Le Gayi Pavan Ura
The Wind Carried It All Away
At a little distance from our quarters were the quarters for the Bhangis. There - in the open space in front of their homes, during the days of Gugga's death anniversary, emerged a royal voice from beneath his soiled, puzzled moustache, as he sang gugga in the evenings. A congregation of raised flags of various colors would be seen there, as drums beat, long steel nippers aided the rhythm, while food items, which had been begged from different houses, would be seen cooking in a cauldron. Kalu would go on singing the dohras, rearranging at the same time the setting of his oppressive moustache. Then the rhythm of the drum and the steel nipper would gather speed and people would emit sad sigh-like sounds reminiscent of the growing evening shadow. No one else showed interest in their festival except for the children of other social groups.
"We will get a share from what's cooking in the pot?"
"Hai, Massu, you are bad and greedy too! They are untouchables. Bhangis. Why should we eat their food?" Kamni was after all the Brahmins' daughter. If she didn't worry about untouchablity, who would?
Manu's hands are too long; they stretch across centuries to erect a wall of hatred. But Kamni had poked holes in it with the finger of her feelings. People's equality had become her religion. It was her father's desire that she become a doctor, to see her wearing the white coat. There would be a long line of patients outside. Money would pour from the sky. All hardships would fade away. The college administration kicked her out. Simply because she wanted to push all sorrows, hunger and injustices into the Indian Ocean before the next dawn broke. Crazy, has anything like this ever happened!
"Why are you sitting here?" a guard stands before me. Why am I sitting here? "I don't mind getting up, brother." So much night has passed, the silence-stricken street, well-stocked shops, a lonely man, certainly the guard has a reason. He tugs at the lock. All is okay. But suspicion refuses to budge. He is convinced something is fishy. Yet he can't put his finger on it.
As the body continues to melt it grows heavier. My legs have become stuffed with steel. So impossible to take another step! Walking a little will help as it will warm up the body. It would have been better if I had died of a heart failure. But then I would not have been able to enjoy life to the fullest. My eyes have feasted upon life today. Such huge morsels enough to stuff my mouth, choke the daylight out of me, pop out the eyes. The entire city has fallen asleep; it is time to go to the hut. No, this city doesn't sleep. Like a snake, even in sleep it keeps one eye open. Even now there are tiny islands full of life in front of cinema halls, at the railway station and the taxi stands. Tea must be boiling, paans being prepared, and there must be something available to eat as well. All around me monstrous buildings stand and stare in silence. And I a miniscule thing - worse than an ant - crawl on the street. It won't make a difference if I get crushed under someone's foot. Life keeps on being born and wiped out by the millions in this universe. The buildings inch towards me from all sides. Yes, they advance slowly, trying to narrow in on me. They speed up, running, oh . . . I feel dizzy. I should rest here at the sidewalk. The entire body is shivering - as though a hunting dog were chasing a faun. The hammers of veins are striking the temple. What, you gave up? Death is not too painful. It knocks out the dying before he actually dies, just as the doctor does before the operation. One doesn't know much, doesn't feel anything and the doctor moves on as her work is done. Karmu the washerman had gone to the bazaar to buy soda powder when someone knifed him because of his name: Karim Buksh. Jumping off his bicycle, he fell into the sewer. The cops put him on a cot and brought him to the hospital. Kalu Bhangi ran to his house. "Sardaran, Sardaran, Karmu's hurt. Let's go to hospital." Outside the operation theater, Sardaran continued to weep under the awning of a white shawl, leaning against a corner while holding a year-old Shado in her lap. Her eyes were melting away and the tears disappearing into her shawl, but no sound exited her mouth. A wave of terror spread through the living quarters of the hospital. Everyone was struck with fear and seemed baffled. They had thought the riots were only taking place in cities. One heard random pieces of news of someone being stabbed and considered them distant incidents and now it became an everyday thing which the mind had finally accepted. Every new attack was received with a little bit of surprise, artificial disbelief, quickly forgotten. But our neighborhood was safe; how strange the riots had reached our door. Hindus and Muslims began whispering things among themselves, divided into little groups. Children started to feel nervous talking to each other. Distrust began showing in the eye. Tones of voice turned dry. Kamni had established a society with Zafar's assistance to serve those wounded in the riots. The society's eight to ten members belonged to every religion. I was its member too. We had been given a room in the hospital where we kept our things and waited for the call of duty, taking turns; we'd go out to collect donations. Along with serving milk, food and medicine to the injured, we would try and sooth the relatives as well. I entered the room, huffing. Kamni and Zafar were stirring sugar in the big milk container. Kapil washed mugs at the basin for milk.
