Half a Rupee: Stories (11 page)

When she opened her eyes, it was morning—pretty early in the morning.

She was a bit puzzled, a bit intrigued—how on earth had she fallen asleep in the first place? She had not taken the sleeping pills in spite of Swaran’s insistence. She was absolutely relaxed, watching a movie on TV late into the night. She was really into the movies, the pulpy kind that had a lot of fights and thrills thrown in. She saw a few too many of them. And they all appeared real to her—the movies opened her world to the possibilities of all that could happen and yet, nothing really did. That’s what life is about, she would often sigh. But the last night of her life she had wanted to spend fully awake. Then how did she fall asleep? How could sleep descend upon The Bomb? She was nothing but a ‘mission’, and how could a mission shut its eyes?

And then a thought found seed: maybe Swaran had
slipped a sleeping pill or two into her coffee. Swaran was her custodian. If she were to fail her mission or if her resolve weakened, Swaran was to shoot her down, then and there.

For a moment, anger pulsed through her veins. Her head buzzed in fury. How dare he? When she said no, she meant no—an absolute NO. She did not like anything being imposed on her. And trust was an absolute. She couldn’t tolerate anybody doubting her, even for a moment. She knew her own constitution pretty well. She never ever made any impulsive decisions.

But the very next moment, her anger dissipated. She remembered last night—it was she herself who had made the coffee. She had in fact even asked Swaran if he wanted some. And Swaran had shaken his head in refusal.

He had been sitting at the table engrossed in divining solutions to algebraic equations. Quite a strange way to relax—but then, to each his own.

She remembered switching the TV off. And she remembered thinking about her mother when she had propped herself on the bed thereafter. It flicked on a switch inside and the scene of her mother being raped by the village headman in the coconut grove began to unspool before her eyes. The headman looked after the chief minister’s interests in the village. She flicked the switch off. She had by now begun to pity her mother. And she hated this emotion called pity. The sickle the villagers used to chop the husk of coconuts was lying next to her. Why hadn’t her mother simply picked it up and torn open the intestines of the man?

The scene wasn’t complete. It was still floating in the salty water of her eyes. She got up and switched off the lights. She glanced at the watch strapped to her wrist. It appeared blurry but this much she could make out: the date was still the same. The day was yet to be over.

When she awoke, dawn had not yet broken but the sky had now begun to turn grey at its edges. But there was enough light to read the dial of her watch: a new number had scrolled up in the date window—a new day, a new date. She had so badly wanted to see the dates change, but she had slept the opportunity away. She kept lying in her bed. Had she really fallen asleep that early last night? She must have been stressed. There must have been a lot of agitation in her subconscious. Little wonder she had drifted away into sleep after she killed the lights. She resented being ruled by her subconscious. She heard the whoosh of the kerosene stove. Swaran must be up. Had he slept at all? He was an insomniac anyway, whether he slept or lay awake all night, he was always the same, like the notations in algebra. Come to think of it, his face looked like an algebraic equation, ears bent outwards at both ends. If you were to pull them together it would become the X and the nose—as if somebody had hung the Y upside down, an upside-down catapult. And the eyes … the eyes … she could not think of a suitable parallel in algebra. She smiled at the little ruse she had invented to amuse herself. Algebra used to give her the jitters when she was in school. Thank God she had quit school early. Her
taadi
-addict uncle had pulled her out.

The sound of rustling feet broke her thoughts. She looked up to find an entire equation of algebra standing at the door with a steaming cup of coffee. He looked as if he had stepped out of that photo that Najam Palli had framed on his wall: not a hair was out of place. Najam Palli was Swaran’s friend. The first time she had seen him, he was lying in a bloody heap outside his own house. She had gone there looking for her
taadi
-addict uncle. And Najam Palli had been dumped outside his own door by the headman’s cronies, beaten to a pulp. She had no idea Najam Palli was her uncle’s younger brother, her younger uncle. She had never seen this uncle before. She had heard it said that during high tide he would row his dinghy through the bay into the village and the fishermen would stealthily go and meet him. She had also heard that Najam Palli’s land had been bought by the chief minister. The village headman was the chief minister’s man. The chief minister was the prime minister’s man. She had heard that the prime minister, who lived in far-flung Delhi, was afraid of this Najam Palli of Sukha Puram, this country of parched earth, this place of droughts.

