Navishta-e-Taqdeer; English Short Story by Humra Ahmed; Translated by Deepak Budki نوشتہ تقدیر - حمرا احمد کا انگریزی افسانہ ؛ ترجمہ : دیپک بدکی

Navishta-e-Taqdeer; English Short Story by Humra Ahmed; Translated by Deepak Budki

نوشتہ  تقدیر - حمرا احمد کا انگریزی افسانہ ؛

 ترجمہ : دیپک بدکی 

Umeed Ki Kiran: English Short Story by Humera Ahmed; Translated by Deepak Budki; امید کی کرن - حمیرا احمد کا انگریزی افسانہ ؛ ترجمہ: دیپک بدکی

Umeed Ki Kiran: English Short Story by Humera Ahmed; Translated by Deepak Budki

امید کی کرن - حمیرا احمد کا انگریزی افسانہ ؛

ترجمہ: دیپک بدکی 

 

Mukhbir; मुखबिर ; Hindi Short Story; हिंदी कहानी

 Mukhbir; मुखबिर 

 Hindi Short Story; हिंदी कहानी 

Jago! ; जागो!; Hindi Short Story; हिंदी कहानी

 Jago! ; जागो!

Hindi Short Story; हिंदी कहानी 

Life Torn Into Shreds; English Short Story; Author: Deepak Budki; Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

Life Torn Into Shreds; English Short Story

  Author: Deepak Budki

 Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

It was the year 2000. I was posted back to Srinagar, Kashmir. After I joined and inhaled the familiar aroma of the Kashmir atmosphere, I experienced a feeling of familiarity as though I had been transferred only yesterday from this place to Vadodra. The intervening period of eight years seemed to have passed in a jiffy. The bond and love of one’s motherland are so strong that even the worst despicability cannot dissuade one’s concern for it. The familiarity of the land, its environs and the people around were so enthralling and reassuring that for a moment it wiped away all the reminiscences of the nightmare faced by our community in the late nineties that forced them to leave this place under the shadow of the gun.

During these years the valley suffered tremendously with disturbing conditions. The air missed its fragrance and the water its sweetness. The atmosphere was filled with the smell of canons and water with the acidic taste of gunpowder. The Mughal gardens were lying desolate with no men and women chit-chatting and no frolicsome children running around. The rice fields too were devoid of their melodious folk songs. The only things that were noticeable were abandoned roads, police posts on every turn of the road and people with fear looming on their faces. 

I went for a morning walk the next morning on the bund along the banks of river Jehlum and was shocked to see the once busy road frequented by foreign tourists wanting in its previous elegance and magnificence. Just a few people carrying some household needs were seen walking around. The houseboat owners alongside the river were craving tourists. Their nights were spent desperately waiting for customers and their days dozing off unendingly. The tall poplar trees, lined up along the banks of the river, were witnessing the scene silently and sharing the sorrow of these houseboat owners while the numerous birds perched on different trees were continuously chirping and twittering as if mourning for something lost. It seemed they didn’t like such bereaved mornings. The human faces that used to glow like fresh Kashmir apples had over a period turned jaundiced.      

I felt a sense of severe tragedy in my mind. Strange sinister thoughts occurred to me one after another raising various apprehensions eager to find the answer. I thought, after leaving the valley, the displaced Kashmiri Pandits of whom I was part and parcel, were somehow passing their days at least without the fear of guns and dread of death. Serially another thought flashed, what about the people living here all these years?  How would they have dealt with the shadow of death they faced every moment?

Suddenly my eyes fell on a familiar-looking man walking ahead of me. Being a known face I soon recollected that he was the owner of a cloth shop in the city’s famous wholesale market near our residence called Maharaj Ganj. It was the main trading centre of Srinagar where most of the traders were Khatris, who were Punjabi-speaking Hindus. The market had through the ages retained its wholesale character and did bustling business in spite of many other markets that had come up in other parts of the city.

The man was wearing a light blue Kurta Pajama torn at a few places. He also wore a waistcoat over his Kurta and a woollen cap on his head. Layers of dust and dirt had accumulated on his body and clothes which suggested that he had not bathed for many days. A long khadi shoulder bag was hanging on his left shoulder filled with rice grains. He frequently took out handfuls of rice from the bag and spread it over the smooth raised cement wall of the bund in order to feed birds. The sight of grains attracted lots of sparrows, pigeons and crows which darted down from the sky to feed on them. For a while, he would look at these birds curiously and then walk further and repeat the same process. I immediately figured out that some tragedy must have shattered him to this condition. I went near him a couple of times and moved my head up and down in a way so as to say namaste to him but he didn’t recognize me nor did he take any notice of my greetings and remained busy with his job. I thought he may have forgotten faces with time but soon it occurred to me that eight years was not such a long time to bring on such a shift.

