Someone Else's Garden (15 page)

‘Well, let’s see. Ever since I was a boy the talk was always of bandits in our lands. When I became a man, the talk was still of bandits in our lands. I think I’d like to grow old and not have to listen to the same stale talk of bandits in our lands.’

‘Ha, ha, well put. But why Daku Manmohan? Do you think you are serving the cause of justice? I mean, if he were tried and convicted in a court of law, wouldn’t that be more fitting than this surrender? After all, there is a death penalty hanging over his head.’

‘You know my friend, I believe in connections.’ The reporter purses his lips. ‘Yes, you never know when and under what circumstances you might meet someone again. Always keep that in mind before you toss anyone in the rubbish dump.’

‘You mean give them a second chance?’

‘I mean keep an open mind. Action and reaction, that’s what it’s all about. Killing will only spawn more killing. We have to let the life out of this movement.’

‘There is talk about a following among the women here. Has he really protected them from rape? Bandits are notorious rapists, but in this case it seems he is their saviour.’

‘He is an extraordinary man. If you met him under any other circumstances, you would put your faith in him. He lives by a strict code of conduct. Often stricter than our community’s. I can’t tell you if he has or hasn’t protected girls from rape, but that is just the kind of thing he would do.’

‘And what about you? Why have you given away your lands? What do you stand for?’ Might as well cover two stories in one go.

‘This is not about me. It is about Daku Manmohan.’ Lokend will not be lured into saying more than he has to.

‘So where is the surrender?’

‘At Lala Ram’s shop. In twelve days. Be there.’

‘I still think that he should be judged in a court. He should not be allowed to surrender here after what he’s done to these people.’

‘You mean we should be like the priest who bars a man from praying at the temple because he isn’t worthy of God?’ Lokend laughs loudly.

Something awakens in the reporter’s memory, ‘I know you . . . Do I not know you from somewhere?’

‘We’ve never met before.’

The reporter shakes his head to loosen the garrotte of disquieting thought. He recognises Lokend, he’s sure of it. And then he isn’t as sure. His mother would have immediately explained it as a karmic connection, a meeting in a past life.

‘We are building a cell here, just for him. He wants it to become a place of pilgrimage where people might come to relinquish their hate.’

‘Yes, and there is so much to hate.’

‘When the world is done and gone there will still be hate. People think that not hating is a conscious decision, whereas hating is spontaneous. But I tell you, to love is just as easy as to hate . . .’

‘I wish you spoke for the whole village, Lokend Sahib, but unfortunately you don’t. The bones and cuts may have healed, but their hearts still bear raw wounds.’

‘Depends on how far away you stand . . . in time, I mean. Look at events from the distance of time and hatred becomes benign. They may hate tomorrow, may hate even for five, ten years, or a hundred . . . a thousand, even two thousand . . . What then?’

‘What are you two huddled over? Here, drink some tea.’ Asmara Didi carries the tray herself.

‘So, Mataji, as a resident of Gopalpur and so close to Lokend Sahib, what do you think about the whole affair?’ The difference in their ages is much too vast for him to think of addressing her as Didi.

Of course Asmara Didi is against the whole project, but she will never say so. She assiduously avoids the issue, except when she has to defend Lokend against Singh Sahib. Would he do the same for her? No, he wouldn’t. Love and loyalty would never alter his plans. He is that sort of man, a soul that can only live in the realm of Truth, somewhere on a lofty ascetic plane, unattached; and to some, pitiless, even callous.

But Lokend is neither pitiless nor callous. He isn’t sapped by some internal fight, or spent by someone else’s code of ethics. He is one of those so unconcerned with the outcome of his action that he can participate in it fully.

‘What does it matter what I think? I am old. I have lived with this bandit business for most of my life.’ Asmara Didi puts down the tea. ‘I just hope and pray that peace is in our destiny.’

‘I don’t believe in destiny. For me, destiny is one’s private plan, it is much too narrow-minded, it is personal, egoistic . . .’ says Rajiv of the
Times
. ‘Give me a divine plan for samsara any day.’

‘I don’t care if there is or there isn’t a divine plan,’ says Asmara Didi. ‘All I know is that this man might die for what he is doing. The surrender will not be accepted by the village. There has been too much blood spilt. But who can tell him to stop?’ She turns from Rajiv of the
Times of India
to Lokend. ‘Now give this old woman a hug,’ she commands, ‘and remember I still want grandchildren!’ The mongoose safely out of the way, Asmara Didi opens her arms to embrace her surrogate son.

