Prologue:

The chugging train seemed to carry much more than the load of the attached bogeys, the deep moaning memories of the on-board passengers continued to fill the vacuum of the night – settled into my berth and tucked into covers for a healthy siesta, the muted discussions seldom laced with swears and calls to the Almighty dragged well into the late night.

Alighting the next morning at Kolkata with the relatively light hand-bag, I could only fathom and to some extent empathize with the heavy load of a life-time of valuables randomly punched into bags & containers of arbitrary size and shape carried on shoulders already pressed down by the weight of the heavy heads they supported. The ‘Capital Express’ had as though bridged the dusk of their past lives in erstwhile home ‘Saharsa’, kissing the dawn of the about-to-start new life elsewhere.

A few months lapsed and the newspaper headlines of one of the worst floods in a decade to have hit the country gave way to the Thackeray’s lashing out at the ‘others’ whilst stamping their unilateral authority on ‘Mumbai’. Incoming trains were torched and being a Bihari in Mumbai was nightmarish going by live testimonials.

Meanwhile, being a Mumbaite in ‘Bihar’ hardly seemed to matter to people – the opportunity and manpower demand/supply market forces that justify the position of a city/state as a congregation point of people leading to a melting pot of cultures may have a certain element of justification in the situation, but beyond a certain point, it is acceptance of the other whilst empathizing with his situation and going beyond narrow prejudices to accept another as a justified piece in the larger national, global & human jigsaw that makes us truly stand out; especially so, when you see the same standing ground in an otherwise notorious state like ‘Bihar’ and loosing stead in an otherwise cultured cosmopolitan like ‘Mumbai’.

Hope ‘The Full Circle’ leaves you with a perspective - the next time you came across that rag-picker or the cobbler boy, there’s probably a story of steely conviction in the face of unending agony that’s there to be explored in those muted eyes.

As the year draws to a close and we party into it, let’s not forget that tonight’s cover charge could actually set someone up for life – as we step into the new year, time you wrote that cheque you’d been planning to send to that NGO working in the slums or better still, made a trip to that old-age home you’d been looking forward to else started that first job training & nurturing the under-privileged who’d make much more of your education than the privileged lot possibly could.

Wishing you a ten on ten 2010…
Gautam

THE FULL CIRCLE: PART 5

Fate had plunged Radha into the midst of the largest cattle fair of Asia – Sonepur Mela; an ancient event celebrated every year on the banks of the pious confluence of Gandak and the Ganges river, on the back drop of Harihar Nath Temple, the month-long fair attracted traders of all breeds of dogs, camels, buffaloes, donkeys, Persian horses, sheep, birds, poultry & fishes. She found herself lost among the numerous stalls vending a wide variety of goods ranging from garments to weapons and furniture to toys, utensils & agricultural implements to jewelry & handicrafts reminding her of the days in Sonbarsa when she would visit the local fair as a child.

By evening, the crowds had swelled and with stalls coming alive to lights and music, her role as an ‘entertainment artist’ was becoming partly clear to her. Employed by the Tamanna Theater Company after testing her competence in dance, her pseudo-name was coined as ‘Kareena’ and along with a group of other similar aged girls; she was to entertain the guests who came into the theater for a fee. The theater would open its doors every evening to the hundreds of traders who came in from villages far & wide entertaining them after a hard day’s trading. The entry fee of Rs. 50/- per person was a big filter though and the mass of public would gather outside the grilled gates prior to the commencement to get a glimpse of the inviting girls on-stage at a distance promoting their act for the day. With each girl named after a famous Bollywood heroine, scantily attired in tight fitting costumes, the show was a hit with men seeking the tantalizing feel at the end of the day – the shrieks & whistles from the crowd gathered bearing testimony to the dance movements of the girls on-stage.

Initially shocked by the culture-change, the small town bred and brought up Radha had required coming to terms with the fact that there was no respite considering the circumstances and with the theater’s assurance of no malpractices, she had stuck on to make the Rs. 100/- per day that mattered to her most for sustenance – the same being the story of every alternate girl on the Theater Company rolls.

Whilst the theater kept her busy in the evenings, Radha would venture out in the mornings to get her mind off the recent happenings in her life. The stalls of awla dipped in sugar syrup, tilkut & gajak, namkeen roti with sheera cooked on a flame, jalebis of all hues of orange to red with bees hovering around, chana papad mixed with freshly cut lime & onions, ghevar freshly prepared in molten oil pans, petha prepared from fresh fruit dripping in syrup were all very inviting, but Radha had lost a taste for everything there was to enjoy & indulge. Sustaining herself on the mere basic essentials she would fill herself on the sober options available and head back to her shelter. She would be especially pained by the sight of young girls negotiating prices of bangles, adjusting their sizes over the heat of the coal to fit perfectly – the sindoor stalls shouting out authenticity claims being abhorred similarly for their non-use furthermore.

With the fair almost drawing to a close, the fateful morning had dawned as that of any other day… it was the inebriated merry-making of the crowd gathered that evening which had made it markedly distinct – apparently a local politician with his group of flunkeys had made his way into the theater and occupied all seats for an exclusive show. The theater manager had indicated all girls to give their best at the show to satisfy the guests, for otherwise it could imply closure. The theater that evening had continued well into the night and early morning hours of the next day with the group not relenting on special requests of performances – it was well past dawn that the manager was bribed into getting more than an individual performance from the girls in private quarters.

Most girls clamoring hurriedly into their stingy quarters on the news being spread, Radha had shut herself in her room when the door was flung open… with the mouth smelling of a blend of alcohols and the shirt buttons opened to reveal the bare chest, the thin brat had come directly at Radha tugging at her top. Noticing the bulge on her stomach and the shriek of a mother for her child expressing helplessness, he had rushed out to find a substitute to fulfill his erotic desires.

