Revelation

Vadivu sniffed the air, something was not right. And whatever was not right, was attracting her irresistibly. Something rose deep within her, almost like the rush she felt at nights with her husband. But this was different. She sniffed deeply again, inhaling fully and the scent left her before she could completely explore it. Dropping the basket she was carting she stepped back a few paces and looked around. Just another normal day. And no one had time to notice a low-caste woman who carried excreta away. In a back alley of all places. Untying her saree’s loose end to fan herself in the hopes of trapping the scent within its folds she inhaled again in quick short bursts this time. And it hit her. The most blissful divine scent. Definitely masculine, full bodied, rich dark and enticing beyond rapture.

Dhanammal wished the tonga would move faster. It was hot and she dare not uncover her face lest any man set sight upon her. Her mother-in-law sat next to her and her husband Thannilaipadi Narayanaswami, in front of them. She was new to Madras and the sights and sounds awed her and scared her at the same time. Narayanaswami worked for the East India Company. It was a prestigious position and he often reminded Dhanammal of his importance by unleashing English words at home. Sometimes in passion, sometimes in fury, sometimes in boredom. Many of his words were poorly pronounced, some bizarre to the point of offense but the illiterate Dhanammal had no way of knowing his folly.

The tonga stalled. Apparently there was some commotion in the road ahead. Narayanaswami got down to investigate. As they sweated it out in the blazing midday sun, Dhanammal smelt it. Her first reaction was to turn up her nose at what she perceived as an alien stench. Then a curious secondary sniff and the slow realization that she was smelling something new, something different. She turned to see if her mother noticed anything, but Periya Meenakshiamma was asleep, her drool coating the edge of her widow’s saree, her tonsured scalp sweating freely. Slowly she raised her head out of her veil. She turned around to the source and saw an Englishman’s mansion. And amidst the noise and stench of the city, amidst the perspiration of a hundred men, the distinct flavor wafted to her. “Like Radha to Krishna” she thought. Several well dressed men and women were seated around tables. Just as the tonga lurched, she saw a dirty ragged half caste woman sniff the air vigorously. Dhanammal felt sick to her stomach and retreated in the veil again, content to sniff the diluted scent that spinned her head.

The incident was a few months ago. Deepawali had come and gone and the winter chill was upon them. “Ice falls in England. Ice katti. brrr” Narayanaswami shivered one particularly cold day, refusing his cup of buttermilk that Dhanammal had churned for him. The couple had settled down in Madras in a tiny house near kotai. Dhanammal had busied herself in domestication while Periya Meenakshiammal acted supervisor tut-tutting her disapproval more often than not. Come margazhi and Dhanammal requested her husband to take her to see the magnificent Kapaleeswarar temple at Mylapore. Now and then Dhanammal would recall the day she smelt ‘that’ but she never whiffed it on any of the innumerable trips she made to Mylapore. At the temple market she kept herself unnaturally aware of her surroundings and yet she never whiffed that scent. It must have been magic, or the heat she thought to herself. Yes the heat.

Narayanaswami was deferential to his bosses at work and played the role of a subservient dull clerk to boot. He befriended no one from his office preferring to rush home and immerse himself in brahminical rituals of yore. Occasionally Dhanammal would sing to him what she had learnt in her childhood. A mixed bag of bhajans, prayers and the occasional keerthanai. She would often try to impress him with a Dikshitar krithi (to whom Narayanaswami was partial as he claimed descent from the composer) but failed miserably. Life went moved on in the slow sedate way that urbanity sometimes brings.

To be continued…

Revolution

Chaos theory will have us believe that small disturbances in a system will ripple through, magnifying themselves leading to one huge cataclysm. The bigger the system and the longer it takes for the smaller errors to accumulate. And after the big bang, the newer systems are generated with small errors of their own, which in time lead to further chaos. India was an idea crafted by politicians, visionaries. An impractical reality that somehow defied all laws of coherence and managed to stick as a coherent entity. Too many differences in the entities that constituted it. Most countries had a strong basis in language, religion, history or culture. Some were racially defined, some were remnants of large civilizations. India was all this and more. And none of this. Peoples of different colors and histories, strange languages and stranger antecedents. At time the only string holding the country together was its land mass and the sheer number of people.

Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century Indians sought to gain common ground. Politics provided a great platform, the violence and dazzle luring all equally from Itanagar to Calicut. The onslaught of the middle class with similar values. The common feeling of battling poor infrastructure, violence and general chaos to reach the elusive higher plane. At the turn of the century it lay poised like a badly balanced airplane to take off into the future. And like a horrible aircraft , ill fated to reach the skies, it blew. And splintered into pieces. Like the body parts of the mythical Shakti, into several pieces, as it was since antiquity. India as a nation ceased to exist in 2035. Experts will point out several factors and reveal the imminence of that action. Some say it was to happen, some felt it to be an unnatural paradigm. Foreign hands, Gods, Religions, Colour and every possible prejudice were blamed in this fission. But reality lay splattered, a loose coalition of city-states and smaller principalities across the sub-continent.

And now each of these entities would be free of violence they thought. Bound by religion, culture or language exclusively. Some countries exclusively urban, some completely rural. Some spread out over large swathes of land, some confined to off shore islands and scanty mountaintops.

Circa 2009

Facebook and Orkut were merely tools. Sure they provided valuable connections now and then but that was about it. Six degrees of separation worked for once, in his favour. Combing the mists of the ancient past, searching through medieval rabble and trying to locate the future in the present chaos of modern India, his was a difficult task indeed. Especially the part of India he was supposed to work on.

Searching wasn’t easy. For one his search began around 1279 AD. And history wasn’t an easy pursuit. Like a temptress his destination moved across regions and countries. It changed languages and religions. And the messy proposition of caste. Which had oscillated no lesser than five times in 1500 years.

The task was fairly straightforward, to separate India into little nations. They were a large organization and had working teams, named in a cruel mockery of the Indian army. The Rajputanas would take care of Rajasthan, the Sikh regiment would create Khalistan. The Marathas would bring back their medieval glories and the Telengana dream of statehood went a step further to nationhood. Their team was nicknamed ‘Sangam’ signifying the lost Tamil age.

To bring back the glories of the Tamil nation, they needed a king. And not just anyone would do. So a meticulous search began. Looking through temple records, land deeds, properties and inheritances. Modern government databases, census data. Methodically sifted. Each demographic scanned and formulated. Large swathes of data residing as a muddle of names and places. It seemed hopeless at first but slowly a pattern began to emerge. And history, initially obfuscating, then slowly revealing patterns only to disappoint. Then letting out a little clue and piece by piece the jigsaw fell into place.

They had started with the Pandyans first, the last surviving Tamil kingdom. The lineage seemed straightforward enough till the fifteenth century where it ran into several errant progeny marrying in and out of religions. Invaders complicated the picture and the present day descendants would most likely be Indonesian. Or not. The Chera descendants were lost, over records and state boundaries. Eventually with time and meticulous research they had got to the inevitable.

Find the descendant of the Cholas. She survives.

Pohe

part 1 here

The following days saw a blur of people in Jag Jivan nagar. Sadhus, Mendicants and sahib’s men always, conferring, and plotting. The dattatrey temple that was the focus of the community was abuzz with talk of the next miracle and what the future portended. Men and women held forth on the significance of the God’s appearance at their humble abode. Every Friday evening as the suburban week drew to a close a small respite would be provided to the slum’s residents too. It was movie night. Every week, a movie would be screened at the ground where everyone gathered to worship their screen Gods. This week saw the screening of “ Jai Shakumbhari Ma” (The goddess of vegetables and fruits), a potboiler featuring the right mix of sex and devotion, each facet carefully existing in its own domain designed to please the masses with their equally strong appeal. After the short movie all the week’s happenings were neatly encapsulated by one of sahib’s more talkative men. He also promised a ‘happening’ and of a sacrifice needed to be made to appease the God (Ramlal, who owned two goats involuntarily shuddered).