Instead, Lokend takes her by the shoulders and says, ‘You are like a mother to me. You can be sure of that.’

Suddenly, blocks of clouds and shafts of filtered sunshine crowd the sky. A rainbow commands consideration, each of its colours well defined, supported by another equally distinct arc as companion. Her life has been filled with omens, with every quirk and twitch of Nature remembered and each detail treasured for its clairvoyance. But today all the luck embodied in the rainbow is tossed aside for the dread in her heart.

‘Lokend, your father, your brother, the village, the police, the . . .’ she lists his adversaries in order of importance. She is agitated, all the scriptures she learned by heart as a young wife are inaccessible to her. She is unable to think clearly.

‘Asmara Didi, you worry too much. See, even the gods send their blessings,’ he laughs and waves to the rainbow as if it were his personal possession.

‘You will be careful, won’t you? If not for your sake, then for mine?’

‘Yes, Asmara Didi, I will. You know I will.’ The sincerity in his voice disarms her, and makes her instantly afraid. She turns to go.

‘She worries needlessly,’ he says to the reporter.

‘Yes, it will be a great day, I’m sure.’ The reporter has his own story.

It grows by the second in his mind, swirls of valour laced with mutilation, death, glory and grand deeds. Oh, what a picture. He will change people with his words. A book, perhaps even a sequel. He sees a TV serial in his future.

‘At Lala Ram’s then?’

The reporter nods.

Twelve days later Lokend knows exactly what he will say to both the bandits and the villagers. He will publicly give the bandit a second chance, and ask the whole village to do the same. Daku Manmohan has killed many, but it isn’t the number of dead that’s the problem, it’s the number of living that the bandit’s left behind, broken and wretched, in some cases incapable of eking out any kind of existence at all.

All those loyal to him are in place. They will be thickly scattered through the crowd. Their only function, to talk, to convince, to cajole, to debate and turn as many to their way of thinking as they can. They are all, without exception, people who have benefited in the form of donated land from Lokend, their saviour, their friend.

They have been lucky for the rain. The musky smell of wet mud is around him. The breeze is cool, there is little dust. The rumble reaches Lokend over the sound of the truck’s engine, deep from the belly of the earth. The crowd is larger than he expected.

He spots his trusted messenger, and as their eyes meet Prem’s chest fills with pride for his secret part in the affair. Lokend gets out of the truck and moves towards Lala Ram’s shop.

The crowd has gathered at Gopalpur’s centre that comprises one short street flanked by Lala Ram’s establishment Saraswati Stores on the sunrise side and on the other by Topaz Suppliers, a most useful business opened by Babulal, Ram Singh’s chief henchman. Lala Ram has worn socks and shoes, and put up streamers to mark the occasion. The tinsel rotates in the breeze, catching the sunlight in its loops. It is very important to declare one’s wealth at the right time when such information might make the most impact. A sepia Guru Dutt leans across the
Pyaasa
poster. They may not have seen the film, but Lala Ram has told them all the story many times over.

The hero’s pathos is evident even to the most hardened heart. A man betrayed by his love and by society. A man who refused to be enslaved by the era and chose to give up a life of luxury and fame for the obscurity and peace of a village – a village much like theirs. They look to the poster for answers and would not be surprised if Guru Dutt broke into song to explain away this astounding gathering.

Hypothecated to the Bank of India:
ten such signs are stacked against the walls like wainscoting. Lala Ram is leaving nothing to chance. The Bank has promised to open a branch in this village once this bandit business is concluded.

The senior police officer was right, there are too few policemen. Lokend can count the uniforms, outnumbered more than a hundred to one. They patrol the perimeter listlessly. Every once in a while they spread out their arms, and the crowd shrinks back upon itself from the living rope.

Lokend walks towards Saraswati Stores skirting the edge of the crowd; nothing must disturb such a compact mass of people. Many recognise him, the zamindar’s son, famous for giving up his lands. Two plainclothes policemen immediately fall in step with Lokend. Their senior officer had been categorical about this. ‘If it comes to saving one man, save this man –’ he’d said, pointing to Lokend.

