The Benefit Season Read online

  I move on to find the TC, for I too like the god man have no reservation, having caught the first train out to Sitapur. I find the TC sitting on his bunk next to the coach attendants, next to the toilets. Once I slip him a crispy thousand-rupee note, he vacates his berth for me.

  The smell wakes me up better than any alarm clock at 6 AM sharp the next day, as soon as the passengers start using the toilets. I spread my yoga mat next to the door, shut my mind and in spite of the stink, do a thousand each of my crunches, sit-ups, and push-ups, and am ready to go. I tip an attendant 50 bucks to hold a toilet for me and clean it before I go in. I wash myself with a small enamel mug tied with a short, thick steel chain to a rusty pipe running near the floor of the toilet, by squatting on the floor and contracting my vast frame into a fetal position. In the hard water of the train, there is no joy in the soap. It lies like a dry, lifeless pebble in my hand. The shampoo lacks spirit and the water any coolness.

  I slip on a clean white kurta pajama and go back to my bunk, feeling like fresh, fragrant laundry hung out to dry. I call the coach boy and order three non-veg and three veg breakfasts with six pots of sugary milk. He looks flustered and is about to ask me where the remaining five people are; but one wink from me and he is lit up in understanding.

  I get an SMS from Monal that a cab and a certain local person shall receive me at the station. Must be some local strongman, I figure, though at the moment I feel quite up to it all by myself. During the course of my previously following Aarti mindlessly everywhere, I had joined her Jujitsu classes just to bask in her glow. The day has come when I shall know whether my black belt is of any use at all. And hopefully if I handle it well, there would be no need to crack the knuckles and clench the fists.

  The train seems to be closing in on my destination as per the boy who clears away my plates and pots- plenteous testimonies to my fitness for the test at hand.

  Sitapur is a holy land- part of the Hindu Paanchdham, i.e. one of the five essential pilgrim places. The Puranas- ancient Vedic scriptures, were written at this place, and Maharishi Dadhichi is said to have donated his bones for making Vajras- ritual weapons combining the indestructability of diamond and irresistibility of the thunderbolt; no doubt deployed effectively to punch holes in the egos of errant Rakshasas- our very own backyard unrighteous spirits.

  The monotony of the featureless Indian plains is preserved, and a number of natural ponds and reservoirs dot the bleak landscape. Five rivers irrigate the land to no avail, their floodplains lined with sandy stretches called Burrs by the locals. The fields are barren and the veins of field channels carrying trickles of water run stark and muddy. The land of Sufis, Seers and Dalits wears a desolate look, long abandoned in the race for progress and upliftment. People hang from trees to keep cool here.

  As the train chugs into the station the boy collects my bag and leans by the open door that brings in the stink of the dry air outside. As I get down two spindly women with six packs, in bare feet, bright saris and white blouses; standing next to a frail man with several day’s stubble and worn sandals; greet me shyly with folded hands. The man stoops down and touches my feet. One of the skinny women hauls my bag easily above her head, and balancing it expertly, makes off. I raise a hand in protest but she’s already out of sight.

  We walk to the deserted concrete parking lot where a shiny white taxi awaits us. We roll down the windows as the AC doesn’t work, and set off for the lands of the ancestors of Mukut Chand. I steal a sideways look at the strongman Monal has sent me; a loose bag of bones, and wonder what help this lady can possibly be to me.

  ‘I am the judge’, she says, in unmistakable Bhojpuri dialect, ‘judge of the women’s court. She too is a judge’. She points to the other shriveled, flat-chested woman sitting cross-legged on the front seat.

  ‘Ah’, I say, and nod my head, not understanding anything.

  ‘Pappu Pandey is a cruel man. He has an army of several men’, she says.’ The SDM had received a call from the newspaper office at Lucknow regarding your visit. We know everything. He has sent us to help you’. She grins and spits betel juice out of the car. Most of it splatters against the sides.

  ‘Now that I’ve got you two, I have nothing to be afraid of’.

  ‘Yeah, you’ll see’, she says confidently.

  I call Monal and tell her I’ve received my backup. ‘It’s reassuring’, I tell her. She laughs and says, ’ yeah, you’ll see’. We discuss some plans and I sign off. I had started trusted Monal blindly, but now I’m not too sure. I fail to see what these women can swing that I cannot on my own, without the additional burden of two gaunt, rattling skeletons.

  My entry into the dusty village is heralded by a ramshackle mob of bare bodied little urchins, some running at the nose, some running black cycle tires ahead of them with little wooden sticks, and some running with little, brightly painted wooden trucks tied to thick white strings, tossing and banging behind them on the rutted earthen track. The mob is chased by semi-dressed little girls with matted locks, clinging to their rough woolly dolls, screaming and shouting for no apparent reason other than to celebrate the arrival of a rare stranger in their midst. The local curs join the fun by barking at everything in sight, but soon loose interest in the merry procession as a more interesting diversion occurs in the form of dogs from across the fields rushing in to see what’s up. Women sipping at their hookahs in the shade watch us through little slits in their crinkled faces; while bullocks tied to the stumps of their charpoys raise a sleepy eye, and return to their more important business of chewing cud.