She went for a bath after finishing her coffee. She kept sitting under the shower for quite a while. Nothing of much significance crossed her mind. Just plain, simple, ordinary things: like the shape of the bar of soap she was using. She did not take to it. She thought of changing it the next time she showered. Next time? There wasn’t going to be a next time. This was her last shower, her last bath, her last toilette. The shower dried up in the middle of her bath. An irritation crept in; bloody
shit … tomorrow … tomorrow she would go and sort this thing out with the landlord. Tomorrow? Once again tomorrow? The shot of the film had to be cut in the middle. And slowly a feeling began to unspool, the feeling of the last day, her last day. And as the feeling began to slowly sink into her, she could detect an unfolding sense of drama—faint at the moment, the full impact of which she was yet to discover. The shower sputtered, coughed and then began to disgorge water all over again. Part of the soap lather that had dried on her skin had now begun to come off her body, like the discarded skin of a moulting snake.

Thoughts are like traffic on a busy street. A thought comes honking from behind and overtakes another. She had not brought a towel. She had stepped into the bathroom without one. She had never forgotten it before. Was she stressed? Subconsciously? Once again she felt irritated by her subconscious. She was not willing to believe that there was any kind of stress within her. In the sudden absence of the sound of gushing water another thought ushered itself in. She felt like doing something that she had never ever done before. Something that would satiate her desires, fulfil her dreams, something that would make her life worth having lived. Something that would be a befitting climax, a beautiful ‘The End’ to the film of her life. A fleeting desire took root—to get her photograph clicked. And by the time she stepped out of the bathroom, the desire had bloomed. She was all set, decided. She went to tell Swaran but he had gone for his bath.

On the way to the photographer they passed the Shiva temple. Swaran looked in her direction. Should he ask the driver to stop the taxi or should he not? He knew that she came to this temple, not often, just once in a while. She too looked in his direction and with the slight shake of her head told him not to. She thought the idea meaningless, or perhaps God alone knew why she did not feel up to it. Perhaps she was scared—she knew she could not gather the courage to face her God. Or perhaps the thought of grovelling before her God to grant her the courage to execute her mission made her an object of pity. Pity, that same creepy feeling.

By the time they reached the photographer’s studio, she had made one more decision—to write Raj Kumari a letter. Raj Kumari, her friend from the village. The last time she saw her was over a year ago, grinding her life away in marital unhappiness, eking out a stifling, miserable existence. She had slapped her when she saw the tears in her eyes. Bloody bitch! She had cursed at her a little more. Raj Kumari’s jaws had dropped, ‘O Ma! Look at you cussing! Such a foul tongue … you are cussing the way my husband does!’

‘He cusses at you?

‘Yes … the headman cusses at him … he cusses at me!’

She rolled down the window and spat outside. The taste on her tongue was turning bitter; she had no idea why. She guzzled down two tall glasses of water the moment she reached the studio of Babulal photographer. Babulal’s son was a recent convert to the ways of the
city; he had just returned from one. He was looking dashing in a body-hugging jersey. He sprinkled a lot of English words in his conversation. She liked him. He had brought a newfangled camera with him. It was he who made her sit on the stool. It was he who made her pose for the camera. He took a long time doing so, and told her his mile-long-tongue-twister of a name only to quip in English, ‘You can just call me AK; that’s what people call me!’

She realized that today Swaran was smoking more than he normally did. This was the second consecutive cigarette that he had pulled out of his pocket. Suddenly he spoke, ‘AK, there’s a political gathering in Sukhampur this evening. The PM is coming with the CM. Want to come along?’

‘Will I be allowed in?’ AK asked.

‘I will be the reporter with the copy-pencil in my hand, all you need to do is hang the camera around your neck. I will tell them that you are with me.’

‘You got a pass?’

‘I’m your pass!’ She laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. She liked the informality with which she could treat him.

That evening at the political gathering, the turnout was massive—a sea of people. Her heart began to pound in her chest. She could hear it pounding loudly, distinctly, as if she were listening to a walkman. Her jaws began to ache. If there was something in her subconscious … she held on to it with her teeth, trying to crush it between her molars with all her might. Whenever Swaran looked
at her, he found her jaws moving. Something was being ground. Was it her anger? Her fear, perhaps? Or was it her scream that she held on to, not letting it escape her mouth?

