The Walls of Delhi (9 page)

The door to the apartment was closed. The brass plate affixed to the wall outside read, ‘Mohandas Viswakarma, Deputy Depot Supervisor, Oriental Coal Mines.'

He stood reading that for a little while before ringing the doorbell below the brass plate. The sound gave him a start since the hard ring was identical to the clerk's desk buzzer, the one that caused calamity.

A fourteen-or fifteen-year-old boy answered the door.

‘Sahib's not at home, he just left for the market to go drink a lassi,' the boy said in one breath.

‘Could I have a glass of water?'

Mohandas was very thirsty, the hot sun had been beating down on him, and the wind blew like a furnace. He was wilting. He'd been nicked and bruised on his face, arm, and back during his beating and subsequent ejection from the office compound, and the dried sweat was coagulating the blood in the cuts.

The boy looked him over head to toe.

‘Wait here, I'll be right back.' He went inside.

Mohandas gulped down three glasses; the boy'd brought a cold bottle of water from the fridge. The water rejuvenated his body, brought the light back to his eyes, and calmed him. He noticed the boy's sympathetic look as he took the glass back.

‘Who else is at home?' Mohandas asked.

‘Nobody. Just Kasturi madamji. But she's sleeping. Come back after five.' When the boy started back in with the empty bottle, Mohandas said, ‘When sahib comes back tell him that
Mohandas from Purbanra village stopped by. I'll come back this evening.'

The boy stopped. He looked quizzically at Mohandas. ‘Who? Who should I say stopped by?'

‘Mohandas!' Mohandas said a little louder, before slowly returning to the May inferno and the nearly melting pavement.

There wasn't much to Lenin Nagar market, though it ached for a modern makeover. There were a handful of dry-goods stores, a few convenience shops with some groceries. A Kaveri Fast Food that served dosas-idlis-vadas. Two food shacks with the usual tandoori, dhal makhini, kadhai paneer, butter chicken, aloo paratha. A liquor shop with whisky and local toddy with a sign outside that read, ‘Cold Beer Available.' Two cigarette and paan stalls, and two stores with proper glass window displays that carried all sorts of plastic stuff, small electric appliances and electronics. Then another cavernous apparel store with a show window featuring crude foam mannequins modeling lacy bras and underwear that showed off everything.

Mohandas saw a police Tata Sumo parked in front of Lakshmi Vaishnav Restaurant, and among the handful of police inside drinking lassis was Vijay Tiwari from Mohandas's village, son of Pandit Chatradhari Tiwari, who'd been fixed up with a police inspector position by his in-laws.

Bisnath, too, was there.

Bisnath was having a good laugh at something as he finished his lassi; walking back toward the Sumo, Mohandas caught his eye. Bisnath did a double take, and for a moment the colour drained from his face. The laugh evaporated. Vijay Tiwari saw the panic on Bisnath's face and turned around to look; he was sitting in the driver's seat in full uniform.

Mohandas stood about fifteen yards away, beneath the lamppost, dressed in rags, scorched by the scalding wind.

A tense silence settled over the hot, sunny afternoon.

Bisnath climbed into the SUV. Vijay Tiwari started the engine and floored it, right at a terrified Mohandas, who stumbled to take cover behind a lamppost. Vijay Tiwari hit the brakes hard and the car ground to a halt right beside Mohandas; if it hadn't, the car would have smashed into Mohandas and the lamppost. He was in a daze.

‘Get over here!' Vijay Tiwari called him over.

Not even eight years had passed since the very same Vijay Tiwari had studied with Mohandas at the M.G. Degree College. They had a class together and saw each other there every day. He'd been a bit slow in his studies. His father Pandit Chatradhari had held out Mohandas as a role model, since every year he was at the top of the class. Now the same Vijay Tiwari wore a police uniform, rode in a Tata Sumo fitted with cop sirens and a bullhorn, and put on a show: more than simply pretending he didn't know Mohandas, he put on a show of hostility and scorn. And why? Just because Mohandas was poor, low-caste? Or because he didn't have a job and was labouring quietly to support his family? Or maybe because these people had swindled him, walked all over what was rightfully his. But now, his presence threw a wrench into their freedom and carousing.

‘You're lucky that lamppost was there otherwise you would've been dead meat!' Vijay Tiwari spat out.

