The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 5

The Day after and the Night

Find Episode 4 here : Episode 4

The following morning as the sun rose over the hill behind the heath, Champa woke up as usual. She tuned the radio into the national channel as melodious voices welcomed the day with Ramyana chaupais. The music erupted from the radio at around seven in the morning which was then followed by national news. Nothing unusual was reported at that scale. She swept the floor and woke up Devesh who was cuddled up in a bedsheet. The afterhours in the night always became chilly and the bedsheet otherwise unused until late in the night, was an item of desire in the wee hours of the morning.

Devesh got up and adjusted his lungi. Picked out a datoon from the alaa and came out in the front yard. The grass in the garden was still cool and moist from the overnight dew. He squatted on the ground chewing the datoon(traditional herbal stick used for brushing teeth in Indian villages).

Weak sunlight drizzled into the village waking up the alive one after the other. The music from Champa’s radio was a cue for Lakshman to wake up and start bathing near the village handpump. Soon Devika and Champa would be here to collect water for the daily chores at their huts.

Devika had woken up early in the morning and had gone into the woods to relieve herself in the open. She came back before daybreak and crept into the disheveled bed in the hut as Prajwal snored loudly on the khatiya. As the sunlight became intense, the flies in the village became restless. They had started interrupting Prajwal’s sleep as he cursed everyone in general and no one in particular half asleep. “Dhut… behenchod… “ The flies eventually won as he shrugged the incomplete slumber off his eyes and sat upright on the khatiya.

He could hear the music from the radio in Champa’s hut had now switched to news. He could not find Sukhinder on the adjoining khatiya where he usually was every morning. He saw a barrage of stubbed beedis on the dusty ground – a testimony to the long night.

“Devi… Hau.. Devi… Beta paani..” he cribbed from the khatiya as he folded his legs and scratched his entire body in a restless shake. Devika did not respond and he was left with no choice but to get up and fetch water himself. He got inside the hut and picked a glass from the kitchen and scraped the bottom of the ghada (traditional India earthen pot for storing water). The glass was half full. Strange. He remembered it was full the last night when he had gone to sleep. He dismissed the thought as soon as it came and got on with his day.

Titu came out of the house and walked straight up to Champa’s house. “Dadi.. ek tamatar laal laal wapas sunao” (Granny, pls recite the Tomato verse once more) he demanded as he ran into the open hut. “Devesh chacha.. abhi tak soyie rahe hain? Kal raat ko hamko mootne bhi nahi diye Pipal ka neeche…” (Is Devesh uncle sleeping still? Do you know he did not let me piss under a tree last night) Champa put the jhadoo in the corner and uncovered her saree covered face as some dust broke her into a cough.

“Bapu uthi gailon tora? Jinda chhe ki naahi?? ” (Did your father wake up? Is he alive or what?) she asked Titu as he ran into circles in the courtyard outside. “Babu to soye raha.. humma uthaibo kari par uthbe nahi chhe..” (No.. he still sleeps.. I tries to wake him up but he did not) he replied with a childish non chalance not uncommon to a twelve year old. Champa nodded plainly and continued with the household chores. Devesh was listening intently to the 12 year old and spat the tender stems of the datoon from his mouth and threw the rest on the road. He folded his lungi and squatted on the verandah outside the house and demanded tea. The daily chore before he would walk up to Lakhan’s shop to discuss the news from the radio.

*

Sukhinder wasn’t seen until the afternoon and he ran into Prajwal at Lakhan’s shop. “Kya bhaiya.. gaye nahi abhi tak shahar?” (What happened? You did not leave for the town?) he inquired. “Haan! Woh aaj man nahi tha.. kal jaibe.. bihane bihane pet kharab bhai gawa…” (Yeah.. the stomach is upset.. will leave tomorrow) Sukhinder seemed lost but answered quickly throwing furtive glances towards Giridhar’s hut.

Prajwal caught his glance mid way.. “Ka tukur tukur dekh rahe ho babu… konho dikkat?? Jaabe ka man nahi hai tora.. hum to raate ko bole the…”(What’s with the nervous glances.. any problem? You don’t want to leave… I told you last night..) he smiled as if he knew something. Lakhan came out with a bowl of steamed potatoes and started peeling them for the samosas. “Kal raate aap aaye rahe kya idhar Sukhi bhaiya? Hum to neend mein rahe magar laga kaunho aaya tha der raat mein” (Did you come here last night Sukhi bhaiya? I was asleep but it seemed someone came late in the night) Lakhan asked innocuously. Sukhi avoided the question and picked a potato from the bowl “ Behenchod.. garam hai bhosadi.. thanda paani daal na” (Fucker.. the potatoes are too hot.. put some cold water). Prajwal laughed hysterically. Lakhan looked bemused and scratched his back incessantly before getting back to peeling the potatoes.