Radha had simply fled the place running out of the fair grounds and into the village… with tears forming large sockets in her eyes and the nerves on the forehead showing through the skin, she had continued to run without looking back… life had been extremely tough on her recently.. it had all started with Kailash’s demise.. the inopportune floods causing inconsequential damage.. the gnawing absence of her family all at once.. weeks in the relief camp supporting the foetus in her belly.. the theater company and now this.. as she crossed the narrow lanes of the village, oblivious to the time of the year, she noticed the small heaps of ‘abeer’ & ‘gulal’ set up outside shops – further pained by the memories of Holi during her childhood in Sonbarsa.. of Kailash.. of her house & farmland.. of the scarecrow.. of Laxmi.. of Raja.. of their companionship.. of Raja’s sudden disappearance.. of Laxmi’s uneasiness with the situation.. of their being united again on the day of Holi.. she let out a loud shriek of hope as she ran – some kids by the wayside pelted stones thinking her to be a lunatic; one of the stones hit at the center of her head, bringing out a stream of blood that came rolling down the parting of her hair.. she wondered of the time when the intoxicated boys had rubbed gulal on the mark between Laxmi’s brows and Raja’s return thereafter.. the unborn future in her stomach had just protected her & probably the re-born past was somewhere on the horizon waiting for her..

Life sure had come a Full Circle for her. The flute tunes were ringing in her ears.

THE FULL CIRCLE: PART 4

“Baba je suntai re mallah dharti loti re jayatai

Bhaiyya je suntai re mallah jaal bans re khirtai

Aama je suntai re mallah Kosi dhainsi re martai

Bhauji je suntai re mallah bhari munh re hanstai.”

(O boatman, if my father hears of it [my death] he will collapse,If my brother hears of it, he will have a net thrown in the river,If my mother hears of it, she will drown herself in Kosi,If my sister-in-law hears of it, she will inwardly smile.)

As her eyes drank in the gory scenes of destruction all around and the heart sank to a low remembering her family, the songs the womenfolk sang in chorus to cease the fury that the Kosi had unleashed on their lives began resounding in her ears - when one is surrounded by sorrow, there is a limit even to one’s crying; at such moments the pain bursts forth in song and helps assuage it.

On her haunches in the dormitory of a relief camp set up by an NGO for shelter of the flood-affected victims, Radha had been across rehabilitation centers and relief camps trying to locate the whereabouts of Madhav & her in-laws. Day before had been a very normal day to start with but the fact that the fate of well over 3 million people would be forever impacted was hardly an apparent one.

With her in-laws en route to Madhepura visiting a relative, Radha had packed their lunch box early morning before Madhav had dropped them off at the bus stop. The normal routine of the day was suddenly broken by the red alert sounded off by government authorities claiming an immediate evacuation drive of the town due to the sudden release of Kosi flood waters from the Nepalese side on account of breakage of the dam at the border – the floods that had become a routine annual phenomenon had hardly ever impacted Madhubani, but this time around, the river had apparently changed its course bringing about one of the worst floods Bihar had witnessed in 5 decades. Blaring loudspeakers mounted on tempos did the rounds to spread the word, most people latched onto whatever they could gather in their vicinity and made a beeline for the highway chugging along basic requirements and valuables stuffed in overflowing baggage mounted onto a domesticated calf/ mule. It was under such chaos that Madhav had unrelentingly left to check on his parents at the bus stop whilst Radha packed her jewellery and other valuables.

The scenes of that fateful day had played like a reel continuously exposed to the projector in Radha’s mind; her stupor only being broken by the announcement of yet another list of newly located people being put up on the notice board – the futility of the entire exercise had begun to sink into her after going through various lists across different camps but all in vain, yet not losing hope, she had picked herself off the ground to roll her eyes over yet another list only to further be dispirited.

The annual calamity could have been avoided with the co-operation of public authorities on both sides of the border – erecting a strong dam on the Kosi whose waters could be used for irrigation of the otherwise parched land could have been an easy solution, but the non-compatibility on revenue-sharing between the Indian & Nepalese authorities had been the bane of the problem since years. Causing havoc across 14 districts and displacing people over 2000 villages, the actual impact of the flood was noticed only after media reports had begun to pour in over a period of days – her own being salvaged was a miracle in itself, but Radha was hardly in a mental state to grasp the facts.

The surrounding scenes of dead bodies floating over the flood waters, children defecating into the same water post the nutrition absorbed into their bodies from the limited morsels of daal-rice they could gather from some donor NGO and the people at large depending on the same resource for their supply of potable water, diseases & epidemics were on the rise with the outbreak of diarrhea and malaria - medical facilities being few & far between added fuel to fire. With their farmlands submerged under water, most people were worried about their livelihood options even post the waters receding and trafficking of children was rampant with parents willing to sell their wards for as low as 200 rupees to traders who would later sell them as forced labour in tea shops else prostitution. In such a scenario, the 2-month pregnant Radha had little discrimination left in her to think on her feet than to just go with the course her fate took.

Directionless, once the waters had receded over 2 weeks, she had traveled on foot to the location their home had been situated at, searching for Madhav only to discover ruins and ramparts of the structure covered by a dilapidated roof – the water had risen as high at a certain point so as to carry the varied parts of the structure in its wake. The remains in most parts seemed plundered for whatever they were worth and the entire neighbourhood looked as though razed to the ground. The small hay-shed that had served as Laxmi-Raja’s re-location shelter after Kailash’s demise had only a few stilts stuck in the ground with the blurred image of the two grazing the fields hanging onto one of the corners faintly fluttering in the rancid wind. The scene of the momentous day had rewinded in her mind – the helter-skelter search for Madhav at first, the desperate retreat to salvage valuables followed by the wasted effort to escape the impending doom.