He continuously ignored me but I kept on observing all his movements. Looking at his actions I concluded that he may have lost his mental balance. Was he afflicted with prosopagnosia or did he purposefully find it safe not to recognize them? Or, was he doing so lest he may come across among them a face which had shattered and ruined his whole world. He often recollected how he had brought up and nurtured that selfsame face but had never imagined that the seed he was sowing would one day yield bitter fruit.

One day three boys suddenly appeared before him from nowhere. A school-going boy, wearing a long loose cloak, which they call pheran in local parlance, besides covering and hiding his head with a black muffler in a way that only his eyes were visible. He had a revolver in his right hand which too was hidden under the pheran. A real draconian face to confront! The boy was accompanied by two more boys with identical get up. At that time Lala Karam Chand was in his shop tallying some entries in his account books. Due to the eruption of large-scale disturbances in the city those days, there was rarely a customer seen in his shop, so he spent his time checking accounts of the year gone by aimed at reducing the number of debtors. The employees in the shop too absented themselves frequently on one pretext or the other. They would offer flimsy excuses of search operations in their area that kept them awake throughout the night or curfew and restriction of movements at various places en route. Considering the sensitivity of the time he did not raise any objections to their absence. Nowadays either he or his sons were seen in the shop.

On entering the shop the youth took the revolver out of the pheran and instantly flashed it towards Lala Karam Chand in a dramatic fashion. However, his muffler dropped off his face suddenly and Lala recognized him but did not utter even a word. The youth blurted in a loud frightening voice, “Lala if you want the safety of yourself and your family hand over five lakh rupees immediately.”

Lala Karam Chand was astounded not because he was asked to pay five lakhs but because the demand had come from a person he had helped grow in life. Such incidents of extortion had become common in the city and other places around and were reported almost every other day. He was stunned because the ferocious young man was the son of one of his faithful employees who had served him for about thirty years. Lala recollected that on his birth he had distributed sweets among the staff as if a son had been born to him only. Later he himself arranged for his admission to a good school nearby and used to help him with money for the purchase of books and uniforms as the need arose. Now the same boy had returned from Pakistan a few days ago after getting trained in handling arms and ammunition. He had become the commander of Al-Badar, a terrorist organization operating in the valley. Lala Karam Chand recalled that the boy's father looked severely disturbed for the last several months but did not say anything to anybody. How could he? Had the security forces come to know of his son missing from the house, his house would have been besieged by them and the rest of the family would have to face police atrocities. Possibly, if Lala had got even a slight inkling of it, maybe he would have fired him out of his job. Anyway in spite of all that the situation Lala was facing presently appalled him to the core.

However, this incident raised many a question in his mind of which he was trying to find answers. “Did the boy's father know everything? Is he too involved in the conspiracy? Why did the young boy select him, particularly for the extortion?”

Lala was still deep in his thoughts when the youth with a pistol screamed at the top of his voice, “Lala, what are you thinking? Take out money or the consequence will be very bad for you.”

Lala was filled with extreme anxiety and fear. He laid open his cash chest before them. It was almost empty. In view of the circumstances, he would make cash deposits in the bank every day and keep a minimum balance in the chest for emergency use.

“These days there is hardly any business. You see for yourself that there’s hardly anything in the chest!”   

“Lala, we won’t accept any of your alibis. We want money, come what may. It is Monday today, day after tomorrow will be Wednesday when we will come again any time during the day to collect the amount and keep our money ready. Be warned, nobody should get air about it or you’ll lose the whole of your family.” So saying, they left the shop.

The next day Lala Karam Chand withdrew five lakh rupees from his bank and kept the cash in his chest for any eventuality. Since Wednesday was fixed as a routine for the realization and collection of payments from his debtors spread over different towns, so he instructed his sons to remain in the shop positively and pay five lakhs from the chest to whosoever comes to the shop demanding money without asking any questions. As a safety measure, he made them aware of the circumstances prompting such payment and gave some clues in order to identify the extortionists.

On Wednesday he kept visiting his customers in different towns for the whole day and stressed upon them to clear their outstanding debts. He had to bargain a lot but realized a little. The atmosphere all over had changed. Nobody was willing to part away with his cash in such circumstances. He could not return to his shop before dusk. While approaching his shop in the evening, he found a large crowd gathered in front of it from a distance. Feeling concerned he pushed himself through the crowd and got into the shop. To his horror, he found before him the dead bodies of both his sons laying on the floor drenched all over in blood. He could not believe his eyes and began looking around. His eyes instantly caught sight of the open and empty chest. He failed to understand the reason behind this ruthlessness. After all, he had not refused any payment to anyone. But he could not find any answer. Those who could have helped him know the truth had been silenced forever. 

The Police Inspector present there called for his attention and started questioning him notwithstanding what had befallen him, “Lala, where were you for the whole day?” 