The rest of the day was uneventful. It is during night when the evil is unmasked roaming freely on the roads. With a surprisingly quiet dusk, the sun slipped behind the clouds and let the moon initiate the business. The stained full moon crept out hurriedly and bathed the village in a glaring light. Exposing more than the sun could during the day.

Late in the night when the crickets is all you could hear, a dark silhouette walked quietly towards Giridhar’s house. Its speed was impeded by a limp leg and it stopped frequently to check if someone was following. Sukhinder had been curious all day. He creaked open the door. It was unlocked. Strange. He had left no trails last night he thought. He opened the door and walked in. He lit a match stick and there lay Giridhar’s body dead in the quiet. He limped around when he heard movement in the back. Someone else was in the room. He scanned the light and was looking straight into the scared eyes of Devika. 

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 4

The Night of the Incident – Part 2

Find Episode 3 here : Episode 3

The night Giridhar was murdered, Champa’s house was not the only house awake. Loud noises came from Prajwal’s hut. Two prominent male voices rose over the slight snoring of a fifteen year old girl.

Sukhinder and Prajwal were seated on a khatiya spread outnlavishly on the road outside the hut. Devika was asleep inside. Prajwal had threatened to leave her out in the forest if she did not sleep and that had yielded immediate results. The 15 year old had run into the hut. She was growing up and ghosts were no longer a threat to her. Sukhinder was and she complied without resistance. The dhibri flickered in the winds casting flickering shadows on the road outside. Two shadows on the road chatting the day happily. She threw one final glance to her father in dismayed pleading to carry the dhibri inside. She wasn’t scared of ghosts but she could not stand the dark in the hut. There had been scary events going on in the village for the past few days which a fifteen year old could not explain or comprehend. Her father disapproved and nothing would convince him otherwise.

It was Sukhinder’s last night in the village before he left for the city the following day. His best friend Prajwal had agreed to help him pack the tiny tin case with the four shirts and lungis before daybreak. The night would be spent in recounting old memories and endless rounds of chilam. The third chilam was lit when Giridhar left Champa’s house hurriedly.

Sukhinder was an ugly man. He was muscularly built except for the limp left leg he carried with him everywhere he went. The leg impeded his speed but the heavy torso gave him the intensity of a bull. The sun had dampened his color which some believed was very fair when he was born. His parents left for the city when he was twenty. That was close to a decade ago. He hadn’t seen them since. He spent most of his time with Prajwal and Devika. The rest of the village thought of Prajwal and Sukhinder as best friends. Prajwal hated him deep down. He hated his limp leg which was a sign of weakness he inherited from his father. He hated his dark brown eyes. How come someone with such imperfections be blessed with eyes so intense. They did not fit. God had been surprisingly generous upon him with those eyes… and the muscular torso. The limp spoils everything. The rest is all good. He thought sometimes before he shrugged the thoughts and replaced them with clandestine hatred for the dark brown eyes.

Prajwal was a weak human being. The two arms hung loosely from sagging shoulders which themselves were part of a body in its decline. The unending routine of sitting on his khatiya had made his legs weak and the stomach was bulging like it does for malnourished children. Since childhood, he was stigmatized with a stammer of a devious nature. He struggled to speak clearly in the night. His words failed him in the starry nights and he usually remained quiet after sundown. Unless Sukhinder came around. Sometimes this scared Devika. But she knew her father loved her. Just like he loved everyone in the village. The stammer was just God’s way to ensure he does not waste words. She thought. She had the brain of a five year old but the body of a twenty five year old woman. Sukhinder noticed it all. And she saw him. Just like she had seen Giridhar groping her mom when she was four. She never understood it then but was aware of the perils of the human mind now. She put these thoughts to rest as she started snoring lightly inside the hut.

“To.. k-k-kal sab kh-khatam….? Kya?” (So all over tomorrow?) stammered Prajwal through the statement as he passed the joint to Sukhinder who took it eagerly and started puffing hard. He ended with a loud cough.

“Haan.. ab bas babuji ko dhoondhna hai… gaon ke chutiyaapa ab khatam”. (Yes. Now all I need to do is to find Dad. Enough with all this shit in this village)

“Itna jaldi ka ka j-ja-jarurat tha? R-ruk ke jaate?” (What’s the hurry but?)

