(Should've
never taken this off the blog in the first place. Greed for critical
recognition is not becoming of me, at least till the time I begin to understand
the difference between practice and the real thing)
Can
you smell them already Birju? Ha, my friend?
Brijmohan
sat bolt upright. He looked around the space of his tiny hutment with his heart
beating heavily and the stump of his right arm itching all over. The four boys
sleeping on the ground to his charpoy’s left with coarse blankets covering
their bodies did not stir; nor did his wife who lay besides him on the bed made
of thick jute strips stretched over a wooden frame.
Can
you smell them from this far? Tell me. No need to be shy.
The
iron smith stifled a shuddering cough at the last minute before it could escape
out of him. He put his one good hand over his pounding chest to perhaps hold it
in its place, to perhaps stop his heart from exploding into a thousand pieces
inside. His breath came out cold, intense and the fear of someone awakening
from his voice made him bite down hard on the skin of his bad limb.
I
know you can smell them Birju. You want to know how I know? I can see it on
your face. I can see it in your eyes.
Tears
began flowing down his cheeks and sweat down his brow.
My
brother, don’t be shy, come on. They’re waiting for you.
Quick
march. . . . . . left right left . . . .
‘Stop’
he couldn’t take it anymore.
Come
on. Left right left, left right left. . .
‘Please
stop. PLEASE!!!!!!!!’ he cried into the darkness surrounding him, his hand
still on his hammering chest.
left
right left, left right left, left right left. . .
‘Please.
. . ‘
Nalini
woke up frightened by her husband’s crying and the sight of him sitting upright
with his amputated arm in his mouth made her shift from panic to salvage mode
even before a minute had passed.
This
was the third time in the last five days.
She
sat up beside him, hugging his naked ribs with her sari-clad bosom, holding his
shivering body to hers and rocking back and forth gently.
‘Hush
now,’ she whispered into his ear as her hand moved his bad arm out of his
clamped jaw. ‘It’ll pass. . . I’m here. . . . you hear me. . . . It’ll pass’
In
the flickering light of the nearly dead lantern that hung to their front, she
looked down at his limb. There were reddened teeth marks on the skin and saliva
dripping down the surface. She bit her lip watching them. Her eyes welled up.
‘Hush
now,’ she repeated to the wailing man rocking back and forth beside her,
wondering in her mind how the hand could be causing him trouble after so many
years. Ten minutes passed as the children slept on.
Brijmohan
could hear the marching orders inside his head become distant and fade away as
Nalini egged him on in her soothing voice. ‘It’ll pass. . . . you hear me. . .
. I’m here. . . It’ll pass’
Then
it stopped.
Calming
himself down, he wiped his face with a corner of his dhoti.
She
continued to tend to the bite marks on his bad arm, inhaling air into her mouth
letting it heat inside her ballooned up face and then blowing it slowly over
the mottled spots. He let her do it for a while, feeling the comforting warmth
of her breath easing out the itch in his veins. Then he asked her to go back to
sleep.
‘I’m
alright. Just a bad dream.’
That
was all that he gave as an explanation. Nothing more than what he had given to
her on the two previous occasions. She didn’t force him to reveal more either.
‘You
should sleep,’ he told her but she replied from between low sobs that she
wouldn’t unless he absolutely promised to wake her up the next time this
happened and not chew off what remained of his arm.
‘I
promise.’ He put his palm on her head. ‘Now sleep.’
Brijmohan
sat awake as she lay down on the charpoy again and remained that way until he
could hear her light snores. He got up from the bed as quietly as he could and
slumped onto the floor, next to the sleeping boys. He sat cross-legged facing
the four of them, eyeing one in particular.
He
watched silently as the boy responsible for his misery over the past week slept
on, drooling generously over the cushion.
‘Akash,’
Brijmohan mouthed the name and felt surprised at how much courage saying it out
loud gave to his feeble heart.
Akash,
the boy with zeal pouring out of his eyes and mouth, the boy with curiosity
streaming down his ears and nose. Akash, the boy who had woken up a voice
inside his conscience that he had presumed dead a long time ago, the boy who
was to blame for the itch, the teeth marks and the tears.
‘Akash,’
he repeated again and heard the faint comeback of the marching orders as if
they were responding to his call. He scratched the end of his bad arm with the
fingers on his good one.
May
the drunkard get to drink and drink and drink until he drowses,
May
the carnivore inherit atleast a dozen slaughterhouses!
His
eyes became moist once more and he wiped them off using his dhoti.
* * *
‘Bhagwan
marzi’ (As He wishes) Brijmohan had said to himself that day, standing over the
boy who sat in the rain, in the middle of the tar road with a torn shirt
covering his chest and a worn out half pant drawn over his bottom. They had
taken the tar road that evening as the mud path leading from the marketplace to
their home was completely submerged.
