I still do not know how in this obscure November dawn, I managed to navigate to my house, through the rutted village paths, carrying Amma over my shoulders. The usual thirty minutes walk, today, seemed longer. It was neither darkness nor snakes – I was apprehensive of people catching a glimpse of me bringing Amma home. Usually, people are out on the fields, by this hour, for morning habits. However the crisp November chill has managed to tuck them tight under blankets.
I am seeing Bapu almost after a month and he is yet to see me, as he is fast asleep on the veranda with his rug half covering his body. I do not know what he does these days except that he drinks - morning, evening, night and then the cycle repeats. I moved his legs away, which were blocking the front door, to be able to take Amma inside.
Shamli would never step into this crumbling house. And this thought has clouded my mind for days. All I want, is to get away to a better place with Shamli – far from this wretched village, from Shamli's father Shambhunath and my C#$%@& Raju self. No matter what, I know a simple fact - I will now keep both my identities - C#$%@& Raju and Chengra Raju.
The immediacy of hiding the revolver in a safe place, promptly suspended my thoughts on discarding identities. Raju can survive even without any identity, without Singh sir and this village. Maybe Bapu and this house with Maa's smell matters to me. I can still smell her here. I return from the railway crossing only to fill my lungs with Maa’s smell. Can Bapu also smell her? I have never asked. We have hardly spoken in the last few years.
Should I keep this revolver inside the chullah Maa made but never used? She always cooked outside, even in the acme of winter. No, I will return this revolver tomorrow. But isn’t tomorrow, today already? I should have just shot Singh sir and thrown away this damned revolver in the jungle or left it on the rail track for next train to crush it beyond recognition.
I sat down next to Amma, with the revolver by my side. Amma in her sleep resembles a crouched child. We do not have a proper bed in this house and the floor is too cold. I could only find a tattered bedding wrapped in a sheet for her. It is still better than the culvert and her sparsely jute coat, which someone must have stitched by putting a few jute bags together. May God bless that soul.
What should I do now? Should I prepare some food for Bapu and Amma? What would I tell Bapu when he wakes up? As these thoughts juggle in my head, my hand starts to fiddle with the revolver again. They say this is a service revolver. Dwivedi havildar once said that Singh sir has few more like this. But those are not service revolvers! He blurted wearing his trademark ugly ear-to-ear grin as I was cleaning this revolver the other day. Singh sir taught me how to take care of it. Is it fully loaded? I feel the urge to unlock it. I hesitantly pick it up just to put it down again. My mind wanders back to what to tell Bapu when he wakes up.
I searched everywhere. There is nothing in the house. Bapu has stopped cooking since long, and all my meals come as Singh tax from the shop owners at the railway crossing. From dawn to midnight, the crossing is crowded, engulfed in a swarm of dust and noise. I sometimes wonder whether all railway crossings are so dusty. But I can only wonder, as I never left this village except the one time I visited Singh sir’s house in Rampur.
The half-made concrete slab that juts out vulgarly at the crossing somehow gets a relief by the green paddy fields flanking it. The irrigation canal, right next to the crossing, helps to keep the farmland green for most of the year. I wish my father still had that little piece of land. He sold everything except this little hut and me? He would have done that too if both were not made by Maa. No doubt he loved Maa, maybe he still does.
The culvert on the canal has been my hangout since childhood. This is where I have spent several hours of slumber. But now I hardly get the time to rest. Maybe because I am smarter than other children who sell garlands or peanuts hot from sand filled frying pans. Otherwise, why would Singh sir choose me? Dwivedi and Yadav havildar did not like the idea when Singh sir wanted me to be his Chengra. But it hardly matters as at the end of the day they can only scratch their balls and glare at me with their crooked eyes. Even almost a year after I became a Chengra, I strongly sense their discontent.
Yes, I used to sell much more than my friends, negotiate a better price from the owners of makeshift shops. Most of the shop owners knew me as a child as they are from my village or near about. They initially resisted C#$%@& Raju earning a living, but soon things turned, as I became the Chengra Raju of this crossing. Their disdain to C#$%@& Raju is no longer there, or maybe my attention has shifted from them to Dwivedi and Yadav. I do not have to even look at the shopkeepers to ask for the money. They just push the amount into my pocket. I do not even need to count as it is Yadav havildar’s job. For him too it is very simple – he knows the average. He just has to multiply it with the number of shops.