The reporter has already managed to find his way to the veranda of Saraswati Stores, using his camera as a weapon. The crowd recognises him and parts for him. He has taken hundreds of pictures of the villagers and given many away. Ram Singh, Prem, Lata Bai and Mamta have been among his subjects.

Lokend climbs on to the veranda-stage. Rajiv locks arms with him, each one’s hand gripping the other’s wrist, and helps him up.

The crowd leans back in one giant wave when it hears the jeeps arrive. The men turn together like the hundred heads of Ravana and look towards the sound. It is exactly as Lokend imagined. The jeeps stop a long way away. The crowd starts to murmur. Click . . .

Three men jump out of the jeep dressed in police uniforms, complete with pistols in shoulder holsters, no doubt the advance party. They wade through the people swirling round them. It was Lokend’s idea to have the bandits dress as policemen so they could safely get through to the podium. Click . . .

The three men climb on to the stage, they don’t need any help. Click . . .

Lokend knocks the mic with his forefinger. Tak, tak, tak. It is a call to order and attention. The living rope of policemen becomes instantaneously active and vigilant.

Simultaneously, the hissing starts and becomes a chant. ‘Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad, Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdab . . .’ The crowd demands blood. It’s then that the mutilated slowly start gravitating towards the centre, as if they have been waiting in the wings to take a bow all this time. These battered members of humanity, some of whom have been begging at the temple and others who have been in hiding in the forest or lying discarded in the back of their family’s outhouse for years, are finally ready to show themselves. They display their wounds as advertisements for the bandit’s death. They know that their malefactors are getting a chance to give themselves up. The bandits have hurt too many to be allowed to surrender just like that. They will not forgive. The memories are still vivid: a heap of severed limbs, young girls pulled out from behind the well by their hair and raped, the blood tainting the well water for weeks, the wounded lying beneath the banyan without medicines or help, mothers beating their heads on the floor, fathers shaving their heads . . . The stench of blood got so bad it attracted the wild animals from the forest, and for weeks after, people had more reason to fear the leopards and hyenas than the bandits. Finally, the carrion eaters clouded the sky so thickly that they blotted out the sun. Oh no, they won’t allow these men to get away lightly.

‘Killed my son, raped my daughter, took my family, burned my shop . . .’ on and on they shout. But there is danger in en masse tragedy. Like too much of anything, too much misfortune closes the mind and leaches it of pity. The sight of the cripples is overwhelming for the spectators. They are numbly detached from the scene. They have sanitised its brutality by considering it usual for that time and place. Every mind is made up in that crowd. This is our destiny, they say, and yet they plead and watch for something better.

Lokend’s heart shifts in his chest. He is a man stranded by his philosophy. For him it is a fresh tragedy, requiring an urgent solution. For the moment, Daku Manmohan is not the one on his mind. For the moment, Lokend is one with the cripples before him, crawling forward, stripped of all dignity and humanity. He can feel his emotion unchecked for the first time in many years. ‘My God,’ he says. It isn’t a phrase, he is genuinely appealing to the higher power to make the present sensible. He squeezes his thumbs into the corners of eyes painful with tears.

The crowd has already apportioned blame where it thinks it is due. It is that blame that absolves each man standing before the stage of his responsibility. But not Lokend. He alone eschews the luxury of blame. The cripples are his personal responsibility.

Then Daku Manmohan declares himself, standing a little taller on the podium. ‘Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad, Daku Manmohan murdabad, murdabad . . .’ chants the crowd:
Death to the bandit.
More gang members start breaking away from the crowd to jump on stage with their leader. The crowd is losing control – the screaming gets worse and stones start flying. The bandits hide their heads in their hands, but not Daku Manmohan. He stands erect, refusing to be judged by the rabble – both able-bodied and crippled.

Then a foot emerges from the police jeep in the distance, followed by a body. The body is clad in policeman’s khaki. It makes its way to the edge of the crowd. The chant collapses on itself in a low rumble like music from a fading transistor radio when it recognises that the body is female. The woman walks through the sea of men to her mate. The men put their cupped hands to their mouths to whisper a history for her into a neighbour’s ear. This time they won’t be fooled by the uniform. The crowd draws in a single breath. It is one organism, one giant enraged organism, unable to make sense of the situation and the strangely unrecognisable apparition of a woman dressed in man’s clothing. Click, click, click . . .