“Arre ei gaon ka kissa khatam Prajwal… Ek ek kar ke sab nikal gaye na… Devesh bhi nikal jayega.. wo to amma ke bharose ruka hai.. Budhiya ka ji to mare khasam mein phansa hai abhi tak.. uske praan nikle aur launda nikal jayega shahar.. bata dete hain.. tum bhi chal lo bhaiyaa… ei gaaon mein to jaan hi rahe ho kya kya ho raha hai??” (This village is over Prajwal. Did not everyone leave one after the other? Devesh will also leave one day.. His mother repents over the lost husband. Once she dies, watch how Devesh takes his stuff and bids goodbye.. I tell you.. You come along too bhaiya  You are well aware al that goes on here) He was referring to Giridhar towards the close of the statement. He scratched his head and put down the joint on the floor and stubbed it with his legs with a unstopping stamp of the right foot. He saw Prajwal staring at the limp leg and retorted in defiant frustration. “Bhosadike nahi chalta hai baayan… bachpan se… ab kya jaan bharoge aankh se??” (What’s with the stare asshole?? You know this leg limps since childhood... Will you now bring it to life with your eyes?)Both of them started laughing.

“Baat to th-theek hai.. p-par gaon se rishta juda hai Sukhi.. ab to marenge tab hi chhootega.. Aur Girdhar bhaiya bhi yahin to hai..” (You might be right but there is an emotional attachment with this village.. It will probably end with my last breath… And Giridhar bhaiya is also here .. no??)

“Wo saala bhosadika ganjedi kisi ka saga nahi hai Prajwal… tu chutiya hai…” (That rag runt of an addict is no man’s kin Prajwal.. you are too naïve.. )

“Bh-aiyaa bh-abhi ke jaane se gaanje mein lag gaye Sukhi.. Dil se to N-n-nek hi hai… Devika se bhi bahut dil la-la-lag-agaate hain.. aur Titu to jaan hai re..” (That addiction is due to his wife’s death.. he loves Devika and Titu is pretty much his life)

“Tu andha hai harrami.. chal Devika ko le ke sheher humre saath… Woh to us din tune rok liya warna bazaar mein kaat dete tumhre bhaiyaa ko… hasiya to utha hi liya tha” (You are blind Prajwal.. come with Devika to the city.. You shouldn’t have held me that evening.. I would have quartered your brother that day.. I had the handsickle right next to me..)

A momentary silence consumed the khatiya as both Prajwal and Sukhinder took a moment to contemplate the events of that evening. An insurmountable pain agonized Prajwal as he recalled the tension- physical and emotional that evening near Lakhan’s shop; the undisputed address of all things, good, bad and evil… With a nervous shake of the head, Prajwal got up to go check Devika inside while Sukhinder stayed there out in the open. Some minutes later he could hear loud noises of music and laughter approaching in his direction. Accompanied by a kid’s failed attempt at reciting ‘Ek tamatar laal laal’ the male voice was indiscernibly that of Devesh. The only male child in the village was Titu and Sukhi hated both the child and his father. There was history of improbably animosity between the two since the events of 10 January 1988. Four years hence, Giridhar – disliked by most and demeaned by a few had found but one man with hatred amounting to physical harm. Unlike others though that man had a limp leg making escape post murder slightly messy. But not tonight for he left in two days.

Sukhinder got up with a purpose tonight. Prajwal came out of the hut without the dhibri with a datoon in his mouth. “Kahaa-an chale ?” (Where to?)he spoke as the limp walked zig-zag connecting dots on the road.

“Kuch baaki reh gaya hai” (Some unfinished business) Waved Sukhinder by the back of his hand and continued limping towards Giridhar’s hut. What Prajwal did not see was the look of disgust and self loathe that almost made Sukhi sprint.

“Bahut jaldi mein hai saala… bhosadika chutiya hi rahega.. “ (In quite a hurry.. the moron..!!) smirked Prajwal as he lay on the khatiya, completing his statement with no halts and exhaled with a deep sense of satisfaction over his plan.

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 3

The Night of the Incident – Part 1

Find Episode 2 here : Episode 2 

The dead human body does not start disintegrating quickly. It did not at least in the case of Giridhar. It was a rotten mess. Much like his life. After life had start similarities. The following day was a plethora of emotions for the village. The killer was out alive. Fear was natural. What was also natural was the chaos that would ensue when Prajwal would find the body next to Titu.

**

The previous night after Giridhar had dropped Titu on the floor and hurried out the front door, Champa had done two things. She had finished eating the four chapatis from the plate while Titu lay on the floor crying for attention. She had then got up, picked the green shiny kurta and placed it right in the back of the alaa, where from it was invisible to a passing eye. Then she had smiled and caressed Titu. “Kahaan janam liya re tu…kapoot ke ghar kahaan phool khilta hai.. sab maaya hai..” (How come you ended in that family? Flowers don’t bloom in a thorny estate… It is all God’s will though). The poor child kept his cries at an incessant high, and continued sobbing for some time while Champa made milk for him in the kitchen.

Devesh walked in later with fresh meat from the day’s hunt. He looked frenzied and confused unlike other days. He had run into Giridhar on his way into the hut and had stopped for a momentary chit chat which was rudely denied. He was the last person to see Giridhar alive. Or so the villagers were supposed to think the following day.

