Sixteen minutes into Abheri, his throat itched. He called out to his wife who didn’t respond, but vessels clanged in the kitchen, water gushed from an open tap. Water. He vented his frustration on Abheri, letting out a volcanic burst of swaras, but Abheri wouldn’t get angry, it wasn’t in her nature. This caused him more agitation, he slapped his thigh and broke into another volley of frenetic phrases, introducing the Shuddha Dhaviatha—Abheri swung from calm to melancholy and tended dangerously towards violence. One manic phrase landed furiously on the Tarasthai Shadja.  Water, it demanded.

His wife appeared finally, a steel tumbler in hand, and said, softly: Don’t be so harsh.      

‘Harsh?’, he said, working himself into a rage, Abheri fled from his system, music hid in a corner, as he hissed, in a whisper that evoked the sharp edge of a knife: ‘People are sitting here listening’

There were six people in his spacious, sparse music room, one that his grandfather built and where his father conducted his weekly meetings with the directors of his now-dead trust; they were all dressed in crisply ironed shirts in varying shades of white and veshtis, regulars at his morning practice sessions. Taking them in in one sweeping glance, he returned to look at his wife, who still clasped the tumbler in her hand, and said:

‘You owe it to them to make sure I have my water on time, not to me’

His usually patient wife, perhaps stung by Abheri’s travails, flung the water at his face.

‘To them?’, she asked, laughing angrily, ‘You do not sing for them, they can live without your music. As can everyone else. When you sit on your pedestal and demand that entry be free and open, how many poor walk in? Can a shirtless man wearing only a torn pant, dark as the night and smelling of the sweat of toil, walk into the hallowed air-conditioned chambers of your Academy? Two streets away from this house and this hall with its chandeliers and windows the size of elephants, in tents lit only by kerosene lamps, lives are birthed, lived and ended: none of those lives are touched by you or your music'

'You do not even know of their existence', she spat, 'yet you pass by them every second day'

You sing because you can', she said finally, 'and that is all there is to it’ 

***

Empty Nothings (Part 2)

(Continued from below)

Something changed. I could sense her presence; I could sense her absence; I could sense her presence in her absence. For no apparent reason, a whiff of her perfume—up until then just another scent in a city that was an assault on the olfactory senses—made fleeting, surreal appearances; when she did actually walk past, I felt a jolt in my insides, my limbs knotting in tension; when she smiled, I smiled too, but fractionally later than usual—I had to keep telling myself to act normal.

Stranger still, when she came in the nights, she behaved like nothing had transpired between us. We continued to speak as usual—she with her coffee mug, I with my chipped tea-cup— discussing our days, our lives and our ideas. Truth be told, nothing happened that night: nothing tangible, even remotely momentous.  

I never stared at her in the manner I did that night. Sometimes, however, I let my eyes linger on her for longer than usual, hoping to gather a reaction of some sort. I never got one, not once in all those following weeks. 

*

We once spoke about dreams. I spoke about the changing face of my nightmares. As a child and a young adult, they were full of ghastly images, gory fates for loved ones. More recently, my nightmares seemed to be less dream-like, less direct; they were non-linear and plot-less, but far more powerful; subtle and lethal, they never failed to hit me where it hurt the most.

For instance, I wanted to tell her, consider the dream I had last week. I didn’t say it, not because she was saying something in response to what I had said previously and it was rude to intervene, but because I couldn’t bring myself to talk of my dreams.

… What do you mean less direct?, she was asking me.

Previously, I said, I would have dreamt of getting run over by a bus—my stomach would lurch as I sensed the bus near; I would emerge from sleep, screaming and kicking like a baby.

And now?

And now?, I ask pausing to buy time,

Now, I want to say, I can only watch from a distance, watch me wither, but not die. Like the headmaster in the movie I watched repeatedly in my youth, I can only stare helplessly at a situation I can neither comprehend nor resolve.

“Now”, I lie instead, I dream of dying in pieces. For instance, I dream I die like my friend—Daood, the Dhobi— slowly, painfully, coughing his way to death, unable to get rid of the wretched beedi that’s his Rajdhani-ticket to heaven. He always slept with a half-burnt beedi in his mouth, he died with a half-burnt beedi in his mouth … One day, he slept and never awoke. But he is in heaven now, in God’s hands.         