Sunday in the slum was cricket day. Kids would crown around the ground where the teens played. Competition was fierce and most men dropped in to watch, reading newspapers, squatting to shit, making deals or simply wiling time away. Teams were a mix of both religions for obvious reasons as decreed by the slumlords. Apart from that all other rules were flexible. It was a community gathering of sorts with women sending over their meager fare to each other and a general feeling of Goan sosegado settled over the huts. A week after Sakhubai’s find however, the Sunday routine was interrupted.

“A right trunked Ganpati is not a coincidence and he needs to be appeased sufficiently so as to not incur his wrath” screamed the mendicant cutting a resplendent picture in his saffron robes and all his paraphernalia. The sahib was there too, listening respectfully. Most of the slum dwellers were from Konkan and Ganpati figured high in their priorities of life. All listened agog. A few more minutes of religious preaching later Saheb took over. He was gifted as a speaker, that’s what got him votes twice every decade. As Saheb spoke, the entire populace seemed to be under his spell, his words exhorting them, pleading with them and beseeching them. He would speak in their rustic dialect of Marathi, suddenly switching to high poetic language. He would crack jokes in hindi and come back to pray in Marathi and as he spoke he cleverly wove the words in. For the Right facing god, of righteousness as a blessing and a sacrifice he asked for them to give up their houses.

Most would have been stunned but his entreating baritone kept them riveted. As an atonement for their, nay his and their sins. It was simple. All they had to do was to move to the ‘right’ side of the slum the green side, the other side. At this the slum erupted. And it took all of the man’s efforts to keep the audience calm. Sahib effortlessly fielded questions and arguments. It was the same slum, just the other side. He would build a new temple there apart from the one here. No, no communal violence would be involved. In fact moving to the other side, he guaranteed legitimizing the slums. No Khairnar would come rumbling at odd hours to grind their dwellings to dust. Children would have a proper address to write on their letters. No it wasn’t possible to legitimize this side of the slum because the land was already owned by some organization.

The promise of legitimate housing, with the religious lure of doing the right thing was slowly turning the residents around. What of Salim Khan? The mafia lord who held sway over the Muslim half of the slum? Salim Khan was in fact at that very moment convincing the other half of the slum to move to the left side. Nothing would change he assured his people and his men would make sure everyone moved into huts which were of the same size, no one would be cheated and certainly no one would get an advantage. The slum would remain the same, the people same only saffron and green would diffuse and seep to the other sides. Smoothly. The current Hindu side was owned by Asra Inc, who had decided to donate the land as zakat by its righteous chairman, Mr Salil Quereshi. Legitimizing homes for them there would be no problem. A new mosque would be built and the current one would continue to function too.

The next week was a frenzied sequence of days, nights and noons all marked with discussions. Sahib threw open his home for harried families, they were welcome to drop in any time they desired to talk. His wife was there too gently talking, making things clearer. More importantly they welcomed guests with food and beverages. Saheb himself opened casks of ‘imported daaru’ for the more rambunctious men at night. Tai attended all night sessions convincing the ladies to move, home hearth et all. Salim Khan on the other side spent an equally hectic week doing the same. Slowly even the inflexible relented and the great move started.

It happened in phases, and henchmen were always available to carry across meager possessions. As the populace settled in each was given a token sum of Rs 51/- and a document with the person’s name stating that the legalization process was started. Over two weeks Jag Jivan nagar frothed, fermented, moved, restlessly mingled and resettled. Small disturbances did occur, and fights broke out but were diffused in minutes. Sahib was always there pulling strings and occasionally dealing a stern hand, smiling, scolding and making the move possible. Ramlal the goat owner was discovered to have two establishments, both with 4 children each as the wives proceeded to battle it out for the bigger house. Apart from the catfight and the entertainment it had provided the moving was mostly smooth.