I have a designated pocket for this collection. The other pocket is for Singh tax from truck drivers. Singh sir once told me that this collection would be Chengra Raju tax soon. He will not take any cut, nor would Dwivedi and Yadav. But he was too drunk that night, and I am sceptical whether these two cunt eyes will ever let me have the exclusive right to Singh tax.
The crossing always had a few homeless people loitering around – some of them would beg, a few others would be reclusive but nonetheless all of them would be half clad, with their skin bearing thick layers of unwashed dirt. Often they would be kicked and shoved around by the rowdy children or Dwivedi and Yadav. I never understood what joy they derived out of such acts. For that matter, everything is funny to these children. They even laugh when the impatient car drivers almost run them over as the railway gate staggers open after a nagging halt. But these mendicants remain calm irrespective of the degree of chaos at the crossing. I have failed to understand where they emerge from and where the disappear eventually.
Amma was no different. Or rather, she was a bit different - at least to me. She hardly spoke. I think she only spoke to me. Though I never understood what she exactly said when I brought her food or a fresh marigold. But I could sense the change of expression in her eyes and her lips curving in to a smile - as kind as the first drops of monsoon, ending a scorching summer. Many called her “budhiya” but she was Amma for me. Dwivedi even ridiculed me when I referred to her as Amma for the first time. I did not bother to give him an explanation.
Amma came here, about three weeks ago, in one unusually cold October evening. For these three weeks, she did not move much apart from shifting around the culvert. At times she would try stretching her legs on the ground while resting her back on the cemented slab, to find a comfortable position. Maa would probably have been of the same age if she was alive.
Maa always used to put a marigold in her hair, but not in summer. In summer she used to be irritated with her long thick hair. I was looking at the marigold in Amma’s hair when Bapu came in. Singh sir dragged her through the paddy field and then into the jungle; I carried her in my arms through the bumpy village roads, still the flower remained.
I am waiting for Bapu to say something. I will not look at him till he says something. I am sure he is still there at the door. Maybe waiting for me to say something. He might have seen Amma at the crossing before. He does not utter a word for the next few minutes. I get impatient. The revolver is still lying on the floor, naked. He comes in and sits beside me. – “What about Shamli?” He asks. I get a bit taken aback as I expected him to ask about Amma or the revolver.
What about Shamli? I always thought that my promotion to the post of Chengra of railway crossing would efface my C#$%@& identity. But it never happens that way. Could there be any more explanation?
Class six, and both Shamli and I quit school – for very different reasons yet we gravitated to the same seismic direction. She left to help full time in her father’s shop near the railway crossing and I left, not being able to cope up with the cold waves of that cruel winter, which changed the course of my life forever.
Many old people died in my village that winter. In fact, every day someone was dying. But Maa was not that old. After cooking outside, she asked me to help her serve. I was rather reluctant to leave the warmth of the blanket. When Bapu returned she was seated near the door, clutching it tightly. Bapu thought she was asleep and tried to wake her up. Her hand fell on the floor, limply.
Shamli had cried for days when Shambhunath told her that she could no longer go to school. Shamli’s mother died almost immediately after her birth. We never talked in school. Leave alone Shamli, I did not speak to any girl. I came to know about her mother and how she cried on being told to leave school, only last year, when for the first time we met outside her father’s shop.
I have never stopped thinking about Shamli, not for a single moment, not even during Maa’s funeral. Not when I stopped going to school or when Bapu started drinking and I kept waiting for him, alone at home. More than a year went by like that. I did not have any friends. Not a single one in my village or school, not even at the crossing. I am the Chengra, Chengra Raju care of Singh sir.
We are the only C#$%@& family in the village. I knew how to keep physical distance with other children during everyday activity in school. No one told me anything, not even the teachers. But I knew it for a fact that, my keeping a distance was not discouraged by anyone. Not even Shamli. I doubt whether she even knew my name. Despite this deep awareness about my C#$%@& being, I was unable to cease my thoughts about Shamli, wanting her, longing to see her smile or that peculiar urge to hold her hand. I was so overwhelmed that it never occurred that Shamli is a dangerous daydream that I should avoid.