The shelter of her relief camp had been Radha’s safety haven for the initial few weeks, but as weeks extended into months, like most rescue operations, the pockets of most NGO’s had been drained of monies, the charity made to public authorities had found its way into the hands of well-meaning middlemen and the headlines of newspapers had been replaced with the brewing political scenario of the country.

It was in such a scenario that the offer put up by a placement agency at the Madhubani bus stand had come across as promising – ridden with a fair bit of suspicion, the plain sheet of paper stuck with a healthy pouring of glue had simply read “WANTED – Female, Age 18-25, Salary – Rs. 100/- per day” – with scarce opportunities, only a few ornaments on her to support limited days and the additional responsibility of a soul in her stomach, Radha had wanted to explore any avenue that came across her way.

THE FULL CIRCLE: PART 3

“Swagat mein gaari sunayeen… Chala sakhee milke…

Inka ke langte nachayeen… Chala sakhee milke…”

Radha’s wedding with Madhav had the tunes of the traditional Bihari Gaari song, with the band playing bhojpuri music as lights flashed from the barat-wallahs carrying battery-powered headstands in the backdrop.

Kailash’s efforts of weekly trips made to the ‘Saurath Sabha’ in adjoining Madhubani district had borne fruit; conducted during Jyestha-Aasadh (June-July) as per Hindu almanac, the matrimonial fair attracted alliances from a number of surrounding villages with marriages fixed in the midst of mango groves after dowry negotiations and matching horoscopes.

Hailing from the scholastic & cultural district of Madhubani, Madhav’s proposal had come across as appropriate to Kailash – an artist by profession; Madhav came from a lineage of Maithili artists famous for the world-renowned Madhubani style paintings. Having won the State award for his art, thanks to a formal education, Madhav was one of the few artists among his lot who were able to market their works well, sidelining the otherwise virtual mafia of middlemen & traders - he had earned a good reputation in the field owing to this.

Post the initial discussions by the elders at the Saurath Sabha, impressed by Radha’s self-brought up background & innocent child-like beauty; Madhav had approached Kailash for his daughter’s hand in marriage through his parents. Kailash had accepted the proposal taking into consideration Radha’s views & assent. The ceremonies & rituals had been well planned in advance with Kailash spending a good sum of his savings ensuring no stones were left unturned as regards the arrangements for his only daughter’s betrothal.

Draped in a richly embroidered saree, with sindoor flashing in the parting between her hair and adorned with a delicate gold mangal-sutra as the centerpiece of her new-formed identity, Radha had placed her henna coloured feet in the new house; accepting her new way of life, she had needed to shift gears managing her role from care-taker of a 2-member family to the home-maker of a 4-member household – the uniqueness of the experience was amplified by the shift from a primarily rustic upbringing to a small town-based marital life. With the demands on her time increasing, from managing the needs of her in-laws to helping out Madhav in his profession, Radha found herself adapting well over time.

Sold for a few thousand rupees each, Madhav’s paintings required skill and implied certain technique. With cotton wrapped around a bamboo stick to serve as a brush, vegetable colours were applied to fabric, drawing double-outlined images filled with diagonal lines or other geometrical designs and intricate outlays. The themes of his paintings were varied ranging from images of Hindu deities to the paintings of sun, moon or the tree of life; the scenes of royal courts & social events to common themes of women at work, shown as either drawing water from the well, carrying pots of water, caring for cattle; animals, cows, fish and birds were all exceptionally captured by his brush & palette. Radha would extend her support by preparing the vegetable colours using natural resources – blending turmeric-lime-pollen for yellow, Palasha flowers for orange, rice powder for white, soot & cow dung for black etc.

Adapting her tongue to the most melodious of the dialects of Hindi among Awadhi, Bhojpuri et al spoken across different districts of Bihar, Radha had adapted well to pick up the Maithili of Madhubani (sweet speech) over the erstwhile Magahi spoken across Sitamarhi. During her first celebration of the Chath festival post-marriage, the entire family had travelled to the banks of the Ganges among the banana plantations of Hajipur to offer salutations to the Sun-God, breaking their fast with dahi-chuda in the evening.

Laxmi-Raja and their companion-ship had been a significant memory etched in her mind and at times, she would long for Laxmi for days at length; recalling the evening trips to the temple, the weekend wallows in muddy-cool waters followed by the long hours of grazing in green pastures. In Laxmi’s absence, Radha had channeled her affection towards the neighbourhood stray dog whom she would feed rice every afternoon, nonetheless, the childhood memories of Laxmi’s company resonated during idle occasions. Having found friends in the next-door Bengali couple, Radha-Madhav would make an occasional trip to the cinema for a bhojpuri/ hindi movie.

The new environment and responsibilities meant Radha found little time beyond household chores - her favourite pastime of swinging her feet to the radio airwaves was replaced by catching the latest songs on television; the addition of the audio-visual medium to her daily experience meant that she could enjoy the appeal of the varied dance moves enacted by the female protagonists of filmdom. Radha especially longed for the evenings when Madhav’s hobby of playing the flute would keep her in good stead – as Madhav’s shapely long fingers touched the polished timber of his crafty bamboo flute to create the sweetest devotional & classical tunes, the meager tingling of Radha’s anklets would combine with a soft clapping of hands and murmuring of lips trying to keep pace humming the tunes. As the tunes from Madhav’s flute grew sweeter in melody through the evening, Radha’s feet would come alive on occasions, with her body swinging to the music and the hands shaping themselves into the most elegant moves as though self-enveloped in a divine trance.