He
had heard the boy’s teeth chattering with the cold even as he ushered him into
the tarpaulin sheet which they held above their heads, telling his sons to let
him squeeze in between them.
The
boy was twelve, almost as old as Bhanot, his second son.
Brijmohan
had brought him home and asked his wife to bathe him, dress him up in warm
clothes and feed him. Nalini, having taken a liking to him from the very first
instance, had obliged without complaint. After all, the poor child was
shivering like a leaf and Nalini was a kind woman at heart.
Akash
had slept for the whole of the next day.
The
rains had worsened and with no safe road now connecting his house to his shop,
the iron smith and his three sons would be staying back until the deluge
subsided.
Then,
with Nalini nursing him to his full strength in just two days time, Akash had
broken free of his illness-induced-silence, so much so that his talkative,
jolly voice made Brijmohan wonder whether this was the same boy he had rescued
from the street.
‘Me?
Going where you ask?’ he had repeated their question while bouncing Munil’s
rubber tyre on the floor with a wooden stick.
‘To
the city of course!’
‘The
city?’ Nalini had sounded worried.
‘Yes
didi. The city’ he bounced the rubber ring higher.
‘What
will you do there?’ Brijmohan had enquired. ‘Do you have relatives who will
take you in?’
‘No
sir. I will be the first in my family to go to the city,’ his tiny nose flaring
with pride as he answered.
‘But
why are you going boy? Do you not like your village?’
‘What
makes you say that? I love my village. I have many friends in my village.’
‘Then
why leave?’
‘No
no sir, you have got it wrong. Of course I will go back.’ his stick now trying
to pierce the rubber surface.
‘Once
I have the money, I will go back.’
‘Money?’
Brijmohan had asked only in time to be interrupted by Munil and Bhanu’s entry
into the discussion; excited, surprised, innocent. . . bouncing off their seats
on the ground as high as the tyre:
Maa
did we hear right. . . . .Maa, Akash is going to the city? Yes
boys, it seems so. Is that true Akash? You’re going to the city? Yes
(nostrils flaring again) Waaah, Akash is so lucky na maa? No
response. Tell us Akash, tell us, tell us how big is the city. . . . .
what will you see there. . . . . what will you do there, tell us, tell us, tell
us. And Akash responding with pomp filled cheeks Oh the city?
Twenty times the size of my village it is my friend told me. Oh the city? A
hundred palaces made of glass touching the sky I will see there my friend told
me. Oh the city? A thousand rupees I will get there and come back to my
village. And Sukesh joining in now with mention of money putting a spark in
his eyes ek hazar rupaiya? Akash, with a swelled up
chest Yes. A thousand rupees or even more. Waah maa? Hazar rupaiya,
Akash is so lucky na maa. Nalini silent. Bouncing clapping Munil What
will you do with all that paisa Akash? What will you do, tell us tell us tell
us. And Bhanot joining in tell us, tell us, tell us. And
Akash with his chest looking as if it will explode with all that smugness Oh
the money? I will pay back what my pa owes my uncle and get my ox back. Waah
maa, Akash is so lucky na maa? Your father has a debt? What does he do? Brijmohan
finally getting to speak amidst the excited cheers. Oh my pa? Used to
be a potato farmer but some days back he hung from a banyan tree and now he is
burnt to ashes like my ma. Nalini’s palm covering her mouth, her
children continuing to bounce and cheer, the last statement failing to even
register in their pumped up heads. His pyre was this high Akash
standing up raising the stick in his hand as tall as possible to
demonstrate, I owe my uncle for the logs. Brijmohan looking
straight into the boy’s face, the smile on those lips unbearable to watch.
Waah
maa, Akash is so lucky na maa?
He
had wanted to ask him nothing more. But Sukesh, the eldest, perhaps with
jealousy tingling in his throat, eager to play the curmudgeon had continued, ‘A
thousand rupees? Who will give you that much money?’
And
Akash, ‘I can’t tell you. It is my secret,’ his response as good as rehearsed.
‘A
secret,’ he had repeated again in a tone that literally begged them to persuade
him into revealing it.
‘What
is the secret Akash, tell us na please. . . tell us tell us tell us’ Munil and
Bhanot obliging even with Sukesh throwing scathing looks at them.
‘Tell
us tell us tell us’
‘Ok
ok, I’ll tell you.’ Akash putting down the stick and the rubber tyre, sitting
on the ground before them, his audience all ears.
‘First
promise that you won’t talk about it with anyone else. Not a word. Do you
promise?’
‘Yes’
them replying, even the one handed iron smith and his wife.
Akash
had cleared his throat and then began to narrate what his friend, a bidi
smoking vagabond named Khan had seen one time when he had gone to the city in
search of work.