“Ka hua.. Ei Giridharwa bada jaldi mein laga aaj saala…”(What happened? Giridhar seemed in quite a hurry) were his first words when he was inside the kitchen. The fumes from the freshly baked chapatis had filled the entire hut but the aroma was intense. Champa ignored the question and continue teaching Titu the nursery rhymes that every one learnt in the village when they were kids..

“Ek tamatar laal laal… uske andar laal laal..

hum bhi khayen… tum bhi khao.. sab ho jaayen laal laal”

(One red tomato… all red inside…

Let us share and consume… and be all red likewise ) 

She finished the rhyme with an evil grin on her face as she looked at Titu… “Ei.. tera baap kaisan tamaatar jaisa laal ho gaya.. dekha..”(Did you see your father walk away all red??) Titu never understood the metaphor. Or the evil grin. Devesh stood unmoved. The confusion on the face was now replaced with disgust.

“Kitni baar kahe hain amma.. bacha ke saamne itna mat bola karo.. Umar hone lagi hai sasure ki.. samajhta hai.. baap ko bak dega kisi din” (How many times have I told you mother? Not to speak such foul in front of the kid.. he is getting older..this asshole..  Will go complain someday)

“Arre abhi to bacha hai.. Deva.. par humne dekha hai shaitaan kutte ki aankh mein.. “ (He is only a child Deva.. But I have seen Devil in his father’s eyes)

“Amma.. kabhi kabhi to darte hain hum tohre se.. Us din to tum bhi wahin thi na.. Babuji ka haija to uparwaale ka diya hai.. kahe bakwaas karti ho..” (Mother, you scare me sometimes.. You were there in person that night.. Father’s illness was god’s doing… Why do you speak this rubbish?)

“Chhod pagla.. tu nahi samjhega.. Girdhar par shaitan ka haath hai…” (Let it go.. you won’t get it. The devil reigns over Giridhar)

Titu stopped lapping the milk from the flat bowl and looked up in dismayed affection.. “Humra baap shaitaan hai…” (My father is a demon..)with the smile of a six year old.. unaware of what he had just said. Both wondered if it was a question… perhaps.

“Hutt pagle.. Doodh pi.. chal chhode aata hun tere babu ke paas khaana khaaye ke… Amma tum bhi na..“ (Get lost.. and drink your milk.. I will go drop you at your father’s once I finish eating.. Mother.. you are a pain..) murmured Devesh in a fumbled voice and sat down next to Titu. Champa had poured the sabji and chapatis on a steel plate and Devesh started eating hungrily. What had happened in the morning today in the adjoining forest was equally horrifying. But mentioning it to Champa would mean more explaining and he was utterly tired since the events in the forest. He finished eating quickly and got up to wash his hands in the backyard. There was no light in Giridhar’s hut in the distance but he could faintly smell the weed. “Bastard has no vigour to work for the child but smokes weed like a chimney” he thought as he came into the hut.

Champa was still adjusting the shiny green kurta. “Babuji ka kurta kahe nahi jalne di us din tum.. ab isko kya saath le ke hi jaogi?”  (Why did you not let Father’s kurta exhume that day? Will you now die with it?) His frustration was valid. He lit the incense sticks and repeated the hanuman chalisa (a prayer to Lord Hanuman) in his customary speed as Titu started to snore lightly on the floor.

Devesh woke the kid up to drop him at his father’s place when Champa held his hand. “Let him sleep here tonight.. I don’t feel very good about the night sky.. there is no light in his hut and it would be filled with the smoke of weed.” The resistance was impregnated with purpose tonight. Like never before.

He pushed her back and woke him however. Titu was stammering in his sleep and his teeth made a weird clattering noise like kids’ do when they are bordering on sleep and wakefulness. He woke up with a start like a bad dream had come to an inconclusive halt. The dream would come back he feared.

**

As the moon started to cross in the second quarter of the night, Devesh and Titu walked humming tunes. Devesh hummed a tune he had heard recently at Lakhan’s shop on his radio on Vividh Bharti. Titu sang the recently learnt rhyme in broken verse “Ek tha tamaatar laal laal.. uska andar bhi laal laal… hum sab khaayen laal laal.. woh ho jaaye laal..” (There was a tomoto.. all red.. we ate it all.. and the tomato was all red…)Devesh did not care to correct the mistakes but lit a beedi on the way. He finished the song with a long burp and followed it with a ‘Hari om’.. It was a weird custom but everyone did it in the village. It was a noisy gratitude for a fulfilling meal to the Gods above… But tonight the Gods slept up above in their humble abode while demons walked on the streets of Badalpur.