In spite of a loving & supportive husband in Madhav and co-operative in-laws, Radha missed having Kailash around; a trip to Sonbarsa on an occasional basis would help soothe her nerves with regard to her consideration for Kailash’s health – in his prime Kailash maintained tremendous stamina, but with time the physical stress had begun to show on his body. Having fulfilled his obligatory duties, Kailash on his part had devoted himself to the assistance of the Rural Development Board of Sonbarsa besides carrying on his agricultural pursuits on an irregular basis.

On an invitation from the Madhubani Artists Self-Help Group, Madhav had been selected to represent the lot of the Madhubani artists at the Patliputra Arts Annual Conference. This had provided the two of them one of the rare opportunities to be together by themselves – Radha had jumped to her feet hearing the news and had wanted to accompany Madhav in his efforts. After a successful conference, the two had toured the capital city of Patna exploring its glorious past from the golden days under the Mauryas to being the world-renowned centre of learning as Patliputra in the times of Chanakya. The only other occasion Radha had recalled of the two spending time alone was when immediately post-marriage they had traveled to the holy city of Bodhgaya to seek the blessings of the The Buddha who had attained nirvana under the Bodhi tree there.

At that time, their companionship was relatively new, but over a period of time, they had come to understand each other well, being open to & adapting to each other’s tastes – they had come to find the love that they both seeked of each other. The initial shyness of holding hands in public had given way to the unabashed cheek of sharing a racy glance at each other coupled with exploring the cheesy possibility of a quick brush of the lips at times. The bonding though had gone beyond public displays of affection to understanding and associating with the differing identities of self, of the evolving nuclear couple as man & wife in private quarters and maturing into a wholesome relationship in the presence of the rest of the family.

It was during the testing times of Kailash’s demise that Radha had felt the need of Madhav being around – with no son to complete Kailash’s funeral rites, Madhav had extended his full support to ensure the ceremonial rites were honored as per the ancestral practices. His additional care to ensure Radha’s comfort in her solitary mental existence post Kailash’s expiry had bonded the two for life – noticing her liking for dance, he had ensured she receive formal training to perfect her hobby and in the process come over her mental inertia.

Over the 18 months of their marriage, Radha had come to acknowledge and appreciate the principles and values that Madhav had established as the base pillars of their marriage – mutual trust & respect, humility & selflessness with the objective of personal growth. Whilst she supported & appreciated his art, Madhav had wanted her to be self-empowered by getting trained in and practicing it as well; on weekends he would involve himself in voluntary work related to the Madhubani Artists Self-Help Group and ensured that she too was made part of the discussions and workings. On a strong foundation, ideas of building the family construct further were being planned.

THE FULL CIRCLE: PART 2

Raja’s re-appearance was as mysterious as his disappearance. The vanishing act in the night was followed up by a re-appearance in the early hours of dawn; Raja’s interim location being a clandestine affair. The bruises on his hind legs and whip-marks on the upper back indicated that his temporary handler had faced strong resistance. This time around, the rumour mill was active with the play of black magic whilst the daroga tried to claim stake by influencing public view in favour of his efforts towards ensuring Raja’s safe return.

Raja’s homecoming was rejoiced by Kailash – economic reasons apart, loss of near and dear ones had been a stark reality in his life. Having lost his parents at a young age, Kailash had lost his wife to the jaundice epidemic soon after Radha’s birth – the little girl had been only a few months old when Kailash had offered the urn of her mother’s ashes in the Ganges at Gaya.

With a personal conviction to bring up Radha in the face of the demise of his counterpart, Kailash had made it his life’s objective to provide for every need of his daughter’s happiness. Managing solely on the home and field front initially had required Kailash to be on his toes throughout, with intermittent help sought from next-door neighbours doubling up as Radha’s guardians.

Kailash was adept at handling the on-field activities, shuffling between the crops of wheat & maize during their respective kharif and rabi seasons through the year, but it was the summers that would keep him particularly busy. The adjacent orchard of shahi litchi trees would be up for lease by the beginning of the summers every year.

With over 300-plus trees in bloom, many like him would place their bids on the tree/s of their liking for the season basis the flowering and expected fruition thereon; whilst the landlord was immediately compensated with the highest bid for his plantations with certainty, it was a mix of sprinkling of adequate fertilizer & insecticide along with the alacrity of the outbreak of monsoons that set the tone for the negotiation of deals in the near-by Muzaffarpur market. The short fruit season of 1-2 months required Kailash to travel to the market on a regular basis for finalizing deals.
With the minimum prices being fixed statutorily on crops, making an additional buck on his limited land holding was purely a function of the statutory prices being raised; the litchi season thus provided Kailash with one of the few occasions to get more bang for his buck.

The post-litchi monsoon season was dreaded by one & all for the floods that accompanied the downpour. With high precipitation in the Himalayan ranges of Nepal leading to swelled up reservoirs and dam walls being tested, the Nepalese authorities would release a good deal of waters into the Kosi river which would find its directional flow into the Indian plains of bordering districts of Sitamarhi, Madhubani, Madhepura, Saharsa etc. through various tributaries. With almost 70% of the area under floods, the population of the district had become that of a fleeting nature during the monsoon season due to the widespread human, lifestock & material loss.

As such, the summers provided Kailash the only time to make good for the rainy day.

Meanwhile, Radha too, had responded well to the very modest upbringing her father could afford to provide for. Over the years she had grown up to take on household chores apart from learning to cook for herself and Kailash from a very young age. Not restricting her helping hand to the home front, she would regularly set up the scare-crow in the field dressing it up with Kailash’s old clothes to ensure the birds picking on the grain were kept at bay.