Karam Chand replied in his drooping voice, “I had gone out of town for collection.”

“Lala, is this the occasion for collection of payments when the city is burning? Who will make your payments in this bedlam?”

“Sir, our business runs like that. If there’s no realization of funds, how’ll we pull on?”

He fell silent after that and suddenly turned motionless like a rock. He wanted to call out the names of his children but his voice was choked in his throat. He wanted to weep but his tears dried up in his eyes. He wanted to pull his hair but his hands had become heavy as lead. After some time the shrill voice of the Police Inspector again struck his ears, “Who must have done it? Do you suspect anybody?”

“I know nothing. All that I can say is that two days before some armed young men came to my shop and demanded five lakh rupees from me. Since I did not have such a big amount of money with me so showed them the chest. They threatened to come again after a day. I took out cash from the bank yesterday and kept it in the chest. I had to go for the collection of funds today as a matter of routine as I couldn't afford to let the debts increase. Therefore I instructed my sons accordingly.”

“Why didn’t you inform the police? You have committed a crime by helping the extortionists.”

“How could I buy enmity with them? They had warned me not to inform the police otherwise they would kill my family and all? I thought it better to pay them five lahks such that my family is saved.”

“Police would have protected you from them.”

“How many can the police protect? Terror has spread all over. How can you protect each and every citizen? It is an all-out war that we are facing.”

"You see they have not only robbed you of money but also killed your two sons.”  

“It did not occur even in my thoughts. I had no clue about their intentions.”

After recording the statement of Karam Chand the police got busy with other circumstantial investigations. They took various photographs of the scene of the crime and finger impressions from various locations. Wherever they got a clue they took it in their possession.

Meanwhile, Karam Chand kept staring at the dead bodies of his children with stony eyes beside the walls of his shop and the open chest. After a couple of hours, he reached his home carrying the dead bodies. He looked like a soldier defeated on the battlefield who had returned to his home. On looking at the bodies of her sons, his wife gave out an anguished cry and immediately fell unconscious. She was brought back to her senses after a long time and thereafter she began weeping bitterly and mourned the loss of her children by pulling out her hair. Surprisingly Karam Chand still stood motionless like a stone. He neither talked to anyone nor shed tears as if his tears had dried up for all times to come. 

The following day he lit the biers of his children at the cremation ground with his trembling and unsteady hands and then observed last rites as per traditions and religious practices for the next thirteen days. This incident was an unforgettable tragic event in the life of Lala Karam Chand. He was floored by destiny from the heights of his prosperity and excitement like a tree felled by a woodcutter for use as firewood. On following days whenever he sat on the ground to eat food and his wife placed the plate in front of him, he would repeatedly ask her only one question, “Did Sonu and Babloo not come as yet from the shop to have their dinner? Will they be late today as well from the shop?”

“They will be coming. You have your dinner and go off to sleep, I’ll feed them myself later on," his wife would rapidly answer as she had become aware of his deteriorating mental condition. She prayed to God day and night that his normal mental condition is restored. Being a mother she was much more anguished than her husband yet she apparently showed calmness, and courage and displayed false felicities in front of everyone she met. Her internal agony pestered her day after day because it was impossible for her to find release from this suffering. Consequently, it all added up and after two months she suffered a severe heart attack and joined her children while Karam Chand was left alone in this world.

Many times I sought answers from myself as to why didn’t Lala Karam Chand move out of the valley to safer pastures along with other Kashmiri Pandits who migrated immediately on hearing the alarm bells. Initially many were killed in cold blood because they were Hindus and owed allegiance to India. Did Lala have stronger bonds of attachment to his motherland than all the rest or was it his excessive attachment to his material possessions that he risked his entire family? I was not able to find an answer to these questions but gradually I realized how difficult it might have been for him to leave his home and hearth with small children and nowhere to go. 

Ultimately one day Karam Chand sold his large house and shop for a pittance and deposited whatever he got in the bank so that he could somehow sustain himself with the little interest it would earn. Being alone now and aware that death may not be far away he was no more interested in generating or amassing wealth and living in extra comfort. He rented a room in the house of one of his friends in a comparatively safer area and passed his remaining days there.

However, after his world was rendered desolate he had befriended sparrows, crows and other tiny little birds and lived with them peacefully. He had developed a strange belief inside him that these winged creatures can hear him, understand his language and recognize his love. The fact remains that every day the birds too waited for him impatiently.