A sudden uproar: the PM had arrived. The huge floodlights sprung to life. A cavalcade, about eight or ten cars long, screeched to a halt. Plumes of dust could be seen eddying up in the backlight. The cars could not be seen but a horde of heads could be seen rolling towards the main gate. The volume of the walkman inside her head began to turn up. AK was in the lead.

Swaran took the garland out of the bag slung across his shoulder and thrust it toward her. But she did not see it. Her hands and feet were turning to stone. Her blood circulation was beginning to grind to a halt. Swaran was concerned. He was her keeper, her steward. He had to steer her back on the right path, keep her on the right track. He shuffled closer to her. She was juggling numerous problems of algebra in her mind. Now things began to gather pace.

She could suddenly make out the face of the PM at the surge of the crowd that had slowly begun to ebb behind him. And she speared his face with her gaze as a fish is speared in a hook.

Her jaws stopped grinding. The bone of fear was crunched, finally. And slowly the circulation of blood began to return to normal. Swaran looked at her again. Her face was now relaxed. There was no sign of fear on it, no sign of conflict either. But the way she had locked her gaze on to the face of the PM, he found it a bit strange.
As if she had suddenly fallen in love with him. Her eyes had begun to smile as if they were caressing him. And she began to move towards the PM with a sense of fulfilment. The headman was trying to control the crowd, along with the volunteers. And she was floating towards the PM.

A number of eyes lit up on his face, on his ears, on his forehead, on his chin, his bottom. She could see everything, see the universe at play. She took the garland from Swaran and put it around his neck as if it was her own swayamvar and she had finally chosen her soulmate—together in life and together in death.

An explosion burst open the seams of time and they both transgressed time together to enter the annals of history—immortalized for all time to come.

When Chandu ran away from Class Three, he paused for breath only after he had reached Bombay. It is an altogether different story that he now works at the minister’s bungalow. But he still remembers every little thing.

For three straight days and three straight nights he had been awake. When he finally did fall asleep on a footpath in Byculla, the havildar kicked him awake right in the middle of the night to ask, ‘So bhai, which UP have you come from?’

‘Faizabad.’

‘Accha … one
atthanni
gimme … no free sleeping on this footpath … what?’

For a moment Chandu thought that he had seen the man in some phillum. They talked like that only in the phillum.

‘I don’t have any money … if I did, I wouldn’t have come to the city.’

‘This no city. This is Mumbai—what? This is metropolis. Come, one
atthanni
gimme.’

Jhumru who was sleeping next to him woke up, ‘Aye Deva … why you troubling the boy? Here, take this
atthanni
and let us sleep.’

Jhumru picked up a half-rupee coin from the handful of change under his pillow and flung it in the havildar’s direction. Deva caught it in mid-air and said, ‘Saala miser, paying for him—he is your own or what?’ He moved ahead clinking the
atthannis
in the palm of his hand.

Chandu failed to understand what kind of a city this was—it kicked you but it also caressed you. Sleep did not come to him the rest of that night.

He bumped into Jhumru again the next morning.

‘So … coming straight from the village? With so much oil in your hair you thinking of becoming a hero?’

‘No, yaar … I’ve—’

Jhumru few off the handle, ‘Whores have yaars. Call me chacha; everybody here calls me chacha—Jhumru chacha.’

Chandu swallowed his own spit and thought it wise to keep his quiet.

Jhumru said, ‘Deva will be here again. For allowing you to sleep here he takes money … one week one
atthanni.
’

Blood drained from Chandu’s face, revealing a yellow, jaundiced face.

‘You want to live here in this city—don’t become a turmeric. Become chilli, red hot chilli.’

After a pause, Jhumru said again, ‘Coming to Chowpatti? Big leader, big speech … five rupees we will get.’

‘Five rupees? What do we need to do to earn that?’

‘Listen to leader’s speech. Clapping-clapping. And shouting “Jai ho!” Nothing more.’

Chandu smiled, ‘Five rupees for this?’

‘Yes! But fifty per cent mine. Listen, palty giving ten rupees to Deva. He cutting five rupees and only giving five rupees to me. He getting order of fifty people from our footpath. I arranging all. Understand?’