Sakhubai woke up to the cawing of crows just as dawn was breaking. Forcing her arthritic joints into action she rushed to fill her lota to reach the loo before the men took over at seven. Ablutions over, she busied herself in making tea as Surekha came, empty lota wildly swinging. Both women sat to drink bitter tea, chewing on meager onion pohe and readying for the days travails. Not much had changed for them. Up above the slum, in his 14^th floor apartment Saheb smiled as he drank his bitter tea. And as he breakfasted on pohe he allowed himself to smile. He had never believed the move to be possible but he had done it.

“Constitutional boundaries to change after 30 years” the newspapers had screamed and Saheb had nearly had a heart attack that day as he discovered that his part of Jag Jivan nagar would now go to Salim Khans constituency. A day of tense sweating and serious number crunching later he had decided that he could not afford to lose Jag Jivan Nagar. It was crucial to him and had single handedly sent him to the parliament five times. Sahib did not know the meaning of gerrymandering but he knew what it could do to him now. He needed to act and his mind was on overdrive, desperately looking for a solution. Money could be thrown but what could redraw constitutional borders? As he had pondered it one evening his maid Surekha, rushed out saying that some potato that was right-trunked had miraculously appeared in her neighbour Sakhubai’s house. That was all the push his maverick mind had needed.

The move secured Saheb’s vote bank and sent him thumping into the parliament for a sixth time.

The title is because Chai and Pohe are the typical maharashtrian breakfast, transcending all barriers of class and religion. I could imagine both Saheb and Sakhubai partaking of it.

Kindly bear with my attempt to make a story of a flimsy idea. I haven’t executed it to my satisfaction and excuse any errors. Do be amazed though. Anything is possible in India.

And as for the potato, it carefully rested in a wooden casket, on a velvet sheet and surrounded by incense, in Fatima Bibi’s house. Carefully hidden from outside in the folds of her muslin sarees where it seemed to relish the madness of human life teeming outside.

Chai

Sakhubai almost tripped over it. She let out a small curse and looked down and at once she saw that it wasn’t a normal potato. It had a tiny protuberance the shape of a trunk. Turned neatly to the right. ”Ganpati Bappa Morya” she exclaimed loudly, hoped the lord hadn’t heard her cursing and rushed to her house all the while loudly exclaiming. The whole slum was within her house in minutes. A small pooja was immediately conducted to secure blessings and the shapely potato occupied centre stage in her modest hut, appropriately anointed with sandal, kumkum and strewn with flowers. A small trickle of people portly women were praying devoutly. The appearance of a Ganesha provided for a much needed break in Jag Jivan nagar. The nearest festival was months away, the heat had already begun to stifle. For most denizens of this slum in north Mumbai, highs on the cruel plot of life were such, and interspersed amidst a grim, penurious existence.

Jag Jivan nagar was divided into two halves by a large gutter with one bridge. It wasn’t always like that but after the riots in 1993, the police, the politicians and the mafia lords had felt it prudent to divide so that trouble could be contained. One half became Hindu with a temple and a saffron flag atop it. The other half obviously was Muslim. Mosque, prayers, minarets, Id. The dividing gutter was a stinky black morass of plastic bags, human excreta and sewage from the apartment complexes around. It was also only during holi that the gutter actually saw secularism, its blackness lost in a sea of gulal and shimmering silver pellets. Most areas of Mumbai are similar in hiding a dank slum behind the glamorous façade of sky scrapers. For every building sweeping cobwebs off the sky, a real cobweb of teeming enterprise and life existed. Vegetable vendors, domestic help, rickshawallahs and the mass of humans that made for the smooth running of suburban lives.

Fatima Bibi heard of the tuberous manifestation of God. It was time to pray Sakhubai a visit. She too worked as domestic help, as did most of the women in the slum. In a time polarized by religion Fatima was proof of blurring boundaries and mixing colours. Just to be safe though she would go in the night, in a saree. Just in case. With the elections in sight flare ups were common and deep down she felt the appearance of the potato wasn’t a mere accident. But Ganpati she prayed to. And she would go. It was dark when Fatima reached the other side. Slowly she crept up the lane and saw lengthy shadows outside. Shadows of Hindu caps and a trident even. She saw a typical profile and instantly slunk backwards. Saheb was visiting the Ganpati.

