The Setting Sun (29 page)

I remember Nirad Chaudhuri’s laments about the difficulties of being a professional historian in India. How ever did a local boy like Shinde manage to publish
The Parallel Government?

‘Also, the state of the archives here in Kolhapur is disgraceful. Yet all the politicians live in mansions and send their children to study in America. Soon everything will be too far gone to save.’

I compare my experiences in Mumbai. ‘By the way, what’s a Ramoshi? And Mangs? Professor Bhosle mentions them in his PhD.’

‘They’re what the British called Criminal Tribes. Traditionally nomadic. These days they’re called the Scheduled Tribes. In Maharashtra, Ramoshis and Mangs are the biggest groups.’

‘Are they settled now?’

Avanish nods. ‘We have some Ramoshi students. But they’re still regarded as backward. Especially by traditionally minded Hindus.’

I then ask if he knows how I could contact Lad and Nayakwadi. He looks doubtful.

‘You really need Professor Bhosle for that, now A.B.’s passed away.’

‘I’m going to see his son after lunch.’

‘Well, he’s a possibility. But if you don’t get the information you need, ring me and I’ll try to make inquiries.’

I’m sorry to say goodbye, and promise to call if there’s time to meet again before leaving Kolhapur. Avanish sees me to an auto-rickshaw and directs the driver where to drop me.

First impressions of downtown Kolhapur is that it’s more ‘Indian’ than anywhere I’ve been so far – not surprisingly, perhaps, since it wasn’t annexed by the British. I see few of the
architectural signatures of the Raj and, once inside the surviving city walls, it’s a maze of narrow streets and alleys. Kipling described the princely states as ‘the dark places of the earth’, but he was hardly a disinterested observer. I wonder if the city’s typical of such places, and how it compared with British India. Kolhapur seems to be at least as wealthy as Satara, with none of the obvious poverty of downtown Pune. The Mahalaxmi temple in the centre of town, begun in the seventh century and vastly extended since, typifies the monumental register of public buildings. Outside it, knots of sadhus wander amongst stalls selling food, trinkets and temple offerings of marigolds and coconuts. Some are robed in saffron, some in yellow, others boast only a tatty loincloth, cheeks smeared with ash, beards matted, leaning on sticks, proffering begging bowls. A few holy men squat on the pavements, casting horoscopes or selling small bundles of leaves and twigs, traditional medicines, I assume. The noise and odours are overpowering. It’s exhilarating, but I’m more interested for the moment in the weather-beaten tenement abutting the temple.

The college is busy with students running between classrooms on three sides of a rectangle compound enclosed by two-storey blocks. The gatekeeper shows me into a small office, where a portrait of a man I presume is A.B. Shinde gazes down. It’s a kindly, strong-featured face with wide-set eyes, long hair curling down over faded garlands like the one I wore at Chafal. While the receptionist attempts to call Shinde’s son, two teachers enter, each in jacket and tie. One’s a heavily built man in his fifties, with hollow, pockmarked cheeks; the other’s much younger, with a head so large it looks unsteady on his slender shoulders. Learning I’m from London University, they call for tea.

‘Dr Vilas Powar,’ the older man introduces himself, ‘and my colleague Mr Brihaspati Shinde.’

I assume at first that this is the son. But I’m soon informed that Shinde and Patil are the Maratha equivalent of Smith and
Brown. I explain my interest in the Parallel Government, to their evident intrigue. Vilas, it transpires, did his doctorate under Bhosle and expresses regret about his mentor’s wife. He knows Avanish, too, since both work on the Indian ‘Mutiny’ in Kolhapur.

‘It spread this far south?’ Remembering how it was so effectively nipped in the bud in Satara, I’m surprised.

‘Indeed. There were close connections between the royal family here and those who led the insurgency in the north, Nana Sahib particularly. He’d been exiled from Pune when the Peishwas were overthrown by the British.’

The man responsible for the Cawnpore massacre and the siege of Lucknow, if I remember right: events central to the mythography of British imperialism as the innocent victim of the forces of savagery. I doubt the word ‘terrorism’ existed then. And Nana Sahib was also, no doubt, an inspiration to the Parallel Government.

Before my history lesson can continue, a plump-faced man with anxious eyes and an exceptionally luxuriant walrus moustache enters the room. Even though he doesn’t look much older than Brihaspati, my companions rise. In one hand he has a copy of
The Parallel Government
.

‘I am Mr Charunder Datta Shinde. Chairman of the college since my late father’s decease.’

‘I was so sorry to hear the news. I’d been looking forward greatly to meeting him.’

He opens the book. ‘I would like to sign it on my father’s behalf.’ He studies my visiting card as he inscribes: ‘To Professor Bart: with warm regards of love.’ My family name doesn’t seem to ring any bells. Perhaps he doesn’t share his father’s research interests. But that means he won’t be able to help me locate Bill’s weekly confidential reports, a fact he soon confirms.

Deflated again, I try to show willing while Charunder explains the history of his father’s institution. It’s on the site
of the first school established by Shivaji. Soon a bell rings and Powar gathers up his exercise books.

‘Time for classes,’ the chairman announces. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘I wondered if you could put me in touch with G.D. Lad and Naganath Nayakwadi,’ I ask nervously.

He looks at me closely before smiling reassuringly. ‘Let me try. They aren’t far, but you’ll need a car.’

Wonderful. ‘I can rent one at my hotel.’

He goes into an adjoining room and returns with a notebook. ‘When would you like to go?’

‘Tomorrow, ideally. I’m returning to England in a week or so.’

Shinde toys with my card as he makes his calls. He nods and smiles as he speaks, though his tone’s very respectful.