“Chacha.. tani ta.. ruk jao.. mutna hai..” (Uncle wait a minute.. I have to take a leak) Titu complained holding his groin in one hand and tugging Devesh’s hand in the other. The undiluted presure on Devesh’s little finger hinted at the intensity of the impending interval and he stubbed his bidi under his Lakhani chappals.

While Titu relieved himself by the tree, Devesh jumped and picked him up and put him on the empty side of the road. “Pissing at the bottom of a tree in the night invites demons Titu.. you want them to come take you away?” he scolded the little kid. Titu just winked at him. Devesh could swear he saw a scorn on his face for a split second.

In the next few minutes Devesh and Titu reached Giridhar’s hut. There was a strong smell of weed. It seemed Giridhar was smoking two days worth of ganja. He left Titu at the door and walked away.

“Chal jaa.. apna babu ke paas.. aur so jaana chup chaap.. koi awaaj nahi.. babu soya hoga.. jagana mat” (Now go to your father.. And sleep quietly.. don’t wake him up and no noise..)He left with half a warning and half a suggestion.

Titu tried to push the door open but it was locked. Devesh had reached the end of the front yard and calling out for assistance seemed irrelevant. He went around and climbed into the window and quietly settled into the open floor in the hut. The room still smelled of the ganja.

From the corner of the dark room, Titu could see the burning end of a chilam. The scorn had returned on his face.

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 2

The Murder

Find Episode 1 here : Episode 1

When Giridhar came home last night, he did not lock the door behind him. It was hot and humid and he needed something to quickly overcome reality. It was a daily affair. Dinner at Lakhan’s shop followed by the daily dosage of ganja in his chilam. He quickly lit it and opened the window looking into the backyard. The moon shone brightly and you could see the heath in the distance. A vast stretch of emptiness matched only by the emptiness of Champa’s heart; he thought. A bulky man in his mid fifties, Giridhar preferred the cool breeze directly on his skin, made moist by the humid night. The lungi had been overworn and adorned his waist snugly. The bright blue chequered fabric had lost its color mingling bleakly with the color of the faded walls inside the so-called ‘haveli’. It wasn’t one though; as it lacked the grace of the kings and the simplicity of the peasants. It was a mess. A cross hybrid between an unfinished hut and aspirational bungalow. There never was enough money to build houses in the village.

Titu was nowhere to be seen. Must be in Champa’s garden picking up ‘raatrani’ in the night. Raatrani was characteristic to the village – a flower which grew only in the night in this belt but the blossomed buds imparted a thick essence of sweet candor to the village. When dark descended, the sweet aroma rose unchained across the other houses in the village from Champas’ garden. It was the only place with a garden toiled hard in the day by Champa. He thought of her bending down to clear up the excess grass and chuckled a little. The ganja was starting to infuse with the blood.

He walked out quietly in the open; one hand on his lungi and the other holding the chilam. The tobacco burnt slowly and made light cracking sounds. “Eh! Even the ganja has gotten wet bahi***od”, he spat and coughed loudly.

A body moved in the distance to the other side of the wall and he thought he saw shiny green kurta fly across the distance. “Kaun hai re.. bho**dika”(Who’s there asshole?) he shouted at the top of his voice – half in fear and the other half in a tone of self assurance that all was fine. It wasn’t.

 “Ka hua Girdhar chacha?”(What happened Giridhari Uncle?) Barked Lakhan from the other side of the wall. “Kuch nahi.. laga konho hai… chilamiya aaj gadar hai saali!!”(Nothing.. I thought I saw someone.. The weed is pretty strong tonight) Giridhar shouted back.

“So jao chacha.. ihaan kauno aata hai raat ko”(Sleep uncle.. who comes here in the night?) Lakhan subsided the persistent fear and went back to swatting flies from his hairy tummy. Soon Lakhan’s snores started beating a rhythmic tone. The unquiet alibi of a village murder. Only if they had memory… or could testify.

Meanwhile, back in his hut Giridhar had finished the chilam and thrown it in the stash of other usable items he kept in the ‘alaa’ (square hole in the wall, primarily used as an inexpensive storage place). The moon had climbed up higher in the night sky announcing the arrival of the second quarter of the night into the eight lives of Badalpur. Only seven would witness the third. His son was nowhere to be seen. He walked in fast paces to Champa’s garden where upon noticing the familiar quiet, made way into the hut. Titu sat on the floor scraping some dried leaves off the bowl asking for more. Champa sat next to him with a hand fan to disturb the file of mosquitoes settling on Titu’s forearm every three minutes.

“Titu.. let us go home” Giridhar smacked without much introduction and dragged him against his will out the hut. He cried in protest but to no avail. Champa cast a loathsome glance on the semi naked torso but could not ignore the lustful stare her glance was matched by. She hated Girdhar’s guts, especially now that her husband was gone and her son spent most of the time constructing the small tree house for Titu.