‘Eh, leave him be,' Bisnath said. ‘It's not worth the mess just to swat a fly. And you, arsehole, had better not show your face around here again.'

Mohandas hadn't budged an inch from his spot.

Vijay Tiwari leant on the horn few times, and then flipped a switch to the bullhorn mounted on the roof of the SUV.

‘Hey Bisnath!' the sound screamed from the loudspeaker. ‘Have you lost your mind, Bisnath? Oh, Bisnath, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Gone deaf? BISNATH! Hey, Bisnath!'

They exploded into laughter inside the car.

‘You didn't bring your wife with you, Bisnath? You came to die alone? Tsk, tsk.'

Bisnath climbed out of the car and went right up to Mohandas. He reached inside his pocket, took out a five hundred, and stuffed it into Mohandas's.

‘From now on forget about your old name, and from now on don't even take a step toward Lenin Nagar. Today you got lucky. We were just drinking lassis. The lamppost saved your butt, otherwise you would've been a grease spot. If we ever see you around here again, it's into the coal furnace, and out as ash!' Then he turned towards Fatso's Vegetarian Restaurant and shouted, ‘Nand Kishore! Hey! Can you bring a lassi to Bisnath over here? And make it cold, put some ice in it! It's Bisnath, from the next village over!' More laughter from inside the SUV.

Bisnath joined in, and while getting back into the car, whispered to Vijay Tiwari, ‘Nand Kishore? Just a dhimar from Bhakhar who turned himself into a Brahmin after he came here and now runs a Vashniva vegetarian restaurant. Even married a brahmin girl from Sajanpur, the little weasel. Call him ‘panditji' and he loves it, gets all swelled up with pride.'

‘That's good! And so the brotherhood enlarges.' Vijay Tiwari chuckled at himself and turned to the food joint. ‘Keep an eye
on Bisnath, Panditji, and thanks for giving him a lassi to drink, and put it on my tab, and, oh, he's just a little off his rocker.'

‘Don't worry yourself about it! Not one bit! All in a day's work! I'll put him back on his rocker!'

The Tata Sumo sped off, leaving Mohandas covered in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

He stood perfectly still, grabbing hold of the lamppost. Was this some movie where a scene had just wrapped up, and he was a character trapped inside? Or was it some twisted nightmare?

Fatty's Vaishnav Vegetarian Foodstop's light-skinned, beady eyed, middle-aged fat sweetmeat proprietor, Nand Kishore, held out a glass of lassi.

‘Bisnath, oh Bisnath! Come and drink your lassi!'

Mohandas was leaving Lenin Nagar market and walking to the bus stand when he noticed a disturbed-looking man coming toward him. A little bag was slung over his shoulder, his pants were washed out, and coming apart at the seams. He came up to Mohandas and stopped.

‘Do you know where Suryakant's flat is in Lenin Nagar, brother?'

Mohandas remembered seeing that name on a nameplate when he'd been looking for Bisnath's house. He tried to remember.

‘Keep going straight ahead and you'll see Matiyani Chowk at the big intersection, and ask someone, it's not far from there.

The man started to leave and Mohandas asked him softly, ‘Whose apartment are you looking for?'

‘Suryakant's! From a village near Unnao.'

‘What's the name of his village?'

‘Gadhakola!'

‘And what's your name'

The man hesitated. His lips trembled, his deep-set eyes began to well up, and in a thin, gravelly tone, a rough sound emerged.

‘Suryakant! I'm Suryakant from Gakhakola!'

And with that he turned and shuffled toward Lenin Nagar.

(It's a story that takes place at the time when every government of every country on earth was promoting the same economic policies and playing the same political games, and when even the biggest billboard in the world can't cover up the massive chasm that has opened up between rich and poor.

It's the time when the revolutionary forces of the exploited and downtrodden from the early twentieth century were busy playing a game of chess to form coalition governments, lower the price of gas, and tighten their rule over the poor. And the time when a groundbreaking, historic consensus emerged among all parties in this twenty-first century postmodern democracy to cripple and crush all of the decent people of this country, the ones who get by with hard work and talent. Politics assumed the form of any means of power that's used to exercise control, perpetrate injustice, and oppress the citizenry.)

Mohandas returned home at eleven. Everyone had been eagerly awaiting his return. Kasturi had made rice, dhal, and an okra khuthima. She'd also stone-ground some green mango chutney.