‘A
tall glass room with a big black box,’ he had said. ‘You’ll find one at every
corner of every street in the city.’ His hands showed them the size. ‘There
must be a hundred of them in the city, maybe two hundred!‘
‘Hmm.
. . A big black box,’ Sukesh, the first to speak once Akash had finished
revealing his big secret. ‘A box that spits out hundred rupee notes’ he had
smirked sensing victory.
‘No.’
Akash, nostrils flaring again, but with annoyance this time,’ Not just a hundred,
even five hundred and thousand rupee notes.’
‘Hmm.
. . So you just walk into the room and take it?’
‘Yes’
‘I’ve
heard enough’, Sukesh had gotten up and walked away from them, triumphant even
as his kid brothers remained seated, enthralled, their chins supported by their
palms and eyes as round as buttons.
‘Now
remember all of you,’ Akash had pointed a harmless finger at each of them,
‘You’ve
promised not to share this with anyone. Otherwise everybody will start running
to the city and there won’t be enough notes left in the box for me.’
Yes
yes. You can trust us. We promise Munil and Bhanot.
Brijmohan
had looked away from the boy’s face that was now positively glowing with
earnestness.
That
night would be the first of the three of his torment.
* * *
Come
on, don’t be shy, answer me, will you? he could hear
the vehicles whizzing past them as they walked on one side of the highway. The
road pitch black except for the head lights on the vehicles.
He
could hear that sloshed voice above the shrill noise of crickets filling his
ears from the barren land to their right, a brief chortle escaping
from his own mouth.
Answer
you what?
Just
tell me, can you smell them or not?
Ok
I will. First tell me how far we are from there.
More
cheap liquor going down his throat, setting it ablaze anew.
Well
let me see, at this speed, atleast a bloody hour is what its going to take us.
An
hour? He heard himself
exclaiming. And you want to know if I can smell them from here? The
fuck do you take me for? A dog?
Silence.
Come
on tell me Birju. You know you can tell me
anything, right? Can you smell them from here or not.
He
did not respond.
Fine.
Keep it to yourself. Well I fucking can and you know what? I’ve got the balls
to admit it.
Brijmohan
could see himself stopping and turning towards him. He could see that face so
clearly, each detail discrete, every feature almost livid.
So
you’ve got the balls to admit that your nose can smell a whore from a mile
away. Good for you. Admit that to your fucking mother.
He
heard laughter, including his own.
Birju
my friend, you’re so funny. He felt the teasing hug
around his body. He felt the inebriated kiss on his cheek.
Stop
that bahinchod, or I’ll screw you! Pushing him
away.
Well.
. . I mean, in a sick, demented way. But still. . . funny.
He
could hear laughter again. Cheerful, mirth filled voices of two young labourers
sharing a half emptied bottle of country liquor, on their way to the city
brothel, visibly swaying.
Ah
Bhagwan! One whole hour to pass before we greet!
Silence.
Greet
what? He had asked him. Go on. Don’t
leave it hanging there in my brain like that. Finish the fucking rhyme.
A
mouthful of meat and a handful of teat!
He
could hear himself laughing once more amidst the noise of cars passing by and
the crickets crying their hoarse hum as he drank some more and burped.
And
now he could hear something else inside of him as well. He could hear the
mischief of the liquor creeping into his head like scuttle bugs in the night.
He could feel it taking over from him the controls to his spine, the controls
to his will and the controls to his desires.
And
as Akash, his dearest friend, repeated the question again, he could hear
himself heat up and answer with greed: I can smell them alright.
Aha!
What did I say to you. I knew it. You want to know how I knew it? I could see
it on your face. I could see it in your eyes.
And
it was the liquor now that was doing the talking for him, as he felt the
desires inside him grow a hundredfold with another sip from the bottle. He
could hear himself speaking of the fear of not being able to do it, the fear of
not being able to go through with it, this being his first time. My
brother, don’t be shy, come on, Akash, spit dribbling from his
jowl, eyes vacant, they’re waiting for you, holding
Brijmohan’s hand now, quick march. . . left right left . . . Come
on. . . And the craving inside him, ever growing, making him march
along, left right left, left right left. . .the two men taking long
strides on the street to the tune of their own marching orders.
Not
caring that their steps strafing left, were bringing them closer and closer to
the centre of the road. Left right left, left right left. . . Ignorant
of the shouting voices and the honking horns whizzing past them. Left
right left, left right left. . .oblivious of the two bright lights fast
coming their way greeting them with its loud Pammmmmmmm. . .
Left
right left, left right left. . . Left right left, left right left. . . They
had marched together, Brijmohan and Akash, hand in hand, till the very end.
* * *
Brijmohan
continued to watch the sleeping boy from where he sat even as he sensed day
break approaching. The itch in his arm was gone. But tears continued to stream
down his cheeks.