“Kya budhiya… khaaye liya gobar? Hamre ghar chalegi to shahad pilaun?”(What’s up old woman? Did you eat your dog shit..?? Come to my place.. I will offer you honey) Giridhar broke into a deathly laughter and pulled Titu by his arm. While he was exiting the house his eyes caught something shiny in the ‘alaa’ and he froze for a moment. In the filtered light of the kerosene lamp he recognized it as the green kurta Champa’s husband wore the day he died.

In the moment of dismay and chill, he left hurriedly abusing something in his Pahari language. He dropped Titu to the floor and went back into the hut and locked the door - first time in decades. He washed his face with cold water and lit another chilam. He lay on the floor in complete darkness. The only light was from the burning embers of the chilam. His brain was exercising all possible emotions as a tear rolled down his left eye. He lifted his hand to wipe the unannounced tear when it hit something muscular in the background.

He felt a strong grasp twisting his arm and two other arms strangling his throat with effortless persistence. He struggled for four minutes before he breathed a silent exhale… life exit through the throat.. a painful mixture with the ganja.. The room was absolutely quiet and no one moved for the next few hours…

The assailant got up after some time and lit the unfinished ‘chilam’. A muffled cough echoed in the room for a while before the assailant sprinked the unlit ganja on his body, filled a glass of water and dropped the earthen pot on the floor… Lakhan’s loud snores never heard the muffled cry that was the last Giridhar breathed.. nor did his droopy eyes see the silhouette covered in shiny green exit the compound…

A cloud cover passed eerily over the moon as the third quarter of the night arrived into the village… Everyone was asleep except one.. for he lay dead on the floor..!!

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 1

Pilot (or The incident)

Prajwal

Devika, Prajwal’s 12 year old daughter

Devesh

Champa – Devesh’s mother

Lakhan – tea shop owner

Sukhinder

Giridhar – Prajwal’s brother, victim.

Titu – Giridhar’s 10 year old son

Rains don’t come to these villages any more. Sweltering heat descends in the afternoon on the few tea lovers who flock the only tea shop in the middle of the village which serves savories (jalebis and samosas) as well. Padded fields on the other side of the road and a broken cycle wheel hangs from a distraught hook outside the tea shop; a reminder to the few old timers that this was a cycle repair shop. But there were no cycles here anymore after the rich flee to the cities. The wheel remained an item of utmost curiosity to the little child Titu born after the great fire. A rotund imagery devoid of poetry and prose synonymous with the very dark that engulfs the eight people who live in the village - four from the same family. A complicated hegemony of relations lying exposed as they choose to bid farewell to Sukhinder who leaves for the city today. Seven more to go – he thinks and waves at the bus as it comes to a screeching halt next to the aforementioned tea shop, creating a mirage of dust and smoke which settles snugly on the samosas.

Sukhinder lives alone in the hut adjoining Devesh’s behind the tea shop. Three houses in the village – each a landmark for the other and the tea shop. Ah! The tea shop – a giant fuck you to the huge coffee houses in the city with posh lighting and swanky floors. This is a hell hole of ever sweltering heat, drowsy flies resting calmly on the jalebis as Lakhan wipes the tea pot every afternoon at 2 pm in patient anticipation of the 6 people who drink tea everyday. His customer bucket decreases to five from today. He weeps no tear as death is a worse agonizer. There is hope still for Sukhinder to return. No one has returned yet in the past 15 years though. ‘Hope’, he thought is a treacherous emotion, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. It mixes with the pan as he cleanses it in the brown hued water from the borewell in the backyard.

The borewell was planted seven years ago when the village had enough people to warrant a political seat. Some call it government attention but the definitions are long lost. In the first year, the water was really clean and crisp but such was no longer the case. During the fourth year, after Devesh had lost to Prajwal during an arm wrestling game for the first time in two years, the water erupted a pale yellow. The borewell was scratching earth’s surface they felt – and the earth was too eager to stay quietly in the summer heat and every now and then found a way out through the water the borewell bore. A silent act of rebellion. Devesh’s father had planted the borewell in the village seven years ago when he was still alive. He was not any more. He died of haija outside the village borders which was no more than 3 kilometers. Devesh had gone himself to ensure he stays out and dies peacefully. Wrapped in five layers of clothing he carried his father and waited for life to flicker from his eyes under the starry night. It was a good night to die. He thanked the stars when he was completely gone and buried him in the ground he had excavated in the afternoon. He felt alive albeit guilty. Late in the night he stumbled into Lakhan near the tea shop. He woke not to console him but to scratch his big belly and ask in the most innocuous of tones “Dafnaaye aaye bhaiya? Chai banau?”