Saheb stood tall in his starched kurta, bowed down gently. He had heard of the miracle only some time ago, in his own land and one of his own people and had romptly rushed. A Ganpati with the trunk towards the right! As the evening shadows lengthened Saheb had arrived with his men all around. He looked grim, almost angry as he pushed his way through to Sakhubai’s hut. His wife, Tai was attired in all her Maharashtrian splendor and had an aarti plate with her. Husband wife made a great show of praying and devotion. At once led by his men a spirited rendition of the Ganpati aarti ensured. The spectacle of the Ganpati aarti in Maharashtra is not an ordinary one. The words and the tempo, along with cymbals clanging lend a spirit and a unique high. Ganpati ceases to be a pleasant benign God then, and at once becomes a terrifying avatar, a true destroyer of obstacles. A vanquisher of all evil. A beacon of hope from all dreariness and as suddenly after the crescendo, Sakhubai snapped out of the trance with the last few notes.

The next morning dawned muggy and pregnant. Sakhubai’s home no longer remained a home. It was thronging with people, Sahebs men. Why the Saheb himself had come to pay his respects. After the cursory aarti, he had even touched her feet. Asked for her blessings, she was destined for greatness one mentioned. Several praised her fates and cursed theirs. A right-trunked Ganpati is more demanding it was said. Mere poojas and aartis wouldn’t do many added. Sakhubai was mainly confused, scared and realized that the potato and God no longer figured in the scheme of things. Something greater was brewing.

to be continued…

Cadence

Red room presence requested now the message blinked. All round the room there was a flurry of activity. Samir woke up from his deep revere and blinked stupidly, all the others were already on their way. M was there with his ubiquitous sheaf of papers.

Sarika Khanna was trained in espionage. Tall, fair with hazel eyes, every time M looked at her he felt a surge of testosterone. Ususally she prowled Chandini chowk in salwar-kameez, speaking unchaste Punjabi, on her activa.

Aman Khan. Liaison officer. Hard to believe that the soft spoken man could stop hardcore gangsters in their tracks. His Arabic was a definite asset in these troubled times, especially when most trouble stemmed from the near west. It always irked M how it was the ’Middle East’, even though it was clearly to the west. But then lots of things had irked M more lately.

Vani Ganapathy. Msc Physics, IISc. halfway through her Phd. M picked her up noting her extreme analytical skills, would she like to work for the country’s think tank? Sure…did it exist though? Over pav bhaji and lassi he explained to her the intricacies of the organization. How the CBI and the government had created it, sometime in the 60’s. It was hard to believe that even in a country as corrupt and as underdeveloped there existed a think tank to rival any nation’s. Some of the country’s finest brains, heavy funding (some of it illegal, M smirked as he thought of all he had done) and the governments unending support, they had established it. In the mess that is old Delhi, in one of its many ancient mazes was a house no 14 approachable only by scooter and within an seemingly innocuous home lay some of the most sophisticated piece of computers the country had ever seen.

Shruti Deshpande. Weilded the rolling pin and a gun with equal ease. The team loved her food, she loved to cook. She churned out exotic dishes with alarming regularity and most team successes were celebrated at her South Delhi pad.

Samir Sinha. IIT Kanpur. IIM Ahemdabad. No one knew more about contemporary India more than he. With his vast knowledge and experience in espionage he was more the father everyone looked up to. The world often failed to realize just how deeply India was involved. Often it projected itself as a struggling third world nation occasionally throwing out a Pokhran or a Chandrayaan at the world news, a few inches in some papers. Foolish pop-fiction had glorified Jason monk, failing to point out to the quiet Raj’s and Shalini’s laboring away for Indian (and sometimes world) safety. 9/11, the capture of Laden (M’s smile would often turn into a laugh, whenever he thought of this) the eventual liberation of Myanmar planned, the dealing of LTTE, life went on (it was her birthday next week, he had to buy her a gift how would she like the head of the b****** responsible for the Mumbai blasts?).