Everybody knew how to ruffle Girdhar’s feathers, even when meeting him for the first time. You might mention how it had rained too little or too much, or that the cost of seeds was going up but the price of the harvest had hardly moved. If not farming, you might bring up how the buses that thundered down the highway now blared all kinds of inane music and made it worse when one of them stopped to let a dozen grotesque city-types relieve themselves. One never had to look for long to find a way to make Girdhar scowl and mumble about a world gone to tatters.
“Ram Lal brought his new tractor again today. That pointy-faced mole is always looking for ways to show it off.” Girdhar was home, sitting on his coir cot and smoking from his chillum pipe. He was speaking to Kamala, his wife, who was rolling out the six chapatis that he would eat and then three each for herself and Rupesh, their son, who wasn’t home yet. He had gone to the village to buy a razor blade. He purposely bought things one at a time so that he could get out more often.
“Just last month he was driving around with his two buffaloes on it, saying he wanted them to enjoy the fresh air. Fresh air? They are buffaloes, for God’s sake. No matter how far they ride, the air around them is never fresh. It’s just flies and dung. That idiot should have been in the back with the buffalo driving him around for some open air. Now, that would be worth his boasting.” Girdhar spat those last words out, and then took a long puff from his tobacco.
Kamala flipped the chapati over before one side got burnt and said to him, “Don’t speak so loudly or someone might hear you”. She didn’t look up from her stove and kept flipping the bread until it puffed up a little, and then plucked it off the fire, onto a plate that already had one chapati, a curry of potato and cabbage, along with half a cut onion.
She held out the plate to Girdhar with one arm and announced, “Here.” Girdhar got up, went to the door of their hut and placed his pipe on the floor to keep till he had finished eating. He walked back and took the plate from her. Years ago, when she was a new bride, Kamala’s arm would tremble and she’d have to put the plate down till he was ready. Sometimes she’d even dropped it when her arm cramped. They had fought over this more times than they could count. “Do you expect I should be able to eat with the plate in one hand and my pipe in the other?” he would shout. “Why can’t you be ready a minute sooner instead of puffing away like a chimney till the very last second?” she would shout back. Needless to say his obstinacy won and Kamala just had to get stronger. Of course, she could have just kept the plate on the floor, but somehow despite all the aggravation, she couldn’t bring herself to just leave it there for him. Halfway through his meal Girdhar heard voices outside. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was Rupesh, returning home after someone on a motorcycle dropped him and drove off. Girdhar counted the seventeen steps in his mind and turned to face the door as his son entered. In his entire life, Rupesh could not remember even one time that he had returned home after dark and his father hadn’t been eyeing him like a hawk right from the door. In fact, Rupesh had started entering his house with his eyes cast down. His father liked to think this was humility, but it was just to avoid confrontation.
“Can’t walk anymore that you’ve taken to hitching rides? Conserving your energy for some monumental task, I’m sure.” Rupesh kept his eyes on his feet and went to wash his hands. He knew that if not this, his father would doubtless have something else to say, so responding was futile.
“Who dropped you?”
This was an answer he knew his father wouldn’t like to hear, so he tried to deflect. “I told him not to. I told him many times, but he insisted,” he replied with as much helplessness as he could produce in his voice.
“Who was it?” bellowed Girdhar, losing his patience.
“Vinod.”
“Vinod? That son of the tractor king, Ram Lal? That Vinod?” Girdhar was erupting like a volcano now. “Why did you take a ride with him? Are you their new buffalo?” Though Rupesh tried not to care, his father’s words always stung. His face was flushed red with rising rebellion but all he could do was trace his path around his father, making sure to leave more than an arm’s length between them.
That night, while his wife and son slept, Girdhar lay awake on his cot, troubled by thoughts of his life’s inequities. He stared outside the window like he had done on a hundred other such nights, drawn into a waking sleep by memories of his own childhood. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, but slowly what he was looking at loomed into sight. Standing in the field, about a furlong away, was a broken and haggard old mansion. Its doors and windows were hanging off their hinges, the parapets were crumbling with each day. There was even grass growing on them, like eyebrows on the punched up façade of the building.
How different it had looked in its glory days, he thought to himself, how it invited everyone’s envy. The mansion had belonged to the British Collector who was, for all intents and purposes, the lord and master of this entire district. For the people living here, it was the king’s palace for all they cared, and it was built on land acquired from Girdhar’s father, because it was close to the proposed road that would soon pass through here. Girdhar’s father couldn’t be happier that his land had been chosen among all others. It felt like the benevolent hand of blessing had been placed on his head by the king himself.