Every morning Lala Karam Chand carries on his shoulder a bagful of rice without fail. Totally unmindful of the world around him, he calls and invites these little friends of his with affectionate nicknames mixed with deep sighs and sobs. He firmly believes that among them are his wife and his two sons, reborn as birds, who wait for him to feed them. His belief that his wife and children have taken birth in the form of birds, in the endless cycle of life and death, is so intense that he walks ceaselessly on serpentine roads and open parks throwing a handful of grains with his palsied hands wherever he finds a few birds together. Many a time he feels so sure that a particular bird is his wife, elder son, or his younger son that he calls them by their cute nicknames, Arti, Sonu and Babloo, spreads before them a handful of grains and watches them eat the grains till they finish and fly away. 

                                                            *****

The Aroma of Memories; English Short Story; Author: Deepak Budki; Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

  The Aroma of Memories; English Short Story

 Author: Deepak Budki 

Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

Why the agony of unfulfilled dreams is incessantly annoying? I could never solve this riddle. I have been fortunate enough to get almost everything that I wished for in my life though I never longed for anything that could not be realized.

It was 1972. ‘Asia '72 Exhibition’ had started in Pragati Maidan, New Delhi. Those days I used to work in the Kashmir Government Arts Emporium and a stall of the Emporium had also been set up in the Exhibition. I and my friend Saleem, the manager of another retail outlet of the organization in Delhi invited me to attend the inauguration ceremony though we were not directly involved with the stall in any capacity. Pragati Maidan was decorated all over like a bride ready to be wedded soon. All the stalls were tastefully decorated. A number of good-looking girl guides had been deployed in each stall to welcome and conduct the guests. The stalls were thronged by large crowds such that everyone had to struggle for space. A few girl guides were posted in our stall too who received us cordially and in turn, we availed of the opportunity to introduce ourselves.

“Hello, I’m Saleem, Manager Connaught Place Branch of Kashmir Emporium.” Saleem addressed Sarah, one of the girl guides. He had actually been floored by her first look.

On the other hand, I was attracted towards a Maharashtrian girl. She was very pretty, pleasing and cheerful. I too introduced myself to her, “Hi... I’m Rajiv, Manager, Ashoka Hotel Branch of Kashmir Emporium.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Vandana," the Maharashtrian girl replied.

We exchanged pleasantries for some time till I grabbed an opportunity to invite her for a cup of coffee.

“Would you care to have a cup of coffee with me?”

“Not now, please! You see there is so much rush to be managed. We may go during lunchtime.” 

At the appointed time I took Vandana for a cup of coffee. Ashoka Hotel had established a stall which was quite at hand so I turned to enter there. Vandana was somewhat bemused and said, “Oh no, not this place. It’s a very expensive hotel. It is sheer craziness to go there. Do you see a railway bogie there? The railway department has converted it into a decent restaurant. You can get everything there--tea, coffee, snacks, breakfast, lunch, dinner whatever you want .”

We got into the Railway restaurant and I ordered coffee and some snacks. Meanwhile, we exchanged glances with each other and tried to fathom out what was going on in the other's mind. It was certainly a look of love. She told me all about herself and her family and I kept listening to her with rapt attention.

“My name is Vandana Narayan Kulkarni." She said, "I’m a Brahmin from Maharashtra and Pune is our ancestral place. We are settled in Coimbatore for last so many years. My father owns a textile factory there.”

“Oh I see, and what are you doing at present?”

“I’m a student of BA (Hons) in English Literature. Nowadays we have vacations in college. I intended to see Delhi, the exhibition was just an excuse.”

I also told her about myself that I had obtained degrees of Master's in Botany and Bachelor's in Education and was serving in the Emporium out of necessity. I was not satisfied with my current job and therefore was looking for a better job opportunity in Delhi Education Department.

In a very short time, we laid bare our hearts before each other. I was overcome with so much joy and excitement due to our meeting that while leaving the restaurant I forgot to collect my expensive Ronson lighter and Ray-Ban goggles which I had kept on the table.  Anyway, I convinced myself that such losses are immaterial when you encounter your first love. On the other hand, Saleem tried his best to entice Sarah but could move no further.

The exhibition continued for two months. I used to meet Vandana almost daily. We got very close in no time. I felt as if we were made for each other. We used to have lunch together at the Railway restaurant every day and kiss goodbye thereafter but neither of us expressed any feeling of love to the other. I thought there was no such need because our actions were more eloquent than our words. Incidentally, a few of my experienced friends suggested that I should take advantage of our closeness and try to have physical intimacy with her before it is too late. They said, "You will otherwise repent when she goes out of your hands." However, I found the suggestion absurd and instead brushed them aside. 

Once we went to spend our evening at a discotheque in Connaught Place. The hall was dark with glimmering lights. Young boys and girls were enjoying dancing gleefully on the floor with arms locked around each other. Since I was neither conversant with such an environment nor good at dancing so I took Vandana to a corner table and sat there. The ambience was so filled with romance that refraining from an adventure seemed almost impossible. The resonance of my friends' advice filled my ears many a time but I consciously withdrew from the thought of any indecent act and remained content with my lot. After about an hour and a half, we came out and I left Vandana at her residence.