‘That’s settled. They’ll both be at home tomorrow for the holiday. Mr Lad can meet you at ten. Mr Nayakwadi at two-thirty. That gives you time to talk to the field marshal and make the journey from Kundal to Walwa.’

My luck’s turned again. I look inquiringly at Powar and his young colleague. ‘I don’t suppose either of you would be available to come and interpret?’

The younger teacher defers to Powar, who shakes his head after some consideration. ‘I’m sorry. It’s New Year’s Day and I have family engagements.’

‘I could,’ his colleague offers.

The chairman nods approvingly.

‘But if you’re free later this afternoon,’ Powar volunteers, ‘I could show you some of the Mutiny sites here.’

‘I’d be delighted.’ It’s a chance to see something of Kolhapur with a local guide. Besides, I have a long-standing interest in the uprising, and perhaps it’ll also provide an opportunity to compare how Britain dealt with insurgency then and in the 1940s.

‘Shall we say four?’ Powar asks.

‘I have an hour before my next class,’ Brihaspati murmurs, ‘I could walk with you.’

He tells me his name contains the Sanskrit root for Jupiter, and that he teaches English literature while researching Dalit fiction for an MA – though he’s having trouble finding critical material on his chosen authors. I promise to look when I get back to London and email him anything I come across. Belying his youthful appearance, he’s in fact been at the college for several years and expresses great affection for the place.

‘I’m very thankful you asked me to come tomorrow. It’s always been a dream to meet Mr Lad and Mr Nayakwadi.’

Our tour confirms the difference of Kolhapur to anywhere I’ve been until now. Put crudely, it’s far more ‘exotic’. Judging by people’s stares, Westerners are something of a rarity. From an adjoining street comes drumming so loud and deep it makes the ground vibrate.

‘One of our most famous wrestlers is getting married this evening. If you like, I can show you one training school.’

Briha leads me through a large square with impressive basalt buildings on three sides. ‘The old palace,’ he explains. The ground floor’s now taken up with expensive-looking shops which overlook row upon row of temporary seating, facing a huge dais beneath banks of spotlights.

‘For the wedding. Here in Kolhapur, wrestlers are Bollywood,’ he says proudly.

So it’s a surprise when the alley he steers me down issues into a courtyard with a stinking open sewer along one edge. A colonnade supports a rickety roof, under which a group of squat young men in loincloths are doing callisthenics. A couple of wrestlers, skin coated in chalk, practise moves in a sunken pit of reddish cinders.

‘These
talims
, wrestling schools, were bastions of the freedom movement. All kinds of secret training went on in them.’

The perfect cover. I wonder whether the British Resident had any idea.

By the time we get back to the square, a snake charmer has set his pitch. It’s no doubt corny, but I can’t help stopping. He’s sly-eyed, with an unkempt grey beard and grimy turban, baskets set on a threadbare mat in front of him. Responding to my interest, he raises the lid of one basket and begins to sing in a wheedling voice. A sandy-coloured snake sways up to a height of about three feet and spreads its hood. It resembles the snake Bill killed when I was a child. As soon as the man’s voice fades, the snake sinks; then he resumes, making it yo-yo up and down. Soon all three baskets are uncovered and serpents rise and fall, intertwining their necks so gracefully they never seem to touch. My guide drops a five-rupee note, which seems to infuriate the snake charmer. I get out my wallet, but Briha waves it away.

‘He’s trying to cheat you because you’re a visitor.’

I hear drummers and haut-bois players approaching from behind. Turning, I glimpse a woman with thick matted hair, a filthy sari and bare feet, whirling round and round in the middle of the musicians. I suddenly realise that the eyes in her long thin face are turned upwards, showing only the whites. Goose pimples spread over me like a rash. She spins ever faster, before suddenly collapsing on the road, jerking over and over. I look to Briha for reassurance. But he seems quite unconcerned, as do the musicians. The woman’s allowed to rest a while. But soon the band increases the tempo, and a drummer hauls her upright. She doesn’t seem to know where she is. Then the procession continues as before. I wonder if Bill was at first equally unnerved by such sights.

‘What was that all about?’

‘She’s possessed by Lord Rama. Don’t worry,’ Briha smiles. ‘We should go, I have my class. Will you say a few words?’

Judging by the similar request at Satara police station, such talks are perhaps expected of ‘distinguished’ visitors.

His classroom’s dilapidated, with a broken window looking onto the Mahalaxmi temple and a torn cloth ceiling. Boys
and girls sit separately, and the latter giggle as they stand to greet us. Briha explains who I am and, to my discomfiture, announces that I’m going to discourse on the importance of English in today’s globalised world. Mindful of Avanish’s complaints about the language dilemma for local scholars and writers, I rehearse Chinua Achebe’s ideas about English being a world language which has to submit to many local usages. This sparks animated discussion. One student asks if I approve of Daniel Craig’s recent Bond film being subtitled in Standard English for local television. That makes me laugh. Another wonders what I think of Indian English as a medium for literature. Time passes quickly, most of the conversation led by the girls. The boys look uncomfortable when Briha asks them anything until, just as the bell rings, one raises his hand. He has short centre-parted hair, a face graped with acne and a pained, intense expression.

‘Sir, you are interested in European history, also?’

I nod. He reads from his exercise book.

‘Did you know Napoleon was born in 1760, Hitler in 1899. The difference is 129 years.’

I shrug.

‘Napoleon came to power in 1804, Hitler in 1933. The difference is 129 years. Napoleon occupied Vienna in 1809, Hitler in 1938.’ I’m beginning to get the gist. ‘Napoleon invaded Russia in 1812, Hitler in 1941. Napoleon was defeated in 1816, Hitler in 1945.’

His mates clap enthusiastically and I join in. Even though I’ve spotted mistakes, I don’t want to spoil the fun.