Devdas and Sharda had already eaten and were asleep. Kaba was lying on the cot in the courtyard coughing away. ‘Three times today he's spat up gobs of lung with the blood,' Kasturi informed him. Putlibai was sleeping next to him on the rug spread out on the floor beside the cot. Kasturi had waited to take her meal and still hadn't eaten; she ladled out his food and hers, then covered them with a lid.

Mohandas took off his clothes and wrapped himself in an angocha in order to wash up before eating; all the cuts and bruises were visible. The marks gave Kasturi a fright.

‘What happened? Where did all those cuts come from?' she said, carefully examining his body with her hands. ‘My god! These aren't just little scratches.' Mohandas quietly washed his hands and face, the cool water rinsing off the fatigue of the day, refreshing his whole body. Next to the washbasin was a good-sized jasmine plant in full flower; its scent filled the courtyard. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet smell, closed his eyes for a moment, and incanted the name of his
satguru,
Kabir.

Kasturi removed the cover from the thali, releasing the smell of the rice into the courtyard. It was lohandi, an old stash Putlibai had put in the back of their rice bin and forgotten about, until today, when, remembering it, she groped around until she found the little bundle. Mohandas ate it with relish, and his fingers were covered in the mango chutney.

‘The bisaindhi mango tree's bursting with fruit. We should get at least a couple of thousand for them, should I go pick and sell ‘em tomorrow?' Mohandas said, before letting out a big burp to signal his satiety. ‘You must do some kind of magic to make food taste as good as this! Mix together your mango
chutney, rice and a good appetite, and that's what I call heaven!'

Kasturi's eyes welled up a little. She knew that another calamity had befallen Mohandas that day, one he'd keep hidden from her forever.

That night Kasturi instantly fell asleep after a long day and late night, but sleep didn't come to Mohandas for a while. He kept getting up, downing glass after glass of water. Some sort of storm was swirling around in his head, a terrible typhoon of disquiet.

Mohandas went to the Oriental Coal Mines once or twice more, but the trips turned out to be pointless since a rumour had been spread throughout Lenin Nagar that some loony popped up every couple of weeks claiming that he was the real depot supervisor, Mohandas, BA. Call him Bisnath and watch him go mad and say all sorts of crazy stuff.

He'd been defeated; Mohandas gave up on going to the coal mine. Day and night, he couldn't calm down. He stayed up all night by the sandy bank of the Kathina, quietly regarding the stars. In the village, Kabirpanthis were considered merely a low weaver or thatcher caste. Were they a scheduled caste or an adivasi or an aboriginal group? It was still unclear, according to the official government gazette. After the census ten years ago ‘bamboo cutter' was tacked on to their caste description; on other papers ‘Hindu' was indicated as their religion and ‘Indian' for nationality. Their numbers were small, and none of them took any significant part in any of the political parties, never mind holding any government positions; so here too Mohandas became the butt of many jokes. The high-casters and rich folk asked him in passing, ‘So, how's the job hunt going, Moh-hun-ah?'

‘Take the job of looking after Vijay Tiwari's water buffalo,'
someone advised him. ‘At least you won't have to worry about putting a little bread on your plate. Make Kasturi happy, too. She wouldn't have to walk around barefoot.'

Others told him he should go visit Bisnath in Lenin Nagar, throw himself at his feet and offer to be his servant. Mohandas began to avoid the higher-ups of his village. He'd see them and get lost fast.

But it's not as if his fellow villagers didn't have any sympathy for him. Most of the people had genuine feeling for him, and wanted to help him out one way or another. But these were the same people who themselves were caught in some kind of fix. There wasn't one among them who had any real pull. They quietly did what they needed to do to get by with their own sweat and tears.

Ghanshyam was one of these. Though a Kurmi by caste, he wasn't poor. He had twenty acres of land, and had bought a tractor with a loan from the bank. He grew beans and vegetables and rented out his tractor. And yet it was still tough for him to meet his monthly bank payments of seven thousand. The market price for wheat and other crops about to be harvested was below cost in the market. A farmer named Bisesar from nearby Balbahra village had taken out a loan from the Grameen Bank in order to plant soya beans; a couple of months ago, in order to save his farm from auction, he climbed up a powerline, touched a live wire and died. Small farmers and farm workers were quitting village life and coming to the city in droves; this made Ghanshyam uneasy.