The arched pink-coloured walls with blue doors of the single-storeyed structure of ‘Saraswati Vidyalaya’ had been an ideal learning ground for Radha’s academic upbringing – the al fresco art sessions in the verandah under the banyan tree of the adjoining ground were most liked by her. Bringing Laxmi back from the grazing fields, Radha would return home from school and pull up water from the hand-pump to fill up all the earthen pots. Her cycle rickshaw sojourn to the weekly Sonbarsa haat ensured a regular flow of basic essentials to meet the needs of the two of them; although she relied on the old & trust-worthy Jagdish Kirana for monthly grocery requirements owing to the on-going credit provided by him – besides, Kailash would settle his account at the end of every cropping season on being flush with funds.

Retreating home from the temple to the sounds of chirping mynahs and field crickets, Radha would switch on the radio by her bedside, tuning into the latest numbers and dancing to the tunes – her favourite pastime. Baking sattu-filled litti on the earthen chulha with freshly made baigan-chaukha, she would prepare the evening meal by the time Kailash was back home from the fields bringing firewood tied to the back of his bicycle.

With only a couple of years to go for Radha to complete her higher schooling, Kailash had been planning to settle her down scouting an appropriate groom and fulfilling his obligatory duties. He would scan the newspapers running his eyes down the matrimonial pages through columns of Brahmins, Bhumihars, Banias, Kayasthas & Rajputs to finally arrive at the cattle-rearing agriculturist Yadav caste that he belonged to – an inter-caste betrothal was unheard of in the land owing to the social hierarchy accorded as well as prevalent caste rivalries & prejudices; with recent cases of the educated Brahmin class tying the knot with the trade & commerce predominant Bania class being viewed as almost sinful.

THE FULL CIRCLE: PART 1

The fodder pot in the outfield had remained untouched for the past five days. Radha pursued all efforts to entice Laxmi into crushing the finely cut blades of hay between her set of white pearly studs. The wheat pancakes that Radha had roasted on the clay chulha past two days were only half-baked, the dung cakes that fuelled the fire had been exhausted with Laxmi’s inactivity.

The small stable, which had been Laxmi’s night shelter since the time Kailash had brought her home as a 3-year old calf, had now become her self-imposed cell through the day. A thatched hay roof supported on bamboo stilts strongly grounded in the earth, the stable had over the years been a silent progenitor cocooning Laxmi in its warmth. Radha had managed to beautify the roof with crafty hangings made of dried coconut leaves that she had learnt at school; during Diwali she had put up small tinkling light bulbs that had made Laxmi come alive with excitement, but none of these seemed to break her silent stupor. The almost perennial ‘ding-ding’ of the bell strapped to her neck seemed to resonate only in long intervals.

Laxmi only stood staring in the direction of the pinned-up hand painting that Radha had made of her and Raja grazing the fields together. The contrast of Raja’s tanned black skin against Laxmi’s wheatish complexion was stark to the eye, but that companion-ship was more than skin deep was amplified in that they had been a pair for the past six years, only testified by Laxmi’s behavior at Raja’s sudden absence.

With a strong muscular built, long rotund horns reclining to touch the back of the ears and hair flowing from the nape right down to the end of the tail, Raja would have been a prized catch for any land tiller or trader, but the small village of Sonbarsa had never been notorious for such activities.

Rumours were rife that Raja had been smuggled out in the early nightfall and fog of the winter. The chowk panwari, Chandu had apparently noticed a mini pick-up van drive out of the village with Raja tied to the back. Kailash had approached the daroga at the Sonbarsa police naka – whilst the daroga had patiently heard out Kailash and even made a few notes on his diary, there seemed to be no progress made on the case. Whilst some spoke of the foul play of the local zamindar, others had put off the argument treating it as God’s nemesis.

A month passed and Kailash would make his religious visit to the police naka for updates. The sudden disappearance had all been grist for the mill at the local Panchayat meet for the month – after various hours of discussion, rounds of chewing paan with betel-nut and rumored mud-slinging, the Sarpanch concluded that the case be handled by the daroga in co-ordination with the district authorities at Sitamarhi police station; passing on the buck had become an accepted way of life and Kailash had come to realize his limited stature in the scheme of things.

The winters were generally lean and lazy since the fields only required a measly sprinkling of mustard seeds to see the golden yellow sarson flowers sprout out without much effort. What Kailash was consumed with was the upcoming summers when the fields would require tilling and sowing of rice, which in Raja’s absence would be a strenuous task. He only hoped for some good news before the season since he could not afford an additional investment at this point of time.

The only routine that Radha had ensured since the day of Raja’s absence was to walk Laxmi to the Hanuman temple at the chowk at dusk – she would pick on bougainvillea’s & marigold’s that grew in the backyard and take a few pennies out of her clay pot to offer them on behalf of Laxmi. Occasionally, she would light incense and dig it deep into the soil that supported the basil tree by the side. After offering salutations and seeking blessings for both, Radha would dip her finger into the vermillion powder and apply it between her eyebrows, a practice she had followed with Laxmi too, but ceased to do so after Raja’s absence. Nonetheless, the years of application on Laxmi’s forehead had shown starkly as a mark against her wheatish complexion.

The horizontally protruding stub of the temple idol with an aerial flight pose of the Lord carrying a hill on one hand was very distinct from the other temples that Radha had visited. With sharp cuts defining the muscular build of the Lord against a sindoori colour background, Radha had keenly listened to the scene of the Ramayana depicting the same, which Kailash had once narrated to her; he had informed her as a matter of fact, that the district of Sitamarhi had the origin of its name credited to one of the main protagonists of the epic ‘Sita’, whose birth place Janakpur now lay just a few kilometers away in the erstwhile India and current Nepal. With all else in the social hierarchy structure failing her family, an ode to the Supreme seemed to be her only last resort as a support system.