Time always passes without a bang. Two months passed in a jiffy. The exhibition came to a close and Vandna was to leave the next day by GT Express. In the afternoon I took Vandana to the Standard Restaurant and placed an order for tea and snacks. In the meantime, she pressed herself close to me and rested her head on my shoulder. In a choked voice, she said, “During the past two months we came so close to each other as if we knew each other for ages.”

“There’s no doubt about that. I love your company and wish that this exhibition goes on and on and never comes to an end.”

“I want to ask you something, hope you don't t mind,” she said after gathering enough courage.

“What stops you from asking? You can ask anything. Why should I get annoyed? I find no reason.”

“Rajiv, how does one call the relation between two of us....?” her courage gave way so she left her question halfway.

“We are good friends, dear, and will continue to be like that.” I too hesitated to express myself truthfully. I wanted to tell her that I loved her passionately but found myself at a loss for appropriate words. It was pure unselfish love -- free from all lustful desire but I was unable to give voice to my feelings lest she would get annoyed. I did not want to hurt her in any way before her departure. Thus my forbearance cut short my cherished desires.

“But I love you from the core of my heart, dear Rajiv.” So saying she burst into tears. Weeping bitterly she hid her face against my chest.

I did not know how to calm her down. I caressed her hair, stroked her face gently and kissed her passionately but she did not anyway tranquillize. Then I addressed her, “Vandana, I love you too from the depths of my heart, love that you would never imagine. I didn’t give expression to my love for you because I was afraid it might annoy you. We have been good friends and I didn’t want our friendship to end abruptly should you not like my words. You did well by opening your heart before leaving. I feel so much more relaxed.”

“But dear, my problem is different and much more complicated. I don’t find any way out of that.”

“Why don’t you tell me, I may be of some help.”

“Dear Rajiv," she paused for a while and then continued, "My parents are typical orthodox Maharashtrian Brahmins. They are strictly traditional, uncompromising and conservative. They won't agree to my marriage outside my own caste.”

I immediately recalled a number of instances where reactionary elements had issued diktats and warned many couples of dire consequences including death. Her disclosure was heart-rending for me. Strange thoughts flooded my mind. The ball was in my court now. One such thought prompted me to go for a civil marriage early in the morning on the following day but immediately I drew back because I did not want to smear her or her family's prestige in any way. Then I thought it would be better to approach Vandana’s parents and try to convince them instead.

After a lot of mental agonies I declared my intention, “Vandana, you are returning home tomorrow. Whenever you find an occasion, talk to your parents. As for me I am an atheist and do not believe in discrimination on the basis of caste or faith. I believe they should not have any objection to our marriage because I too am born in a Kashmir Pandit family who are regarded as high caste Brahmins in the north.”

“You do not know my parents, dear. They will consent to my marriage only with a Maharashtra Brahmin, no one else.”

“Sweetheart, there’s no harm in trying. You should not lose heart before you make an effort. I am sure something positive will come out of your sincere efforts.”

“Alright, I will definitely make an effort after I reach my home and inform you of the result. Be in regular touch with me, Rajiv. Do not forget me.”

“I won't forget you all my life. Nobody can replace you in my heart.”

The next day at the New Delhi railway station,  she suddenly spotted me in the maddening crowd while she was waiting for the GT Express to depart. I could find a strange quiver on her face. We talked to each other God knows what. The train was about to leave when she hurriedly presented me with a small gift. It was a novel written by Ayn Rand, ‘The Fountainhead’. She knew I was a fan of hers. On its first page were written the following words, "To my love, Rajiv-- With request not to forget me ever -- Yours and yours only –- Vandana’.  The note was followed by her signature and postal address.

For three months nothing was heard from her. With every passing hour, my anxiety about her increased. Every moment I recalled the days I spent with her, tears would roll down my eyes. What a gratifying time was that! Now my life had turned extremely miserable. I was feeling restless all through.

One fine day, taking a bold step, I wrote a letter to her and sent it by registered post. There was a lull for many days which kept me on tenterhooks all the time. Then got a reply which was both heartening as also heart-breaking. It informed me about her welfare and simultaneously about the rejection of the proposal by her father. All her repeated efforts had failed to convince her parents. My letter had also gone into their hands and they had not liked it. So now there was no question of any further communication.

I experienced a major storm blowing inside my heart almost shaking my whole existence. The words of my friends--"You will otherwise repent when she goes out of your hands"--kept repeatedly hammering my eardrums. I was tormented by many contradictory thoughts pertaining to our relationship. Did she truly love me?... Did she break off the relationship under compulsion or was it all stage managed?... Was she a flirt who just passed her time with me as my friends apprehended? I could never find an answer to any of these questions but all the same, I was more than convinced that we loved each other passionately and that was it.