I see a palette of images, seguing into each other.

Sometimes you walk past me—deliberately, slowly— you turn to face me briefly, but there’s no glimmer of recognition, no familiar smile.

Sometimes, as you look over my shoulder when I make my tea, my elbow brushes against your breast and I look at you, but nothing comes off it.

Sometimes, you pull me close by the scruff of my collar, so close I can smell the coffee in your breath, and as I stare into your eyes, I realize I am no longer the man next to you, but actually a few feet away, watching you lunge passionately at the pretty young thing who comes over every so often. Someone is laughing, I cannot tell who.

I have dreamt of wearing space-suits and walking in space for much of my life, she said, I don’t think it means anything.  

*

You may laugh when I say this, but I have never raised a finger on anyone in all my adult life: never beaten my wife, nor my children or even the shy robber who once asked permission to steal.

She came home very late one night, clinging to a pretty boy like a creeper. For a long while, they were in their car, he was at the wheel. In the dim light of an insipid moon, I caught fragments of his face: long, thick hair that tumbled over his forehead; big, black glasses that hid his eyes; a lit cigarette that he held lazily in his free hand, one that seemed to contain more than mere tobacco; with his other hand, he stroked her hair easily. He was what she would call an intellectual.           

They seemed to talk for what seemed like hours; ever so often, they would move closer and the darkness would envelope their silhouettes: my mind dared not think what transpired in those moments; the wind picked up, then went still; the moon disappeared behind the adjacent apartment, the skies grew darker.

Finally, I heard a series of horns and some laughing. I ambled out and opened the gate. She barely looked at me as they drove past to her empty parking spot. I closed the gate. Something within my ears grew chilly, my saliva tasted metallic, my stomach felt heavy. As they walked, his arm around her waist, I walked up to them. I could smell alcohol and perfume and deodorant—their body odours seemed to have merged.  

You cannot go up to her flat, I said in an even tone, looking at him.

For a second, they didn’t seem to notice, so lost were they in their own bubble. And then, he looked at me—in the faint light of the basement’s only zero-watt, his perfect jaw contorted in confusion, then broke into a warm half-smile. Her initial surprise gave way to anger.

What? she asked.

Your friend, I said flatly, cannot go up.

Have you gone mad?, she snapped in a manner I had never before seen her do. There was more than a hint of condescension in her tone.

In a fit of righteous delirium, I kicked him where it hurt the most. And, as he bent over, his hands over his balls, I punched him across his head. He was knocked out cold, lying flat on his back. I turned to find her mouth wide open – she was screeching soundlessly, tears streaming down her face.

I held her hand tightly and said, first softly, then, as she struggled to find her voice, increasingly loudly: What do you think you are doing? What do you think you are doing?

Her silence provoked me, her helplessness made me want to hurt her more. She tried to walk away, but I followed her, never letting go of her hand, mouthing the same words. I wanted an answer, a response. Her words, however, seemed to inhabit another universe, failing to respond to her summons.

Stop, she finally managed to shriek. Her lips pouted and quivered, her tears had wiped her cheek clean.

I turned and sprinted. I scaled the gate and ran into the lane that led to main-road. My footsteps echoed, a cat’s brilliant eyes streaked across the darkness. As I reached the empty main-road and sped into dark patches interspersed with neon-islands, I raised my arms out wide and was awash in the pleasant chill of the pre-dawn air.

Under a setting moon, my madness evaporated.

*

When I had returned from my run, they had both gone. The car was still there, however. I packed my belongings and left before dawn crept.

*

Nothing matters. In the beginning, with her, nothing mattered. Then, after the strange night, nothing mattered. With time, even the pains of nothingness dissolve, leaving behind nothing: no traces, just an inertial numbness.

I moved across the city, to watch over another apartment: it is quieter and smaller. I avoid people’s eyes and make conversation only if forced to. I go into the main town once every six months, to catch the bus back to my village. Otherwise, I stick to one lane: the one that borders my new apartment.  

Every now and then, down my lane, a man maybe twenty years older than I, makes an appearance. In some ways, we are the same age: time ceased to exist for him some decades ago. He is thin and tall, much like a lamp-post with gangly limbs. He slings a sloth-bag around his shoulder, wears a long, faded kurta. He always looks clean and the little hair he has—all white-- possesses a sense of order that would make Nature proud.