Visiting Shambhunath’s shop seemed better than staying at home and waiting for Bapu. Nothing was permanent about that shop except Shamli and Shambhunath. Half raised mud walls, supported by bamboo sticks and a black polyethylene sheet sparsely covering the sky above. Inside there were three rows of bamboo benches. Singh sir’s post was a few yards away from the railway crossing and Shambhunath’s shop was located right in the middle of the two.
What would I ask? Should I go inside? But for what? The pakodas and samosas are tempting, but I do not have a single penny. I stood there for hours ignoring the infrequent but unwelcoming stares of Shambhunath. I start trotting towards the railway crossing. Children were selling, laughing, fighting and shop owners were busy with their usual chores.
“I also want to sell.” - I told a flower shop owner. He did not respond. I repeated – “I also want to sell”. He looked at me, and without uttering a word handed me one marigold garland. “Give me at least three”, I retorted. “Sell this first” was his stern impersonal reply. I stood up and approached the nearest vehicle. The driver promptly pointed to a freshly bought garland around Shivji, seated on dashboard. The railway gate was closed, and there was a long haphazard queue of all sorts of vehicles. One train passed by, then another. The gate was still closed, the drivers were getting irritated. They were waving their hands to all of us selling things as if they were driving flies away.
The third train was passing. I had very little time. The gate would open any moment. I climbed on to a truck, almost hanging on the driver’s door. He looked at me. His eyes clearly expressed he did not want any garland. It might not have been more than fifteen seconds that we looked at each other, but it seemed like ages. He then pushed a note in my pocket with his left hand started the engine of his truck.
That was my first sell, no, first income without selling anything. The truck driver did not take the garland. I came back to the shop and handed the five-rupee note to the owner. He had a strange expression and gave me three more garlands. So now I had four, which I managed to sell by evening. From a total of thirty, I got ten rupees as my income.
I spent some time looking at Shamli’s shop before deciding to return home. Bapu was angry to not see me around when returned. I did not cry, nor did I resist his beating. I did not tell him that I have got a job, I have started earning. I had dream that night. I was driving a car, with Shamli next to me. I was cherishing the sparkle in her eyes. It was probably Lucknow. I have never been there, but it did feel like Lucknow. No one in Lucknow knows C#$%@& Raju.
“Where are you going?” - I did not respond to Bapu. I got ready even before he woke up and I was just waiting for him to see that I am going. I had made up my mind to earn double that day. I must save for Lucknow, if not Lucknow it could be anywhere, where I could be Raju - not C#$%@& Raju.
I was inside Shambhunath’s shop by the third day. Quietly I sat on one of the three bamboo benches and waited. “What do you want?” - It was Shamli. She asked me while attending other customers. The sleeves and legs of her Salwar Kameez were folded, for her convenience. She was shifting quickly between Shambhunath’s oven to customers. She came back to me and repeated the same question, this time with a tinge of irritation – “There are other customers waiting. Tell me if you want to eat something.”
I pointed at the samosas and gestured that I need two. I was observing her walk, talk and occasionally smile. She was taking time. But it was okay as eating samosas was not my priority. I could wait. She arranged two samosas on a plate with green chutney. Right then Shambhunath mumbled something to her, and Shamli came back to me but without the plate. “Do you have money? A plate costs ten rupees.” - She asked. I nodded and flashed a ten-rupee note. Her face was expressionless. She returned with the samosas, but on a piece of newspaper. I was used to such treatment. I knew it was not Shamli but Shabhunath. There are so many customers in his shop. He did not know them, their lineage. But he knew me. How could he betray his lineage? I folded the samosas in the piece of paper and walked out. Our eyes measured each other as Shamli took the money from me.
“What did she think when she looked straight at me?” - I pondered that night but could not find an answer. I was again at her shop the next day. The same treatment continued except today Shamli asked a few more questions, like why did not I try the pakoras instead. This went on in the same manner and sequence till I was designated Singh Sir’s Chengra.
Singh sir spotted me within two weeks of my peanut and flower vending at the crossing. By that time all shop owners were giving me things to sell. I was the fastest and the smartest seller - envied, loved, teased by children and harassed by the ones older than me. It was Yadav havildar who tapped on my shoulder as I was waiting for the rail gate to close, with a plateful of coconut pieces. He told me to meet Singh sir at the post. I was not scared. I knew all of them, Singh sir, Dwivedi and Yadav havildar. Everyone at this crossing knew them.