  We arrive at what seems to be the center of the universe where a couple of men lounge on jute charpoys and discuss the weather while sipping at their hookahs and drinking sugarcane juice served up fresh by a boy in a frayed dirty white vest turning a hand-driven sugarcane crusher. Close by is a hand-pump with a small, cemented enclosure where a couple of young, dark, pretty, giggly girls are washing utensils and clothes. They pause in their chores to give me a good look-see, and whisper and laugh rowdily till a man in starched whites in the center of the universe barks a command that has them tittering and returning to the dirty laundry and the brass and copper vessels before they return to sneaking lewd, sideways glances again at me.

  The two ladies raise their hands in Namaste and speak in the native tongue to Pappu, a tall, wide man with handlebar moustaches, and bushy eyebrows perched atop kohled eyes. In his spare time I believe, he must be pulling tanks with his eyebrows. He nods at them to sit down and moves his eyes languorously in my direction.

  ‘Speak’, he says. The two men carrying single-shot .303 rifles take up positions behind him and start nursing with a longing the ammunition belts slung across their shoulders.

  ‘I am here to bring Chand’s family back with me’; I hold his gaze and reply.

  He stares unbelievingly at me before his face cracks into a big leer. Then he laughs, loudly, like a lion in his lair. It’s a sign for his men to lapse into boisterous hilarity as well.

  Out of courtesy I join them too, laughing the loudest. That brings their mirth to a skidding halt.

  ‘I have these two men carrying guns. And many more, that await but a nod from me. Do you, city boy, run faster than a bullet? Can your neck, city boy, defy the sharp edge of our swords?‘

  ‘No it can’t. But this, that I bring from the city, can.’ I hand over with ceremony a brown envelope.

  Pappu takes it in a huff and passes it on to his munshi- the accountant- a small man in round glasses, standing half-hidden behind him. The munshi opens the envelope and whispers in Pappu’s ears.

  ‘Pappu smiles; ‘ So is this a joke?’

  ‘No it’s a blank check, and a pretty serious one too. Fill in your price, for the freedom of the family’.

  ‘So you think you can sneak out of here with my people with this piece of paper? We may not be PhDs here but we are no fools either.’ There is loud laughter all around again.

  ‘It’s not paper- it’s money’.
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  ‘And it has wings and it will take flight as soon as you make it to the edge of that green field yonder’.

  ‘What if the check bounces? What if there is no money in your account? What if you put a stop payment on it?’ The munshi waxes poetically, his little speech music to his ears.

  ‘Naa. I will stay back till the check cashes’.

  That sends the men into a huddle again.

  The judge next to me decides to make herself useful. She blabbers in a high-pitched tone, obviously upsetting Pappu, for his two guards grab her spindly arms, and carrying her still cross-legged across the courtyard, dump her in the middle of the washing enclosure, right on top of the heap of utensils and dirty clothes. She is still squatted in the same position, gawking, as they walk back smirking. A pall of silence descends upon the village. Folks have begun to gather closer around us, and men with guns show up on the rooftops surrounding the central courtyard of the village where we are sitting. Pappu twirls his moustache and swigging from his brass glass, smirks at me. The other judge, shocked initially at the treatment given to her colleague, rises and begins to scream at Pappu, and entreats the village folk to unite against this outrage. The men listen with bowed heads, while the women hide their faces in their pallus. They feel bad, but do not have the courage to step forward and speak up against the all-powerful oppressor. The guards move towards the shouting judge, but I quickly rise and plant myself between them and the small woman. I have seen enough. And enough is enough. The men look back at their boss, and on a sign from him; begin to slip their guns off their shoulders. Before they can blink, my elbow is in one neck and a kick is in the other chin. A leg wheel from behind for the first man, and a head and neck throw for the second, has them quickly biting the dust. Pappu shouts at them to get up but they are done for the day. He spits venom but does not venture anywhere close to me. He barks at the munshi to call up reinforcements. And a little while later, horns blaring and guns roaring, they announce their arrival.

  When I had started, in my naivety, I had hoped it would be a simple matter of commerce, a happy exchange in which I would wave a blank check under the nose of a shrewd merchant, and walk away with a grateful Chand family in tow. But things are not turning out the way I had planned they would. I have no Plan B, and Plan A seems to be as good as washed-up. I wonder how I’m going to stand up to carloads of strong arms, bare handed. At close quarters, jujitsu has its fair share of admirers, but when facing the wrong end of a double barrel of a shotgun from 100 meters, there are few takers. If something happened to me today, and I fail to see why not, my mom would rue the day she did not let her only child join the family trade of soldiering because she was afraid of him being wasted on the battlefield, and leaving her all alone in this world. Had she known her son would throw anonymously away his life at the hands of uncouth village mutts, she would have chosen posthumous martyrdom for him over a badly executed barter any day. I do not think the man believes in taking hostages, and certainly, seeing the shamefully bowed heads of the menfolk, I don’t expect there to be any witnesses either.