Standing at the corner of my lane, he makes speeches to families of pigs that waltz by, passers peeing on the wall, their backs turned to him, and gossiping auto-drivers; the sole person who notices him is Shiva, the gudangadi owner, who turns on his mobile speakers to full volume every time the man begins to talk.

The old man is a captivating speaker, his style fluent, his voice modulations precise, arguments crisp. He speaks of everything, but almost always returns to the Chief Minister and his sycophantic ways—he accuses him of constantly pandering to the “mad woman” in Delhi. Like a dog, he would bark, this Devraj Urs follows Nehru’s daughter.

He speaks of everything and yet conveys nothing.   

I listen in often, sitting on my hunches by my gate and paying close attention to his lips for otherwise he would be lost in the din caused by the blaring music. When he’s done, he pauses to soak in the non-existent applause, smiling triumphantly at nothing in particular.

He’s made his peace with nothing.  

I dream of space-walking a lot nowadays. I don’t think it means anything though.    

*

Concludes

Empty Nothings (Part 1)

I sleep with my mouth open. It was a running joke in my family. My father would tell my mother in the morning, as he left to work in our Yajamana’s farms: ‘don’t feed the little one— he had two ants and a fly during his mid-night snack!’

As a child, I slept soundly. Outside, the clouds would rage—lightning streaking across starlit skies— and it would pour. I, however, would sleep through it all. Rain and gunfire, death and celebrations— nothing ever disturbed my sleep. After dinner, I would swagger like a drunk towards my mother and, before she could raise a word of protest, plonk my head on her lap and shut my eyes. She had vessels to wash, a house to wind-up and a husband to tend to. And yet, uncomplainingly, she would stroke my head, until sleep drifted in from wherever it is that sleep does.

Ironically, here, in the city, a thousand miles from where I was born and three lifetimes away from the life I had lived as a child, I work as a night-watchman. I still sleep, but sleep lightly. Even the footsteps of a cat, suffused with the quietness of their species and the magic of the night, would make me take notice.

However, curious flies are still unconsciously consumed— perhaps the only link to a childhood from another world.  

*

My wife and children are still in the village, though I am trying to get my eldest to come to the city. I have just about enough money to send him to a private school here. If I had spent less on frivolous things when I first came to the city thirteen years ago, perhaps I could have brought them all here. But, when you are young and new, everything is light, lovely and joyous; everything is about the today and the now.

Once, I went to the same film six times straight, not because the hero was a superstar or the heroine, an import from the north, ravishing; nor was it for the predictably comforting underdog tale. I went because (as I came to discover on my third viewing) one of the characters—an old headmaster of a dying school—reminded me of my father.

I gambled, but never drank. Some while ago, a friend of mine calculated and discovered, much to our alarm, that had I saved up all the money I had spent on beedis, I’d be thrice as rich.

*

This friend was special: she is not like me at all.

‘But we are like each other’, I can hear her insist in my head.

Okay, here are the facts and I’ll let you decide: she is half-English (or American or Australian), I can barely speak English (half-English?); she is tall, with long, sexy legs which she lets the moonlight lovingly caress, I am short and fat— my hairy legs are barely contained by my bulging khakis; she is white as milk, glowing in mere starlight, sometimes I am invisible at twilight; she rents an apartment and lives by herself, I sleep under the skies.

You are an intellectual, she would always say, cupping her coffee-mug, her head resting on her knees. Had you been born in my world, you would have been wearing big, round glasses, smoked a pipe and spoken about the Big Things: God, Life, Religion, Cultures.

But, what is your world? I would wonder out aloud, What is this world to which we have no keys?

See?, she would say, that is precisely the kind of thing an intellectual would say.

*

She came nearly every night. She was remarkably unselfconscious, but the night was also kind: no surreptitious eyes ogled at her lovely legs, no jealous women made comments on the sly. She brought a mug of black coffee: dark, steaming, mysterious. She would talk and watch me make my tea, a necessary indulgence to wade through the night.

We often traded histories. After all, most conversations flow through memories’ windows.