Sometimes I think that the consolation that can be derived from living in the world of fantasy is far more gratifying than the world of reality. Today, after the passage of four decades, I find immense solace in recalling those nostalgic memories. Vandana could not be part of me but I still fondly cherish her memories and preserve the gifted book and the letter written by her. The very sight of these is consoling. Whenever I feel depressed in my life I take out the book from my library and read a few passages from it or go through her letter over and over again with my moist eyes. They rejuvenate me. Even today I imagine she is around me and both of us are singing that eternal song of the Indian film 'Pakeezah' on the stairs of Pragati Vihar Exhibition grounds –"Chalo dildar chalo, chand kay paar chalo, Hum hen tayaar chalo" (Come my darling, let us fly away far from this petty world and go beyond that beautiful moon.....Yes my beloved, come along, I am waiting for you, I am ready). I always feel her sitting close to me by my side hoping that we will someday fly away to that far-off world where love, devotion and sincerity reign supreme and there are no distractions and deceptions.

*****

Amma; English Short Story; Author: Deepak Budki; Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

Amma; English Short Story

 Author: Deepak Budki

 Translator: Jawahar Lal Bhat

 

 

“What’s your name?”

She appeared horror-struck and gazed at me with fearsome eyes. She did not utter even a single word. Instead, Kanhaya Lal, the Social Welfare Officer, who accompanied me replied on her behalf, “Sir, I have tried my best but they do not speak. They suspect you to be an officer sent by the government to enforce Family Planning.”

The wounds inflicted on them during the emergency were still fresh in their minds. It was only two years back that almost all the men and women of this village irrespective of their age had been rounded up for sterilization. They inter alia included unmarried youth as well as old infertile men.

“Sir, you must have noticed that the whole village looked deserted when they saw our jeep entering the village. Not a soul could be seen anywhere. Everyone -men, women, children and the old- ran and hid themselves in their houses immediately. Their fear has not diminished still though the emergency was revoked almost two years ago.” Kanhaya Lal explained.

“But we have not come here for any family planning drive.”

“It is very difficult to make them understand that the emergency has been revoked long ago. In fact, these poor people always live under the shadow of a policeman’s baton. They have inherited this fear of the authority from their forefathers and are unable to shed it.”

A soft smile played on my lips and I took leave of the old woman. Accompanied by Kishore Shah, I proceeded towards the house of the village headman. The inquisitive look of the old woman kept watching us through the half-open door. 

Kishore and I both were probationers of Indian Civil Services. We had four more colleagues with us who were distributed in couples to other neighbouring hamlets to collect statistical data. We were in a village visit sent by our training institution, Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration, Mussorie which wanted us to get familiarized with the ground realities of Indian village life.  

These small villages constituted the Oon Block of Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh. In these three hamlets where our two-men teams had gone, Bawdi tribals lived. Bawdis had gained notoriety for burglary in the past. Before independence, the British had labelled them as 'criminally oriented'. Even after thirty years of independence, nobody had tried to remove this label from them.  But then who would do that? The loss would have been theirs! Strict vigil was kept on the activities of everybody in these villages. Anybody who wanted to cross the boundary of any village had to report first to the local police station. Even a child carried a criminal tag with him from inside the mother's womb, so they were left with no alternative but to adopt crime as a profession. Whether the police do any other constructive job or not is beside the question but they do not allow Bawdis to cross their boundaries. All that the Government has done after independence is to appoint Kanhya Lal as a welfare officer for the social awakening of tribals and for the betterment of the society. The irony is that he is not Kanhaya by name only but a cupid in reality too. His watchful eyes on the young village belles often produce positive results for him.

On hearing the stories of crime about these Bawdis we too got scared. Our chief concern was that our day could pass somehow but how to spend the night? The very thought overwhelmed us with fear and xenophobia. Kishore and I consulted each other about how to spend the forthcoming night but could find no logical way out. Soon a large Shiva Temple crossed our way and we saw an ascetic under a huge pipal tree smoking a pipe, throwing clouds of smoke out of his mouth periodically and absorbed in his own hallucinatory world. Our eyes glowed with hope, seemed both of us had thought of the same plan. On seeing us he gave out a loud roar of laughter. We went near him and after bowing down respectfully before him sat by his side. We told him about the purpose of our visit in brief and asked for his blessings. After a while, he started delivering a lecture on existentialist philosophy. It was all about the instabilities of the world and the mysteries of the creator. Instantly a large crowd gathered around us putting us to astonishment wherefrom had they popped up in such a little time. Using the occasion as an opportunity I requested the holy man, “Sain, we will be staying here for the night. We wish someone could organize Bhajans and Kirtans in the temple tonight so that all villagers could render prayers to Lord Shiva without fear or panic. How nice would it be?” I tried my best to hide the fear inside me. No sooner did I finish the request than a strange sparkle dazzled on his face and he exclaimed fervently, “Why not? You seem to be true devotees of the Lord. I’ll get a ‘Narayan Paath’ and ‘Bhajan Keertan’  arranged. But I am at a loss to understand one thing, you seem to be high-class people, how will you keep awake all night?”