"Kamni, Kamni, someone stabbed Karmu."
"What? Who?"
Zafar retaliated with irritation, "Don't you know who'd do something like this? We're all fair game for each other. Somebody must have fulfilled his duty." Kamni grew dejected. "He'd done no harm to anyone. All he did was wash other people's dirty laundry." Zafar replied, "Who cares about that." Kapil asked, "Is he injured seriously?" "I didn't see, only heard he'd been stabbed in the belly. He is in the operation theater at the moment." "Massu, let's go. Come, Kapil," said Kamni. "Zafar, Prithi should come soon. Take care of milk."
The door opened. Karmu was being carried out. We gathered around him. His eyes were closed. His breath moved like a brazier. The one who always greeted others with a bow of humility had suddenly become important, but - alas - he was unconscious, miles away from realizing it. There was a fresh white sheet on the steel bed which possibly Karmu had washed with his own hands and possibly, too, this was the first time he had the rare occasion of sleeping on it himself. Sardaran stood nearby. Pressing the hem of her shawl, she began sobbing with more intensity now. With a pale smile, Shado would lift the awning from time to time to look at her mother's face and, terrified, cling to her. Kamni, Kapil's and my father and Babu Jalaludin and all of us stood there by Karmu's bed. Confused, Kalu began massaging Karmu's feet. "Why did this happen? What's going on? Bibi, don't lose heart. Bhagwan willing, he'll recover fast." Shado became overwhelmed by the crowd and wept fitfully. Kamni took her and helped Sardaran to the corridor. Karmu's breath was still too quick and erratic. The stomach heaved violently. Doctor Mohan Singh, a senior doctor at the hospital, who had operated on Karmu, entered. Tautly tied beard, white turban, awe-inspiring face, eyes full of tranquility! He stood there, observing him quietly.
"I have sent someone to get the medicine the hospital didn't have. The next twelve hours could be decisive. Let's see what happens. Babu Jalaludin!"
"Sir."
"Look after his wife and child."
"Sir, you shouldn't worry."
Karmu remained unconscious till eight at night and his breath a restless flame. Suddenly he began pulling his legs in, pressing his heels into the bed. His elbows spiked the bed. His back arced upward. His neck stiffened, tilting backwards, to the point where his chin pointed to the ceiling. His whole body was in such pain like he were a cloth being wrung. He was not aware of it and he did not feel any pain. The ones who witnessed it shuddered to the core. His wife let out a wail, her shawl slipped from her head. She began crying uncontrollably as she embraced him. It is good that there won't be anyone to shudder when I die. No one will wail. No shawl will fall to the ground. No one will rend the sky. I came quietly and will go quietly. When my younger brother was born, my parents' faces glowed with happiness for few days. They must have been similarly happy when I was born. Far happier would be Sardaran and Shado's step-father, who'd get my one room shack. The faces that had lit up when my brother was born were crestfallen and joyless when my sister arrived. Why, because daughters are a burden? But Shado is not. For the last ten years she has been bearing the burden of her mother, the step-father and their issues. When the evening shadows darken, she takes the motor riksha to the other world. Every night there are fresh prices, new customers, new deals. She sells her flesh, smiling with teeth stuck in a sunken skull. Before the dawn breaks, she returns to her hut, money hidden inside her brassier, completely drunk. What a useless thing the body is, really, for it can't tolerate half as much pressure a soul can. Within ten years her silken skin has become rough and old. The angles of her body are still there, but Time always checkmates you. She will be a ruin in two, three years. How will they eat then? The father disappears and no one sees his face for a year. She used to send her half brother to school with such pomp. Perhaps he could be their support some day. He got arrested for picking pockets at the age of twelve. She learned he had not gone to school for about a year.
"Masud saheb, we're sinking in a pile of rubbish. Will no moment arrive when we begin to rise up? Will there come no bend when life gets brighter?" What can a fallen pawn say to another fallen pawn, that those we see standing outside the rubbish are sunk even deeper? Whenever she sees a wedding procession tears roll from her eyes. Not out of jealousy but from sheer sense of inferiority. Her eyes used to dream a house of sand, a caring husband and lovely child. Then she got pregnant. Her mother said, "I have talked to the nurse; there will be no pain and she'll mop it up."
"I will not abort it."
"Girl, it will not hurt. All will work out nicely."
"I am not afraid of the pain, but I will not abort my child."
"For God's sake, don't say such things."
"Why is there pain rising in your belly? You yourself have birthed a dozen. But when it comes to me, you have a problem. He will survive here too. What's the harm!"
"Gosh, what would people say? Their unmarried girl gave birth!"
"Unmarried? Bitch, you call me unmarried!"