Laxmi’s routine of grazing the fields in the morning and Radha walking her back home in the evening making a visit to the temple had some what normalized with time but Kailash had still needed to pull hard at the udders for only limited portions of milk. On Sundays, when she was off school, Radha would take Laxmi down to the stream of the Lakhandai for a wallow in the muck and a thorough scrubbing in the waters thereafter. She would follow it up with a session in one of the greener pastures where Laxmi would relish the feed.

The days grew longer with the warm-clothing retailers concluding end-of-season sales and the tilkut vendors in the market place giving way to cold-drink stalls. Small heaps of ‘abeer’ & ‘gulal’ set up outside shops announced the arrival of Vasant Utsav; Radha insisted on Kailash buying her varied shades to play with her friends. As the celebrations and merry-making at the baal-wadi came to a close on the day of Holi, Radha returned home to notice the local boys intoxicated on bhaang and toddy leaving coloured hand marks across the wall surrounding it. In their excitement, one of them didn’t spare Laxmi out of the festivities, sprinkling colour all over, rubbing in a dark gulal paste on the mark between her brows; as though, accidentally, signaling the reversal of her fate.

A few days later, Radha was awakened in the morning by the continuous ‘ding-ding’ of Laxmi’s bell, interspersed with the chann-chann of the ghunghroo necklet that had belonged to Raja.

THE FULL CIRCLE

Epilogue
As I travelled daily to Under-graduate College for 5 years, catching the early morning Mumbai local plying between Andheri & Churchgate, drinking in the en-route scenes of shanties built on both sides of the track in the midst of garbage dumps, nude kids & adults alike defecating on tracks whilst keeping a lookout for an incoming train whose schedule decided the time & pressure limitations playing on their ablutionary habits, rag-pickers garbed in a single cloth bathing at the station ‘sulabh sauchalaya’ starting another ‘filthy’ day, it made me wonder about the living conditions available to them back home in their village, such that they chose to live in the inhumane slums of a metro like Mumbai instead.

Getting my first sales assignment as Area Manager for North Bihar had its share of shaky legs but little did I realize that my wonderment would change to reality with the mystery of the sites of my Mumbai local travels about to open up in full throttle as I travelled across the geography of my territory.

Some places you take up to & the place responds by taking up to you as well. Divided over 5 parts, have brewed up my first fictional story – ‘The Full Circle’ which captures the history, culture, customs, events & life or the lack of it in this state called ‘Bihar’ which otherwise one would rarely come to turn to on their copy of the Lonely Planet-India edition; propose to release the same every alternate day over the next 10 days. Promising you a descriptive roller-coaster ride taking you through life’s ups & downs, the story will leave you with a bitter tinge in the mouth aspiring for hope.

On The Edge!

Phulwaria is a small diversion from Mirganj, en route Gopalganj from Patna. With no major claim to fame, the place will sure go down history lane as the birthplace of the by now globally famous Laloo Prasad Yadav. The newly constructed cemented road and railway track apart from a make-do airstrip bear testimony to the over-enthusiastic/ optimistic devotion of the man to his native place; the life-size statue of Marachia Devi at the crossroad laced with a stone tablet below that reads “The great mother figure who gave birth to a son like Laloo”.

The story goes that when Laloo was appointed Chief Minister, his mother could not fathom what it meant and she enquired whether or not he had at least become ‘daroga’ (which is what she had always wanted him to be). In response, Laloo had only replied ‘‘Hathua Maharaj le badka Raja bangaynee.’’ - I have become a bigger Raja than Hathua Maharaj, the erstwhile zamindar of Hathua estate.

A few miles down the highway, one hits a famous religious Devi temple at Thaway. Folklore has it that a firm devotee of Devi, Rahasu had a pet tiger with whose support he would beat grass using a wagon wheel to throw out one of the finest quality rice. Owing to this, his popularity had spread far & wide almost contesting that of the Hathua Maharaj. Overcome with jealousy, the Maharaj had wanted Rahasu to prove the existence of the Devi he so worshipped and revered. In spite of being warned of widespread destructive consequences, the Maharaj had stood to his point and Rahasu had to make Devi come into herself – the entire estate was destroyed and the family was history.

Local folklore may have its share of sugar & spice added and multiplied over a period of time but the fact remains that the egoistic & dictatorial Hathua Maharaj had not actually become history, he had only disintegrated into smaller parts over the stretch of his erstwhile estate – the current districts of Saran, Siwan & Gopalganj in Bihar bordering the state of Uttar Pradesh. This is about my experiences with his attitudinal stockist scions.

Chapra, the headquarter town of the district of Saran has had many a reference in Bollywood with the notorious ‘Chapri’ being the sidekick of the main villain. Mr. Banarasiya and son Shamit seemed to fit a similar role to the ‘T’. Having saved tones of money flirting with the loopholed regulations of gutkha trade, Mr. Banarasiya had risen from the office of a government servant to become one of the wealthiest businessmen in his town, finally to play foul & dupe the very gutkha company that had resulted in his evolution (after all, man only evolves from lesser states). However, the monies made needed to be rotated for conversion into white and the very first agency taken up – “Super Thanda Tail” seemed a perfect fit. Not to be left out, Shamit too joined his father only to be welcomed into a business where stocks seemed to go through the roof, market credit multiplied exponentially and consumer offtakes were inversely proportional to investments made.

Frustrated with burning hands at their first FMCG venture, the father-son approached a predecessor of yours truly with a proposal to set up their agency business – in reality, the huge piles of money shoved up pillow covers and mattresses needed conversion at the earliest. Given a second FMCG boon, efforts were put in to make hay while the sun shone and business began to grow only until such time things got into auto-mode. Having continued a few months into my tenure, complacency soon set in and business took the back seat.