“Sain, God is equal in the eyes of everybody. Nobody is big or small in the eyes of God,” Kishore Shah replied.

I placed two hundred rupees in the hands of Kanhaya Lal and requested him to arrange ‘ladoos’ for ‘Prasad’. Soon a wonderful wave of joy spread among the people around us and all their apprehensions about us were removed instantly. Perhaps they got convinced that we too were part of them, had the same flesh and blood in us, and did not in any way belong to those who came to exploit them. Soon the ascetic arranged to send messages to the people of all three hamlets to attend the proposed ‘Bhajan’ and ‘Keertan’ during the night. The whole neighbourhood was suddenly thrown into ecstasy, full of joy and celebration. Thereafter everyone threw their doors wide open to welcome us.

After lunch, we started our work and gradually collected statistical information about all households in the village. Our questions were of routine nature.

How many members are in the family?

What’s the income of the family?

What’s the occupation of men? What is the occupation of women?  How much income is generated through farming? How many tractors are in the village? How many factories have been installed in the village? How much loan has been given by banks and other financial institutions?

How many schools are in the village? What’s the number of primary and secondary schools?

Is there any primary health centre or dispensary in the village? If there is one, are the facilities provided satisfactory or not?

While getting answers to all these questions some interesting facts about the villages were revealed. To mention a few of them may be of interest here. The first interesting fact gathered was that there were only two factories installed in the villages, one for grinding flour and spices and the other for extracting oil. The first was in the name of the son of the village headman and the other in the name of his daughter-in-law. So whatever loans had been disbursed, had gone into the same household of the village headman. The other fact was that the farmers in the village commonly grew sugar cane, wheat and pulses in their fields but as per police reports many youths of the villages indulged in theft and housebreaking. Police also claimed that Bawdis have such skill and mastery in digging holes in the walls to gain entry into the houses at night that even the closest neighbour cannot hear the sound. How true their assertions were, could not be verified.

While collecting data about the village we again reached the door of the same old woman whom we had visited at the first instance. This time we found her waiting eagerly for our visit.

“What’s your name?” I asked her this time too.

“Satyavati,” she replied smilingly.

“The people of the village know her by the name ‘Amma’. Nobody knows her real name.” Kanahya Lal interrupted.

“What a nice name! How many people are there in your family?”

She turned serious on being asked this question. Her smile vanished from her lips. I was unaware that my question had inadvertently hurt her. Her only son had died in police custody a few years before.

“None, I’m alone!” She tried to come out of her grief.

“Alone…….?”

“Yes, quite alone!”

“How do you make your living?”

“What’s there so difficult for a single soul to make both ends meet? I somehow manage to fill my stomach, in case I fail occasionally I sleep without eating. After all how much does a single soul need?!”

“I don't take that. Still, you must be having some source of earnings. You can't live on the air!”

She looked askance at me as if she had been caught for affected demeanour. Her conversation indicated as if she was hiding something. Her lips didn’t seem to endorse her heart and her eyes betrayed them. I looked towards Kanahya Lal with an inquisitive gaze. He smiled and tried to speak in her defence, “Sir, she is alone. She collects some hay, wood, bamboo and Neem Datun from the nearby forest and sells them to earn a few rupees.”

I didn't take him at face value yet had to accept his words. I felt very much concerned for her impoverishment and began thinking, “How mystified it is to see diverse people in this vast world! How she must be passing her days without any earnings?”

With the onset of the dusk surrounding of the temple was filled with hustle and bustle. The people from all three villages began gathering in the compound of the Shiva Temple. Men, women, boys and girls had all assembled there as if it was a village fair. Soon the temple bells set ringing. Recitation of sacred verses of Tulsi Ramayana sanctified the whole atmosphere. Thereafter bhajans and kirtans commenced and the whole surroundings echoed with divine music. Kanhaya Lal had arranged for the necessary musical instruments. A bhajan singer with a melodious voice was available locally in the village. He took charge of the event and soon established himself to take the lead. There was a strange mesmerizing effect in his voice and the whole atmosphere was filled with both joy and sacred ambiance.

Sain looked very happy and contented. He also sang an enchanting bhajan which enthralled the audience. Lots of women also joined the singers in singing which made the air vibrant. The women, especially the young, were dressed in dazzling colourful clothes which presented a wonderful scene. Some amorous girls passed by in front of us purposely to attract our attention.