Prajwal was twenty seven but looked thirty five in the lungi and baniyan he wore all day. Unlike others who had hairy faces for wont of a barber in the village, Prajwal had a cleaner countenance (cleaner of course of the hair) and donned a dirty browning moustache alone. He wiped his face clean with a knife he cut onions with. He felt Champa liked her men cleaner. Champa was Devesh’s mother and a widow. And she was fifty three. But she was the second female in the village. The first was Prajwal’s twelve year daughter, Devika, from his now dead wife. Champa had grown intuitively fond of Devika as she grew older. She sat on the floor in the open hut as she blew air into the choolha making chapatis for Devika and Devesh. He chided her affection sometimes but loved the chubby kid to hangout in the garden every evening as she played with Giridhar’s son Titu. He was growing fast but the heat made it easier to not afford new clothes. Giridhar was an old ragged man devoid of hair on his head and emotion in his heart. His wife some said never died of natural causes unless beating her every night was natural in the village. She died shortly after Titu’s birth. Giridhar was only more irritable after the incident and spent his time swatting flies outside Lakhan’s tea shop. Occasionally he spoke with his brother Prajwal about his work. They grew rice and wheat in January every month and ate it through the year.

Giridhar breathed his last a night ago when someone strangled him to death in his sleep. It was the first murder in this quiet village of nine people. It would not be two days after today that Prajwal would find his brother dead who he assumed would be asleep otherwise under the influence of hashish the grew abundantly in his backyard.

But today was a different day. Everyone except the dead Giridhar were at the bus top wishing Sukhinder farewell as he boarded the dusty bus. He sighed as the bus leapt into the oblivion the villagers called the city. Prajwal started walking towards Giridhar’s hut complaining of his sadistic pleasures only to be repulsed by a stench of the dead. For the first time someone had died in the last three years. For the first time the cause was unnatural. Prajwal stood shocked at the door as Titu played with his dead father’s beard.

(To be continued)

Lessons from Paris

While sitting atop a small hillock outside the Dali museum and gazing far out at a city that seemed to be in love with itself I knew I would one day write about the inherent narcissism of Paris. In one of those astute moments of self realization, I even knew what I would write. I had it all figured out but the charm of the city is only seconded by the volatility of its soul which vaporises the moment you leave the place.

Alright! I will be honest with you. All the fancy crap you read above is a lie. I am doing this to appease a friend who I owe the maintenance of a soiled leather jacket. Let’s call this friend Avinash and let’s call this leather firm ‘Theo&Ash’. In case you are wondering they run a wonderful organization with one objective: Selling leather jackets in one of the hottest markets- India. When I say hottest I mean literally. Let us take a moment to wish them all the best. They are doing a great job. Till date they have sold 465 leather jackets.. which is 5 more than the bosses who have fucked me (this time - not literally).

While we are establishing facts, let me clarify a few. I did travel to Paris. Theo&Ash actually exists. Check out their site hereTheo&Ash. They do repair your leather jackets without charge if you are friends with them. I do own two of such gems, one of which I did soil on a plane.. Long story.. Some other time, unless you disregard this post as an attempt to publicise leather. I love animals. I actually am one of them. I work for a corporate organization.

Paris, for those of you who don’t know (and this includes the entire illiterate population of NCR) is the capital of France. Apart from the language French, which evolved as a tongue twister for the British, the city boasts of Eiffel Tower. It is like Shard went on a full on diet and lost all carbs….and bones were all that remained. The city hosts a hell lot of tourists every year. Pretty much more than the population of Iceland. (Wait for more imaginary adventures in Iceland in the next post). We reached Paris at 5 in the morning. When I say ‘we’ it was Abhinav, Anuj and Alex (names changed of course because their real names are pathetic loser types only). Also, Alex although is a girl’s name in German, we were travelling with a full on mallu who seems like he ate a heavy Sheikh in breakfast and forgot to digest him, which seems reasonable given that he could not digest even the preface of ‘Half Girlfriend’.

While we arrived in Paris early morning at the train station, our hostel bookings were valid from 1 pm in the afternoon. So we did what any first time tourist in Paris would do. Slept for 2 hours at the train station. Did I tell you that Gare du nord has a wonderful enclosed (read heated) waiting room for people who are on budget travel. They have nothing but love for their tourists, unless you are from England in which case.. ‘Go Fuck yourself you fries eating, beer mouthed pretentious oaf’… Paris is all about humility and simplicity. 5 French aristocrats choked on their Boreaux wine after reading the previous line.