Chandu nodded his head. ‘Ho.’ That was the first Marathi word that he had learnt.

Chandu felt it all over again: what kind of a city was this—it fed you and also bit you.

Jhumru said, ‘We all like komri only.’

‘Komri, what is komri?’

‘Komri meaning chicken. This city throwing foodgrain. And we pecking tuk-tuk like chicken. And when we becoming fat and big on free food then we getting chopped.’

‘Who chops us?’

‘The king-log.’

‘And who are they?’

‘In this city, king only two kind of people. Firstly—the palty people. Giving talk. Giving speech. Giving note. Taking vote. And secondly—the gun-and-knife people. Taking money. Not taking lives. But sometimes, taking lives, giving money.’

‘You mean the goonda-log?’

‘Goonda-log, they both. Only difference—ishtyle.’

It did not take Chandu long to learn the ways of the metropolis.

A man from the party had come with Deva the next time. He counted the men and asked, ‘When Netaji says, “Mumbai konachi”—who does Mumbai belong to—what are you all going to say?’

Everybody shouted in unison, ‘Mumbai aamchi!’

‘Aye Madrasi … say it in Marathi, okay, not in Tamil. What are you going to say?’

‘Mumbai aamchi!’

‘Good!’

When he went away Chandu said to Deva, ‘Bhau!’ He had heard people call Deva ‘bhau’, big brother. Deva’s features softened. ‘Bhau how much does this party-wallah get for one man?’

Deva’s face hardened again, ‘What is it to you? You getting your five
atthannis
or no?’

‘Five
atthannis
are hardly anything, Bhau.’

‘Enough for five week sleeping rent or no?’

‘For sleeping, yes, but what does one eat, Bhau?’

‘I calling you here or what? Which UP you coming from—tell, tell.’

‘Faizabad.’

‘Who giving you food in Faizabad? Who? Tell, tell.’

Chandu uttered such a big lie that he himself shuddered under its impact. He began to stutter, ‘We—we were farmhands, a … a family of poor workers on daily wages, Bhau. And suddenly terrorists surrounded us
and taar-taar-taar-taar they … they shot my full family down … brother, sister, mother, father … everybody.’

He could not think of anything further. He had begun to quiver. But Bhau’s face had softened. He thought that Chandu was telling the truth.

‘I seeing what I can doing. Finding you some work later. You knowing some reading-writing or what?’

‘I can … I was in Class Three when I ran away from the village school.’

‘Can write your name?’

‘Ho!’

‘And also mine—can?’

‘Ho!’

‘Fine, then! From tomorrow you working with me. I having to fill my dairy for whole week. My Hindi not so good. National language, no? Government allowing writing only in that. I tell I know, when getting job. But that saala, there is one man who taking four
atthanni
for filling the dairy only one time one week. In this metropolis nobody doing anything for nothing. What?’

Chandu’s work was done. But still he asked, ‘Bhau, why do you always do all your counting in
atthannis?’

Bhau laughed halfway through and said, ‘Because “common man” like us only having half of things—half-plate eating, half-night sleeping, half laughing, half crying, half living and also half dying. This
atthanni
never becomes full rupiah.’ He paused a while and then said, ‘This top type thinking or what?’ And then added in a
hushed tone, ‘A Naxalite told me this.’

Chandu started following Bhau around like a reporter. Whatever he did, he would ask Chandu to write it down. Chandu started living with Bhau in his kholi. At times, he would even cook a meal and take it to wherever Bhau was on duty.

A little below Byculla, next to Sarvi Hotel, is a small, narrow lane. A man hawked his wares on a
khomcha
right at the head of the lane. He looked very Urdu-speaking. He did not have a license. Bhau found out one day, took his diary out and asked him, ‘What you selling?’

The man spoke in a pronounced Lucknavi style,
‘Khamire ki gulqandiyan.’

Bhau was startled, ‘What?’

‘Fermented
gulqand,
sahib.’

‘But what is that?’

‘Rose-petal … try it for yourself.’

‘Hoon!’ he savoured the offering.
‘Apan chaa naav kay?’
he asked in Marathi. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ishaqul Rahman Siddiqi.’

Bhau raised his voice a little, ‘Say it in Hindi … understand … say your name in Hindi.’