With open top buttons of his shirt revealing the scanty specs of white hair on his bare chest, Mr. Banarasiya would closely follow the movements of the female computer operator at the agency. Like father, like son – Shamit betrothed a woman of his liking and justifiably so only until it was discovered the same was without divorcing his first wife; thereafter to be located at different loci on a circle with radius 50 km and epicenter as Chapra, trying to save his rear end from police officials. Not satisfied with the explanations given by the father, the now ex-daughter-in-law also put the father-in-law on the run – his addition to the duo team adding another 50 km to the radius.

Meanwhile, company cheques bounced, debtors got a complete free hand and cell-phone calls were routed via telecom towers disjoint & disconnected over distances only to register missed calls, which were never reverted to.

Not too far away, M/s Sadhe Ram Kunwarlal reigned supreme in his kingdom of Siwan, thanks to the protection accorded by the now behind bars local don & state MLA Rahabuddin. With appx 15 most prominent FMCG companies under his distribution fold, none had a saleman operating in the market. Among the top agency houses of the town/ district, Sadhebabu had clearly defined terms of service with all market intermediaries – all retailers/ wholesalers had to make a beeline for their requirements to his godown and had to pay up dues on time to get the next lot of supplies. Sadhebabu was a simple man and believed in keeping it that way – “My way or the highway” was his simple philosophy in life. Sales lingo had it that Sadhebabu had been twice targeted with bullets & bombs, unfortunately on both occasions, men accompanying him had borne the brunt of the mishap and the actual target had gone scot-free – only if those Kasab’s were better trained by the Mujahedeen.

The adjoining district of Goplaganj had a subtler version of the story to say. Rinku Singh came across as a simple, straight forward person with his neatly buttoned shirt touching the loose ends of his trouser loops, unkempt hair and faintly addressed beard. Belonging to the town of Gorakhpur in UP, Rinkuji maintained a low profile in his make-shift residence of Tittra in Bihar. Having inherited a huge fortune from his maternal uncle, Rinku was the Robinhood of Tittra – sorting out the financial woes of many and absolving a number of their worries – a market visit with the philanthropist himself would have retailers / wholesalers giving a standing welcome with both hands joined in a humble & compassionate ‘namaste’ and apparently, his godown-keeper had over the years of his service with Rinkuji managed to eke out enough so as to own a car which was rented out for marriage parties / special occasion. The hidden agenda of political aspirations in the face of charity were evident from the company of kurta-clad gentlemen that Rinkuji maintained during evening sittings.

As Rinkuji went about clearing his way for a future political career that would at some point of time fund his current charity, the only person shitting bricks in his pants was the bank manager of State Bank of India, Tittra branch since his job was at stake at all such times when Rinkuji’s pocket was free-flowing with charity – for the 4 months of the year during the crop sowing season, Rinkuji would distribute varied crop seeds at a no-profit arrangement among farmers of the district to maintain his ‘messiah’ image; it was on such occasions that the bank overdraft facility was more than doubly exhausted, creditors cheques were not entered into the ‘incoming’ register of the bank for months to avoid scrutiny and calls from the SBI head office went unanswered – considerably so, Mr. Rinku Singh’s firm was the prime-most customer of Tittra branch with 50% plus contribution to the bank’s business and the manager personally consulting Rinkuji before honouring every single cheque.

Fortunately, Rahasu was on his way. Mr. Banarasiya & Shamit were out of the FMCG business soon, the father-son duo managed to fleece their way through by buttering hands of the concerned officials and commenced a low headache / high eye-candy telecom business which somehow turned out to be a profitable venture. They were replaced by a much more deserving set of brothers, enthusiastic & enterprising to make a name for themselves. Sadhebabu’s strong conviction that every company which left him had to return to his agency suffered a terrible jolt. Considering Rinkuji’s Robinhood figure, a few strict warnings ensured that his bank manager did not have to change his set of briefs at regular intervals (after all ‘andar ki baat’ also has its pressure-handling limitations).

Self-image, having its origin in culture & environmental background combined with individual aspirations and public expectations can lead to a set of beliefs that become convictions over a period of time if left unchallenged. But, challenges always help people grow; then again, being the challenge is a challenge in itself. Am I getting too challenging now? You bet!

Motipur ki Moti baat!

My penultimate month in Bihar is about to draw to a close; but the variety & novelty of experiences still amuses me at most times.

So today started as just another day but ended up pretty much unassuming. Towards late afternoon, after having worked the markets of Motihari, we (I was with my sales officers) were supervising the liquidation of expired stocks of Real juice on the request of the local stockist, when the surrounding retailers complained of the stench being felt.

Agreeing with their view, we loaded the remaining 3 cases of expired stocks onto my leased Sumo and sped off to get rid of the same outside town limits. En-route to the town of Muzaffarpur, looking for a suitable dumping place on the way, we made a halt before the village of Motipur. A filthy stream flowed below the main road and seemed ideal for our purpose. With the back door open and one case out, we were about to proceed with our plan when we found a jeep come around and make a halt right behind ours.

8-10 policemen got off and surrounded our vehicle enquiring into the purpose of our halt. With a straight face, they were explained our objective right away. The main officer charged us with trying to carry out something illegal in his jurisdiction area without requisite permissions. Taken aback, we explained ourselves again, but he insisted how cattle that may feed on the water of the stream (filthy stream I repeat) may get poisoned by the expired juice we dispose off in it; his concern then shifted from cattle to humans who may consume it thinking it to be fresh, as though a pack of Real juice comes as manna from heaven, besides, each pack is broken from the seal, juice emptied and pack torn as per policy. Not paying heed to our explanations, he insisted on having a word with his seniors – the intent of getting a quick buck was obvious, but the inherent desire to irritate and squeeze out more than a buck soon took over. Meanwhile, our need to get back to our base seemed postponed beyond late evening.