Post awakening (which is also used to describe the 24^th year of Alex’s life when he learnt how to speak to a woman. It was the same year Abhinav realized he is not one…) we went straight up to the Louvre(pronounced as loo in French)… This confused Alex because he does not like going to the loo twice in a span of 1 hour. It will take a normal human being approximately 2 days to see everything in the museum. It will take 7 lives to appreciate everything to their rightful measure.. There are more paintings than the emotional baggage Aishwarya Rai carried from her previous relationship with Vivek Oberoi… But do take a look at Mona Lisa when you are there.. See what the fuss is all about. If you are tired you can sit down and appreciate some old paintings and the way light works on them… The realization is much stronger if you have flown in from Amsterdam…

Then there is the Arch de triumph. It is pretty much like India gate, except that they charge you 15 euros which is enough to buy Old Monk to drink through 2^nd October… Then there is a Louis Vuitton store on the same lane.. Specifically placed to mock you.. If you walk in you will see some people buying stuff… for their girlfriends… 2 min silence for 0.0005% of Zimbabwe’s GDP spent on a brown bag…

Then there is the Eiffel tower which you have to go to.. otherwise no one in India will believe you went to Paris.. We went there twice because we are pukka 2 times patriotic… One should definitely visit the Notre dam.. or take a walk along the river if you are feeling slightly adventurous.. If you are feeling snobby and pretentious order 3 bottles of wine. Drink it slowly like making love to the glass…

But the best part of the stay was the 'Three Ducks Hostel'… It was started by three dicks who we will not name for the purpose of convenience.. the hostel name is a typo though… It is not a funny story… The hostel however is amazing and the bar inside is splendid…You should try the beer from the tap… If the lady at the bar is happy she might even play a song for you.. or lend you her lighter…

Don’t go on their underground trains though.. they stink.. Literally... I would call it a cement fiasco...

Take a walk in some cramped streets away from the chaos of the city and you might just realise why it is called as the most romantic city… chaos and quiet exist in harmony…....Go on find some love and if you don’t you always have “Three Ducks.”!!

नज़्म

जो दिल में दर्द है , उतारो कागज़ पर -
तो नज़्म जनमती है ……
तब तक जलती है हर रोज़ शायर के ज़हन में।

यह कैसी आग है जो न जलाती है दिन में
और न रात को रौशन ही करती है ……
बस भभकती रहती है हवा में जूझते चराग सी।

नवजात ही होती है , कमज़ोर भी
पहले पहल
तराशना पड़ता है बहुत मोहब्बत से
हर रोज़
मानी सिखाओ तो नज़्म बोलना सीखती है ……
बात करती है तुमसे, कभी  डाँट भी देती है
भड़ककर।

पलती है हर दिन -
सियाही पीती है , बड़ी होती है ……
दो चार  यारों का काफिला बनाकर -
दीवान बनाती है, नज़्म।

मगर कुछ  ऐसी अनाथ भी हो जातीँ  हैं
जनमकर ……
ना मानी समझतीं हैं प्यार के ना
बात करतीं हैं पलटकर ……

बस मरे शायर सी ही
बाँझ होतीं  है ……
उनसे  कोई नज़्म नहीं पनपती।

मेरी ऐसी ही एक नज़्म
स्टेशन के पास भूली बिसरी
आज भी ज़ुबान ढूंढती है  ……
जिसको  हाथ फेरकर  सर पे , अपनाया था तुमने ……
मानी दिए थे।  

खिड़की

वक़्त की खिड़की पर कुछ लम्हें सुखाए हैं ……
जो कल रात तुम्हारे आंसुओं में गीले हो गए थे

हवा उड़ा ना ले जाए ; बस यही दर रहता है …
की ना तुम्हारे प्यार का वज़न है उनपर....
और ना ही तुम्हारी डाँट का डर ॥  

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

सूरज अब भी आता है हर रोज़ जलाने को .....
और चाँद हर रात जल के राख हो कर जाता है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की जिन साँसों को तुम्हारी खुशबुओं की शोहबतें लगी थीं ;
उनको अब सिगरेट के धुंए की आदत हो गयी है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

शाम अब भी पूछती है तेरी बाहों का पता।.....
और सुबह तेरे माथे का किनारा मांगती है .....
शाम को मैं  टाल देता हूँ 'कल आना' बोलकर .....
पर सुबह से रात का जलता धुआं छिपता नहीं

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की मेरी सुबहें और शामें मुझ पे शक करने लगी हैं …
कल से शायद ना आएँगी ..  तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

लफ़्ज़ों के कारीगर

लफ़्ज़ों के  चार कारीगर सियाह रात में बैठे....
बुझती हुई अंगीठी में नज़्में  फूँका करते थे

बड़ी ऊँची अलावन  तपती थी.… भभक कर
उठती थी आग सर्द हवाओं में .....

ये काम अब धीमा पड़ गया है …… आजकल
मंदी है नज़्मों  के  व्यापार में ....

एक अमावस है जो आती नहीं
    की रात सियाह हो
    अंगीठी फिर से जले…

कोई नज़्म फिर से रौशन हो…।