The man said it all over again, ‘Ishaqul Rahman Siddiqi.’

Bhau drew in a deep breath, poised his pencil over his diary and asked him, ‘Short e or long ee?’

‘What’s that, sahib?’ Between his Urdu and Bhau’s Hindi, things were lost.

Bhau slapped his diary shut and said, ‘Look … I am
letting you go this time, but this is not going in my report. In my report your name entering Babu and you selling aloo. What?’

By then Chandu had arrived. Bhau handed over his diary and pencil and said, ‘Write it down! Name—Babu. Business—selling aloo. Chandu, take four
atthanni
from him.’ Saying this, he moved on.

Something similar happened another time as well. Chandu was in the grip of fever that day, so he was unable to accompany Bhau. Bhau came back and told him the story.

‘You knowing that Vinayak Rao Road.’

This was when Deva had been transferred to Warden Road; he now lived in a kholi in Worli.

Chandu egged him on, ‘So, what happened at Vinayak Rao Road?’ He was now familiar with the roads of the metropolis.

‘Cow dying.’

‘Whom did it belong to?’

‘Having no idea. One of those cow-log that keeping wandering on the roads with their families. Bloody that cow coming and dying on that road. Such difficult name—Vinayak Rao Patwardhan Road. Who writing it all down? And that too in Hindi?’

Chandu burst out laughing.

‘Then what did you do?’

‘Taking two hours. But I dragging the cow by catching the tail. Dragging and dragging. My breath becoming difficult and difficult but finally I succeeding in bringing
the dead cow onto next road. Taking me two hours.’

‘But why did you drag it to the next road?’

‘Next road name is Bapu Road. Easy writing.’

‘Who gave you the
atthanni
?’

‘The man in front of whose house the cow dying.’

Bhau and Chandu’s friendship was now quite a few years old. And in those few years, Bhau had made him accept and quit numerous jobs. Then he called in a favour with a party-wallah and got him appointed as a watchman at the residence of a minister.

Chandu had by now become a proper Mumbaiite. The minister had a lot of trust in him, enough to send him on a number of personal errands. It had now become Chandu’s job to fetch the minister’s briefcase. Chandu had now left counting in
atthannis
behind. But at times some give and take of
atthannis
still did take place.

Then one day there was a huge explosion at the bungalow.

The minister was in his office. Startled, he nearly shot up from his chair. And the very next moment, Chandu fell at his feet. Right behind him was a man wielding an AK-47.

‘What? What’s the meaning of this?’ He turned to look at Chandu and admonished him, ‘Why—why did you let this man walk in, Chandu?’

‘I—I did not, sahib, the man just pushed me in.’ Chandu wobbled and staggered to his feet at gunpoint.

‘Who are you, brother?’ the minister had by now registered the gun in the hands of the intruder and his
voice had softened a notch.

‘Who do you think I am?’

‘A terrorist … I think.’

The terrorist smiled. The minister did too.

‘Why are you holding him?’ The minister gestured towards Chandu.

‘He is my hostage.’

‘Mine too,’ the minister quipped.

‘Really? Your hostage? How can he be a hostage when he was roaming freely outside?’

‘Unlike you, I don’t have to wield a gun to take a hostage.’

‘Then how do you keep a hold on them?’

‘First with notes, then with votes. I hold them captive for five years.’

‘And after that?’

‘A renewal. Every five years we renew our term for another five years.’

The terrorist changed his stance, took hold of his gun and said, ‘This leave-and-license system is not going to work any more.’

‘Then what will?’

‘Why don’t you ask him? Between you and me, only he is common. The common man!’

The minister asked Chandu, ‘Tell me, what do you prefer—death by bullet, die once and for all … or—’

The terrorist stepped forward, ‘Or die a little every day … bit by bit … die every five years?’

Chandu paused a little, stole a look at the two of them
and then thrust his hand in his pocket.

The terrorist threatened, ‘What’s in your pocket?’

Chandu was not flustered; he said, ‘Nothing … just an
atthanni
… I want to toss and find the answer.’

He took a step forward. And the moment he tossed the coin up in the air they both yelled, almost in unison, ‘Heads.’

Thankfully the
atthanni
did not come back down. Or else … on both its sides it would have been Chandu’s head.