On the phone soon, his words were unheard to us, but he soon got back with wanting us to join him to the police thana. My appeal to put an end to matters before they progressed further fell on deaf ears and was sharply retorted to by the main officer saying “ab to baat upar tak chali gayi hai!”

Within a few seconds, we had 2 officers seated on the front of the Sumo with the 3 of us at the back and a by now threatened driver finding his way through the pot-holed road into a darkness signaled by one of the officers as the Motipur thana. Faced with uncertainty, man does what he knows best – ‘stays himself’! Having done no wrong, our resolve was to stay put and not give in.

The single public lamp-post with a blazing white tube lit up the outside of the otherwise dark innards of what looked like a long garage built in the middle of nowhere. As with most times in Bihar, the electricity seemed to be on a holiday and the only public authority who would be the last resort for anyone on the lookout for assistance was blanketed completely in its absence. With the main in-charge being out on the rounds, our stupor was broken by the group of policemen who had brought us in, chatting about the further course of action.

Spotting no sign of threat on our faces, the tone now shifted to one of concern, with the main officer claiming how dangerous and notorious the area we had halted at had lately been; stating the instance of a vehicle being plundered after the occupants were relieved of their worldly duties mid-way by some goons a few days prior, claiming as though we had been delivered a service by the sudden appearance of the police there, else the light of day may never have been. The upcoming elections and threats / rumors that do the rounds also gave another opportunity to the uniformed pricks to strengthen their stand – generally, the more one can fatten the chicken before splitting the throat…

My word to hasten the process due to the impending journey ahead was met with a “aap abhi jaldi mein kyun hai? Chai pijiyega?”

Spreading out 3 plastic chairs in the verandah, we were told “aaram se baithiye. Aap ke bonafide check karte hi in-charge aap ko jaane denge; aadhe-ek ghante mein pahunchte hi honge…” Our relaxed postures on the seat with a conviction to not give in to the hidden demands of the Gulshan Grover’s of the real world were met with a change in tactic.

The driver who had taken up a seat below the lamppost was summoned to the police jeep and the keys to our Sumo taken away. The original troop was back in the jeep and with a cheer of “aate hain kuch time mein…” the key turning in its chamber with the diesel throttle being heard in the roar of the accelerator and smoke cloud of the rear exhaust. With every passing moment, the conviction to not give in grew stronger and the unexpected cool only made the troop turn off the ignition with the jerking jeep not having moved an inch further. Tense moments followed, in the jeep that is, trying to gauge our reaction – seeing none, an inebriated assistant was called for from the thana and the keys handed over to him.

After having spent almost an hour on a bait that looked juicy but offered no room to bite into, the jeep chugged along throwing aside the mud in its rugged path. It was in the silence that followed, I noticed the only other inhabitants of the thana were 2 police assistants who had taken a seat on the circular cemented bench around the base of the lamppost and 2 drivers seated in the shallow halo of the yellow bulb of their truck that shone through the dark parked at a distance. The inactivity and single blaze of the over-arching lamppost above seemed to be reflecting the mood of the untoward outcome of the very legitimate actions we had planned for the day. Nonetheless, the fact that we had stuck around unaffected, powered us further into planning a safe exit thereon.

All 3 on the telecom airwaves spread the word of our mishap with contacts already being brewed up in action through our random SOS messages passed on earlier. At times, such incidents help one discover the true worth that people consider of oneself. Within a few moments, distant relatives of far-off neighbors had been contacted and at least 4 spokes on the human web touching our current location had been activated – a politician in the ministry, thana in-charge of Muzaffarpur police station, the local newspaper media journalist and one of the assistants at Motipur thana itself. I was not finally aware as to which of the contacts worked, but when the main in-charge made his way into the thana, he offered chai (this time genuinely) and apologized for the delay in arrival.

Making his way to the chamber, the bulb above his seat that strung from a wire hit his head to go off; he adjusted the holder to get the light on again. Having seated us on a chair specially called in, he simply took a declaration stating that we had been called in for regular interrogation and were released thereafter.

As I signed the declaration in the light of the single 45-watt bulb that shone through the grays in the beard of the 45+ aged in-charge, I wondered how we had used the very same ‘influence’, the muted but irrefutable presence of which had been to a large extent at the root of the demeaning feeling of powerlessness among the very same public servants who had effected our prior treatment as assumed simpletons, to be exploited for the sake of show of power and ability to control, where the opportunity so provided, especially so in an ‘influenced’ state like Bihar. Only, our influence was justified, but then again, so is everyone else’s, at least to his or her respective selves.

As we drove back, one of my officers commented, “shuruat mein aath sau – hazaaar rupaiye se hi mamla khatam ho gaya hota!” But then, there wouldn’t have been much to take back home… somehow, the universal laws and values we respect and uphold in our lives, come to our rescue during our times of dire need! We had escaped from the police thana – Untouched! Unmoved! But most importantly, Uncompromised! Motipur ki Moti baat!!

Thought for the Day!

"To live long, it is necessary to live slowly."

Pic location: Room 105, Hotel Panchvati - Muzaffarpur, Bihar

A thought so profound as this can only be found in Bihar. At this rate, I doubt the artist would survive even a day in Mumbai.

Threads Divine!

 

The heavens are open The bosom of possibilities large. 

The farther I loom, Opportunities & realms further surge! 

But like the celestial fruition of the tree, Whose roots go deep into Thine... 

My flight shall soar to new heights, Only well-grounded to the base by Threads Divine!