  But the judge seems to be in no mood to reign in her sharp tongue and she continues to breath fire into the curdled veins of the folks. The ladies have gathered around the woman immersed under the hand pump, and are helping her out. More and more men are gathering on the rooftops, brandishing their firearms a little more aggressively now, as the frail woman judge rallies them round, alluding to their manhood as well as to their impotence in equal measure.

  The strong arms have reached the edge of the courtyard, but the women close in a human circle, preventing their entry. The men raise their guns and begin to fire in the air, but the ladies only become more determined to keep them at bay. The men on the rooftops also respond by firing shots, and an uneasy détente prevails. Some of them turn their guns on Pappu, and it seems they would be happy to put Pappu away at one signal from me, or the two judges. He now stands cowering behind the small munshi; still showering expletives on folks he’s been treating like scum all his life.

  The wet judge, now sufficiently composed, strides across to Pappu and delivers a tight slap across the face with a bony backhand. He clutches his jaw and his shattered ego with his palm and gapes in shock. She motions him to sit. Then grabbing my hand, she pulls me down to the charpoy and settles next to me.

  ‘Are we ready to talk now?’ she says to Pappu. He nods. ‘Then talk to the city babu’.

  ‘Name a fair price. I am not leaving without them today or any other day’.

  Pappu consults his munshi and then the latter clears his throat, asking to address me.

  ‘Can we fill in any amount that we want’?

  ‘Any amount that is fair and reasonable’.

  They rub noses again. ‘Will you pay us 25 Lacs?’

  ‘Yes’.

  They are surprised. ‘What is the guarantee that this check is good?’

  ‘We will all go to Lucknow right away, you, the family and I. The check will be presented in our bank and within an hour the amount will be credited to your account. Meanwhile the family will be allowed to enter the airport. When you have the money you will walk away and not look back, ever. And no guns’!

  Pappu smacks his lips and says, ‘what if I kill you after I’ve collected the amount?’

  ‘Do you believe that the people who can send you a blank check, cannot sign another blank check, to avenge their man? And of what use is my life to you? I’m never coming back to make you feel small. In a while these people will forget what happened here, and life will go back to where it was ‘.

  ‘After this day; I doubt’, he smiles ruefully. ‘But who can defy the SDM sahib’s diktat! You will want the papers to their house also I believe’.

  ‘Every little scrap that you have’.

  He motions to the munshi who rushes off to fetch the paperwork. The Chand family, some five or six of them are gathered around, unable to orientate themselves to what is going on. The judge reassures them and asks them to collect their belongings and lock up the house. I ask the judge to carry out a headcount and make sure every one of them is present. She walks away with the Chand children to help them wind up. The munshi brings up a sheaf of papers. I ask Mrs. Chand to go over them carefully to make sure everything is in order. After she is satisfied, I shove them in my bag, and a few minutes later, we are off to Lucknow. The judges are to remain behind to oversee that peace prevails. Pappu’s men have been disarmed by the village men, and locked up in a barn, not to be let out till the following morning.

  I turn to say goodbye to the two judges, unread but spirited ladies, driven by passion for justice and liberty for the poor village folks. They have no statutory authority, but enjoy the unwavering faith of the people and the administration that allows them to run a parallel system of homegrown justice to save people time, cost, and lengthy litigations. I now understand why the SDM chose to send them rather than revenue officials or policemen. He wanted a revolution to take place in that dusty back of the beyond village, with a little help from a total stranger who would not cow down to age old customs, traditions and beliefs that ensured perpetuity of feudalism and exploitation. He wanted to help the villagers to help themselves rather than rely on the crutches of the official bureaucracy that would never reach in time, or in the right strength. He had ignited a spark in the embers; and that, with a little help from god, would be enough.

  ‘I cannot begin to thank you enough. I bow to your spirit.’ I greet the judges.

  They laugh like silly girls, their faces lit up like the free flowing sugarcane stalks with the sun’s rays on them.

  With the Chand family in tow, we head out to Lucknow to finish the business, and hopefully take the first flight out to Mumbai.

  ϖ

  There is no further adventure till we all reach home, except that it becomes pretty hard for the aircraft crew to convince the Chand family belles to sit rather than squat cross legged on their seats. For someone who has pitched, rolled and yawed o
n the rutted tracks of our villages on creaky wood and iron wheeled bullock carts with no springs or suspensions, they obviously show scant regard for the formalities of something as mundane as seat belts. Throughout the way they scream with delight and amazement at the fluffy plumes, or the azure skies, or the turning wings, and poke a finger into every little button and crevice around them, to the great amusement as well as the greater annoyance of all concerned. I dread that they might ask to use the toilet, for I am sure they’ll squat in that narrow space as well. But I worry unnecessarily, for they are great at holding their bladders, not having remembered to empty them in the excitement of looking over their shoulders to see if the lusty Pappu was still chasing them. Once we land however they clamber down the rickety stairs and rush to the nearest parked aircraft and relieve themselves behind its wheels, in full public view. A just disembarked cliché party of Japs passing nearby in an airport bus trample over each other, disavowing their courtesies, to click the famed Indian buttock answering the call of nature bang on our international airport. Now they have already seen everything, and their life is made and money well spent. I wonder how many likes these posts are going to get- must break some records I am sure.