Casually, I walked up to the post. Sitting on a plastic chair Singh sir was checking a register. “Anything wrong sir? Please let me go back quickly. I have to sell these coconuts before noon, I have promised Prasad fulwala that I would sell all his flowers this afternoon.” I uttered all this in a single breath, but he did not respond. He continued flipping through the register. I had no idea what to say next. I cannot go back to the crossing before I was permitted to do so. I tried to grasp the situation from the expressions of Yadav and Dwivedi. They both were wearing mischievous smiles coupled with cruelty and their customary cuntness. How could both of them always express in the same manner? How could they have the same horizontal slits in their eyes? These two must be twins, separated at birth and by the evil conspiracy, reunited on job.
Finally, Singh sir looked up, closed his register and placed it on the floor. “Listen carefully, son” - He paused for a moment and glanced at Yadav and Dwivedi before turning his gaze to me. “You have a job son, a very good job with lots of responsibility and respect. Listen to me carefully.” - He was speaking slowly, stressing on every word he uttered, and in retrospect, I think those words were meant for Yadav and Dwivedi too. “I know you are a very smart boy, but how long will you continue selling peanuts, flowers and these coconuts?” - Singh sir continued, with both legs spread forward and hands folded behind his head. “Be a Chengra for me, for us. Collect money from the trucks, we will train you, protect you, you will be the king of the crossing, and as for the shop owners – I will tell you how much to collect from everyone.” - Singh sir paused, unclutched his palms from behind his head and stood up, thrusting his hands into his pant pockets. “Think about it.” - He continued. “Every evening you will come back here, deposit the amount you collected to Yadav or Dwivedi, take your cut and go home, Shamli will be yours within next six months.”
I was speechless. He knew everything; he cared for my love, my impossible love. For a moment I wanted to hug him but I did not. I came back to the crossing and left the coconut plate at the shop owner’s. He was saying something, which I did not reach my ears. I was walking back home, in a trance, thinking about what to cook for Bapu, something nice, something that he would appreciate, something to bring back Maa during our dinner.
Yesterday, it was not even dark when Singh sir called me to his temporary post. Dwivedi and Yadav were already there, arranging things on the floor; glasses, dry fruits, water. There were three whiskey bottles. They were planning a party. “Why do you look so stumped? Sister fucker its sir’s birthday, he was looking for you.” Singh sir wasn’t there and Dwivedi never missed such an opportunity hurl abuses at me. I did not react. Normally, I don’t. It was one of those moments where C#$%@& Raju came back to haunt Chengra Raju – as a bitter reminder of reality.
Singh sir walked in and flopped down on the plastic chair. He started the usual ritual of thumping whiskey bottle softly with his palm. He was ready for a long drinking session. I was calculating my collections for the day. In fact, I was deducting the earning I missed due to this birthday celebration. The frequency of celebrations has increased over the last few months. It must have been over three months since Singh sir visited his home in Rampur. He looked up only after pouring his first neat peg. “Ask Shamli to make a special plate of Pakoda.”He did not look at me while saying this; rather he was gesturing at Dwivedi and Yadav to sit near his feet to pour them drinks.
A gush of hot blood shot up to my head. This has been happening for some time - Singh sir’s special interest in Shamli. I noticed this first when the four of us went to her shop just before Dussehra. Shamli was wearing a lovely new Kameez, bright yellow with red floral prints strewn all over. Singh sir eyes were glued to her neckline as she bent forward to serve Samosas. Suddenly he grabbed her left hand and asked for more Chutney. He did not even look at her face; his eyes were fixed, cold, at the warm protruding flesh. I left at once. I did not look back, did not hear when Yadav was calling out, loudly.
That day a seed of vile feeling about Singh Sir got planted inside me. Soon it spread its roots deeper, when I started hearing about his frequent visits to Shamli’s shop. Why would Shamli make anything special for him? “Shambhunath makes the Samosas.” - I did not have to gather any courage to say this to him. I knew what I was hinting at. I knew I could lose everything I earned instantly, my dreams, Shamli, car, Lucknow.