I came to the city because I grew tired of singing at weddings. We were descendants of the Nagas. Like the snakes, I would tell her, we virtually lived underground, in darkness, in a hamlet away from the rest of the village. And just like the snakes, we briefly emerged from the darkness every now and then, to be faux-revered, but quickly banished. We were invited for all religious ceremonies—weddings, festivals— because music was in our blood, our voices could scale notes that none else could imagine.

My father rebelled against his mother by choosing to work in the Yajamaana’s fields—at least, he argued, we don’t have to wait for people to get married to fill our stomachs. I rebelled against my father by leaving the village altogether.

It was remarkable how differently she and I viewed the city: for me, it symbolized progress and freedom. For her, it was regressive and constraining; but, equally remarkably, for both of us, it was a land of opportunities.

In my line of work, she would say, this is a gold-mine. There is so much to do, so much to develop!

What if these people don’t need your development?, I would argue.

Why wouldn’t anyone want more schools, better schools?

My father never went to school. I think, on the whole, he was happier than I was. But that is beside the point. What I really want to say is this: why can’t schools teach what we want to learn? Why should my son learn what someone in the capital—thousands of kilometres away—deems fit? I have so much I could teach children: my music, our way of life. Why should everything be so complicated?     

I know you have a point there, she would counter, but what you are saying is impractical.       

I could sense the mild exasperation in her tone. I would stay quiet, watching my tea-leaves swirl in the yellow light of my lantern; the glorious violet fire below evoked the feathers of a peacock. The gas connection was a gift from her; the cart was the dhobi’s who had died last year, leaving behind all his savings for his only son. He gave me the cart because we had been old friends and he wanted someone to ‘treat it with the love it deserved’.

We’ve become so complicated, I would soldier on, an eye still on the tea. We can’t even tell people what we do without resorting to an explanation. You work with—what do you call it—policy advocacy? How does that tell anyone you work for children? Tomorrow, we’ll have fifteen words for walking, twenty words for the kind of hunger we feel. Actually, maybe that’s not true: only you rich people have such lush vocabularies and hunger is not something you feel as intensely as we do. Come to think of it, you don’t even walk as much!

What do you want us to do?, she would ask, turning her head towards me, become milkmen and night-watchmen?

It was a rhetorical question, meant only as a counter-barb. I poured my freshly made tea into my chipped tea-cup, one I got twenty-five years ago as part of my dowry. I sat across her, my head against the compound wall of her apartment and asked, quietly:

How was your day?

*

She never brought anyone. On the days she had friends over for the night— posh girls, good-looking men—she’d usually not turn up; sometimes she would come, later than usual, with a sheepish grin and explain: he’s asleep; clearly I am not good company!

She once asked me about sex. It was a windy night—the kind when you could taste the dust on your upper-lip; the world was hazy, beautifully so, especially in the bright headlights of the odd truck that cantered by. The tea had been made, my head rested against her apartment wall and her thick, dark hair swayed sensually with the wind. I was telling her about my last visit to my village, when she interjected:

You haven’t seen your wife in ages! Don’t you feel like sleeping with someone?

It was a question like any other: gently curious, but casual and easy.

I stiffened. It is odd—I talk sex to myself constantly; during the day, the topic is a favourite amongst my best friends, the sex-starved Manja, who runs a liquor shop and the promiscuous, boastful Kalla, who owns a gudangadi down the road. And yet, those conversations are mechanical, illusory: the tone is light, the banter good-natured, the humour detached. I—we—talk of sex like we talk of cinema stars, like it is somebody else’s problem.

I stood up abruptly and walked to my cart. I picked up the lantern by its side and placed it between us: her bright eyes shone in the soft, orange light; her nose-ring—a speck on the bridge of her sharp, impeccable nose—glistened softly; the wind made her tee-shirt cling to her breasts, accentuating her curves; and the shadows of her slender legs were thrown across my own.

I stared at her, my mind stunned into calm silence. She looked back, her delightful eyes questioning me playfully. I could sense my imagination leaping out of my self, scampering wildly along the dusty, dirty lanes of the city. She was toying with me, fully conscious of the impact she was having on my senses and revelling in it.

In minutes, she finished her tea, her eyes never quite leaving me.  She stood up and left quietly, her windswept hair bouncing gracefully.   

Our conversation wound up in the absence of words; the electric silence, however, was anything but empty.

I had not felt more alive in a very long while.

(To conclude, in three days)

Finding TB -- I

                                                                                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]