‘I’m
so sorry my dear friend,’ he said in a trembling voice and closed his eyes
allowing that final image of the truck hitting Akash, face first, with its full
force to resurface from deep down where it must have gotten buried with
seventeen years having passed. The impact had squashed his friend into pulp and
flung Brijmohan onto another car coming from the opposite end. The driver had
been quick to brake but it would take his vehicle ten more feet to come to a
halt. Enough time for Brijmohan’s hand that was stuck in the front wheel to get
severed from his body being dragged behind.
He
opened his eyes and wiped them again with cloth.
‘I’m
sorry for that night,’ he said looking at the boy and got up slowly, careful
not to make any more sound.
As
he lay down again on the charpoy besides his wife, for the first time in the
past week he asked himself why this was happening to him now. Was it simply
because of the name that this boy shared with his dear dead friend that these
nightmares had been triggered?
Or
perhaps there was more to it.
Perhaps
it was the fear that had filled his head when he had heard the boy speak of his
impending journey to the city with so much gusto just as the younger and more
ambitious version of himself had spoken about it with Akash nearly two decade
ago; it was the fear that the boy, in so familiar a naivety, was about to
venture into something that he knew absolutely nothing of just like Brijmohan
and his ill-fated friend had; fear that Akash might end up sharing the same
fate that the man who shared his name had met with on that devastating night.
And
as he closed his eyes lying there on his coarse bed, Brijmohan felt that he
knew already everything that was about to happen to the poor child.
With
the rains having stopped, he knew the boy would leave at sunrise despite
Nalini’s pleading and begging him to drop his plans and stay with them instead.
Despite
all the odds stacked against him, he knew the boy would make it to the heart of
the city and find the tall glass room with the big black box in some
corner of a busy street just as Khan, the vagabond had described to him.
He
knew the guard sitting outside the glass room with a uniform on his chest and a
cane in his hand would eye the filthy clothed urchin approaching the door with
scorn and disdain. I want to go in, Akash would tell the
uniformed man I want a thousand rupaiya to which the guard
would snigger his heart out and ask for a card. I don’t have any card.
I want a thousand rupaiya to which the guard would snort mockingly and
tell him to get lost.
But
he knew, the boy would not budge so quickly. And, he knew, the cane would come
down swiftly over his back. Suar ka pilla (you little piglet)
Brijmohan heard so loud and clear now and saw the crying, dejected boy running
away from the glass room and sitting down at the edge of the street near an
open drainage, its foul stench making his wet nostrils flare.
And
he knew, the stink would make its way through his nostrils, into his head and
into his mind corroding it, robbing it of its zeal and sincerity, of its cheer
and joy, conniving against his good nature and replacing these with doubt and
reluctance, with sadness and sinister. The boy would never be the same
again even as he returned empty handed to his own village, to his own friends.
The reek would travel with him everywhere and at all times, reminding him of
his failure, pulling itself over his eyeballs like an opaque blanket that would
make him blind to optimism.
Akash,
the boy whose innocence could melt glaciers, in the end would lead an arduous,
crippled life of pitiless facts and callous truths just like the ironsmith had
been leading for the past seventeen years.
Brijmohan
frowned.
But
wait my friend! the voice that he dreaded so much was
alive in him again. wait and watch. . .
Brijmohan
opened his eyes, turning his head towards Akash who continued to sleep, still
drooling over the cushion, unaware of his future being charted in the one
handed iron smith’s mind. He waited for his vision to re-adjust itself to
the dim light.
And
then he saw it; the glint on those cheeks, the gleam on that face, only
understanding now for what it really was.
Then
all of a sudden he was back at the scene with the crying, dejected boy sitting
at the edge of the street with the open drain pipe spurting its stench onto his
nose. He could see as he had seen before the boy paining from the blow to his
back, cold, hungry, thirsty, the odor slowly eating its way into his mind.
And
he knew now what would really happen next. . . .
The
boy with the glint on his cheeks would look around, curiosity getting the
better of him. He would get up, wiping his tears and his running nose on his
sleeve thus breaking away from the hold of the drainage reek before its chance
to decay his thoughts.
Akash
would look around and find himself in the middle of a hundred glass palaces and
metal streets filled with dazzling lights, brilliant sounds and a thousand
colourfully clad people moving back and forth, resembling the ebb and the flow
of a mighty and horizon-less ocean.
And
he knew that the guard and his cane would be forgotten alongwith the tall glass
room and the big black box that spat out hundred rupee notes.
The
city would enchant him, the city would excite him and like the overpowering
tentacle of a giant octopus the city would swoop down on the boy with the gleam
of destiny on his face, swallowing him up forever.
Brijmohan
slept a dreamless sleep that morning.
* * *