“Don’t teach me.” - His answer was cold. He paused for a moment before unleashing his tongue off his usual control, which I have observed since the beginning of my Chengra days. “Saala C#$%@&! Go and ask your Shamli to make special Pakoras for me. Tell her it’s my birthday today. Also I will be happy if she comes here to wish me.”
I knew what I had to do. I brought Samosas and ample green chutney for them. I spat on the chutney and mixed it well. I wanted to see Dwivedi relishing it. As for Singh sir, I was no longer his Chengra. I watched them for few minutes savoring the samosas and chutney. Then waited outside near the makeshift post. I had to think through a plan for Singh sir. Dwivedi savouring my spit did no longer induce any pleasure in me. I had to think of something big, something to compensate my loss of dreams.
I did not know when I had slept off. Loud grumblings from inside woke me up. The floor inside was a mess. Both Dwivedi and Yadav had passed out on the floor, Singh sir was trying to wake them up by wielding his belt. All I could understand from his inebriated grumblings was that he wanted to go to Shamli’s shop. “She did not come. Why did she not?” His futile complaints had no effect on them.
“When did she come?” - Bapu was trying to make sense of what happened. He was not asking me; he was talking to himself, sitting beside me, clasping his knees tightly. Then he got up slowly and went outside hesitantly. He came back within few minutes; this time ina more deft manner. He was holding an earthen pot and was searching for a piece of cloth. He rummaged near the bamboo hanger, where Maa kept her clothes. There were only three or four worn-out pieces, which still gave me and Bapu company, with her smell.
Bapu finally found a green blouse. He sat near the feet of Amma and started soaking it with water from the pot to clean her toes, then her legs. She was still asleep, motionless. Is she dead? Is it due to cold, or the animalistic aggression of Singh sir? She should not die. She could live with us, happily. I would find another job; I could even go back to selling flowers.
I should have followed Singh sir when he went out, wielding his belt. I should have stopped him but I did not. At that moment I had nothing to do with Singh sir, Shamli, my dreams, Lucknow. I did not have an alternate plan, so I slept instead. I was somehow convinced that I would have a plan soon enough.
On waking up, I aimlessly trotted towards the crossing. Deep dark surroundings of the shop indicated that Shamli had gone back to her home. But could my alternate plan be without Shamli? No, She must be there! I would do whatever to make sure she is there. What if she is late, still washing dishes, arranging things for next day. What if Shambhunath left for home and Shamli was alone. No, the shop was closed indeed. Two dogs were playing with leftovers strewn outside the shop. I wanted to return home and go back to sleep. I have never felt so tired - as if my whole being was burdened with incessant, intermingling thoughts.
Amma was not in her usual place on the culvert; just her jute coat was dangling there. Where was she at this hour of the chilly night? I do not even know when I picked her coat and walked down to the paddy field, paving through mud and sat down under a big mango tree near the edge of jungle. A part of me wanted to reflect on what I was doing, another wanted me to cease thinking and go home. I did neither. Clutching Amma’s coat near my chest, I started walking, aimlessly, but not towards home, towards the jungle.
The noise I heard, after walking a bit further, was coming from my left, maybe from the edge of the paddy field. In less than a minute I found myself standing two meters away from Singh sir and Amma. Amma was lying on the ground, trying to say something with her usual hand gesture, as if trying to get rid of invisible flies. She was strip naked, so was Singh sir. He was still grumbling, and again, the only word coming out of his mouth that I could comprehend, was Shamli.
I found his pants touching my muddy feet. He was already on his knees. The first thing I searched for in the pants was his revolver. It was right there and it was loaded. Thank you, sir, for those good old days and your trainings.
When I pushed Singh sir from above her, Amma was no longer conscious. Blood from his head made Amma slippery. It took substantial effort to wrap her up with her jute coat. An invisible force drove me as I started walking towards home with Amma on my shoulder - not forgetting to pick up the revolver before leaving.
I think it is about time that I get some sleep. Bapu is taking care of Amma. He is cleaning her forehead now. It seems Amma has opened her eyes. Stay here Amma. Stay with us. I will bring new saris for you and a warm blanket. Shamli will not mind if I spend some for you from the saving. She is a good girl. Let me sleep for some time now but stay with us, please.