The atmosphere became so absorbing that nobody noticed the passage of time. The clock announced midnight and Kanahya Lal lifted the plateful of Ladoos in his hands and with the blessings of the Sain placed it before the idol of Shiva. Someone recited sacred mantras and performed the ritual of ‘bhog’. Immediately the surroundings echoed with the celestial 'aarti' -- ‘Om Jai Jagdish Hare --’ which heralded the end of the occasion.

The headman was sitting near us. He told us that our stay for the night had been arranged in his house. The only problem that we had to face was that of mosquitoes. Otherwise, the arrangement was beyond our expectations. The village headman had in truth arranged everything for our convenience. While I lay on the bed the faces of the innocent beautiful village belles that had hovered around us during the puja came alive before me. Selfless, guiltless and innocent belles!!

“These people cannot be criminals!” I thought. “Those who deal in criminal activities have quite different demeanours! These God-fearing people cannot be crooks.” My heart protested hard, “I believe that the stories of their crime are all fabricated.”

After hearing the strange stories of the crime of these tribals I had thought that we won’t be able to wake up in the morning gleefully. But things turned out to be quite different. We had quite a comfortable sleep without any fear of any untoward circumstance except only that we had to hear the humming of mosquitoes all night.”

Early morning, the son of the headman came into our room and after asking forgiveness for disturbing us handed us spouted jugs and further said that while we could wash our face and hands at the water pump, we shall have to go to the jungle for defecation.

“Jungle!”, I exclaimed in great astonishment as I could not see any jungle anywhere around the village as far as my eyes could see.

“Sir, you can go and sit anywhere in the nearby farms among the sugarcane crop.” He quickly went away after saying that.

I picked up the jug, filled it with water at the water pump and walked away towards the fields to find a suitable place to sit down to ease myself but I didn’t gather the courage to sit anywhere. Back home I was habitual to use my bathroom both for defecation and bathing with utmost privacy but here my privacy was seriously profaned. Finding no way out I finally decided to sit at one place in the sugarcane field. A few women were also sitting for the same purpose unmindful of who was sitting around and were desperately trying to avoid each other’s sight. It was perhaps the first time in my life that I had to face such a terrible embarrassment that lasted for several minutes. Anyhow, I relieved myself and returned to the headman’s house. There I took a bath in the open at the water pump and readied myself for the day.

Then we sat on grass mats in the verandah for breakfast. The young and pretty daughter-in-law of the headman served us hot stuffed bread fried on desi ghee called parathas along with cooked veggies and fresh homemade yoghurt. She made several errands from her kitchen to the place where we sat eating fresh parathas served by her. The jingling sound of her anklets and bangles added music to her delicate body movements. For quickness in movement, she had tied one end of her sari around her waist which exposed parts of her shapely legs and feet. While serving us parathas her dazzling eyes and glistening face increased her beauty manifold. While watching it all how I wished I could settle there in the hamlet all the rest of my life.

While eating breakfast I asked the headman casually, “I’ve heard that people distil wine out of molasses in their homes but I have not seen it happening anywhere.” 

The headman gave out a loud laugh and other people there also joined him. “It doesn’t require installing a huge factory that would be visible. Wine is prepared locally in many homes here but out of fear of the administration they hide the equipment.”  

Meanwhile, I expressed my fervent desire to watch the process of distillation and my other associates also endorsed my wish. The village headman, Social Welfare Officer and other people gathered there began to look at each other with inquisitive eagerness. Ultimately the headman reluctantly assented by signalling to Kanhaya Lal.

“Come I will show you”, Kanhaya Lal turned towards us and said. He took us to the same house which we had visited twice the previous day. He struck the door chain a few times and the door opened. Amma was standing before us.

“Amma, these people want to see the process of wine extraction, they are very eager.”

Amma was gravely baffled and looked towards Kanhaya Lal with amazement.

“No need to worry, Amma, they are very nice people. Be assured, no harm will come to you!”

Amma took us, though indifferently, inside a large room. There were so many large pots, utensils and empty bottles for the distillation of liquor. She placed the pots one upon another with great dexterity. Then she poured the molasses into one pot and lighted a fire below at the fireplace. After a while, the vapours turned into drops of wine slowly and collected in a receiving container. The old woman did this all with great skill and without any fear or embarrassment. I was really astonished watching this process of making liquor. I closely watched all her moves while performing her job. Though all my questions had been answered by now yet one more arose. I couldn’t make out how this old woman could manage to send these bottles of wine out to the market for sale.

“Young children are used as couriers for these bottles to the city market for sale.” Kanhaya Lal said as if he had read my mind."

After the presentation was over we asked for permission to leave and started moving towards the house of the village headman. While on my move I looked back towards Amma a few times with reassuring eyes. She, however, continued standing at her half-opened door with a sense of remorse and guilt. She looked at me as if she had lost her son just today.

 

*****