It was a thing of such beauty and stature, this mansion, with its resplendent white outer walls, fluttering green and yellow curtains, an acre of garden all around it full of dahlias and marigold, and a little table with chairs for evening tea. It was worthy of the gods themselves. Girdhar was just a young child when it was built, but he had memories of growing up near it, and always being reminded never to enter the compound or be heard by anyone inside. He took these to heart and would even dutifully admonish other children for playing anywhere within earshot.
He had only one clear memory of the Collector himself, who was otherwise always concealed from view in the compound or away for work. That one memory was when he had gone with his father to the mansion, summoned by the man himself. His father was taken aback at being summoned, and became a bundle of nerves for fear of embarrassing himself or angering the Collector, so he took his young son along for good measure. The collector was in his garden, taking his evening tea and instructed his attendants to bring them to him. “Come, come dear chaps.” Girdhar wasn’t sure if he should follow and stayed behind at the hedges till he was ushered in. “This is my son Girdhar” said the father explanatorily, and with his hands pressed together. “Giir- dhaar”, repeated the Collector, inadvertently saying it more like the word for jackal. But, neither father nor son cared, for just the interest shown was more than gratifying. “Yes, sir, thank you” replied Girdhar, bowing. The pair sat on their haunches to receive audience.
Niceties done, the Collector immediately got to the point. “I suppose you already know that change is coming. Everything and everyone will feel it. You are getting your country back.” Father and son remained silent, expressionlessly staring at the pink face. The Collector waited, but receiving no reply continued. “Yes, well, the country is being passed back to your hands and we will all be leaving.”
Suddenly, the father spoke up – “We?”
The Collector laughed at his confusion and shook his head, “No, no. ‘We’ meaning the British, angrez. All of us British are leaving India and you will stay on, governed by your own people from now.” The father looked at Girdhar to see if he could understand what was being said but neither did he. In this vast and impoverished nation, even epoch-changing news spread at a glacial pace.
“Never mind,” he continued, “there will be time enough for you to understand that later. But, understand this now – I will leave in a matter of months, or even sooner. And while there will be new officers, Indian officers, who will replace us, I want to leave a clean slate behind. So, I want to return your land to you, sold back to you at whatever price you can afford. The District Office will remain, the Magistrate’s, the Postmaster’s, all of that will stay for the new people. But, this home, where my family and I have spent many happy years, should remain a home and not become a godown for administrative jiggery-pokery.”
Nobody spoke for the new few minutes except the crickets. The father and son twitched in their place, neither of them talking but clearly bursting with questions that they were too afraid to ask. Most importantly, what would happen to the house? Would they leave that untouched? Will the new Collector throw them out again? Many questions, but their temerity kept them quiet.
Having expected a more hearty response, the Collector lost his patience at this mute display and asked crossly, “Won’t you say anything? Are you not happy with what I have said?” Girdhar’s father jumped forward to touch the ground in regret and quickly tried to make amends. “No, sahib, of course we are happy. You are our Lord and your kindness is limitless. It is just that we don’t understand everything, but if you are satisfied then who are we to object. You know best.” The Collector appeared placated, but didn’t reply.
The old man looked at the ground and his eyes darted up and down while he added up how much money they had. After all, they could not appear stingy or ungrateful when their land was being returned to them. They had perhaps four hundred rupees kept away for Girdhar’s marriage, that was what he could offer. The land would return this money to them in just a few years, and the splendour of the house meant getting marriage proposals would never be a problem.
“Sahib, you are a big man, a man of such responsibilities. It will be foolish of me to assume that anything I have will be of any value to you. But, I must offer you everything I have for your kindness, because I know it is no small gesture from your side. All the money I have in this world comes to just four hundred rupees. I hope you will not be offended if that is all I can give you.”
The Collector didn’t seem displeased and probably didn’t really care about the actual value of the mansion. He was just happy to have squared the matter and got some spending money in the process. He nodded his approval and rose from his seat and the two also followed. “Times are changing. You cannot look to others anymore. You must look to yourself now, and your son must look to you. Now be on your way.” And so saying, he turned and went inside.
Three months later, rather sooner than any of them had imagined, the Collector and all the other British had left the village. Some to Delhi had gone, some to Bombay, and eventually all back to Britain. Before his departure the Collector had called everyone in one last time to sign, or more likely, to put an impression of their thumb, on the papers that made them all owners of great things like motor cars and teak furniture. Even with such a windfall all around, none were more envied than Girdhar’s family. For the next few weeks they didn’t dare to move in, fearing that different officers might arrive and not be too pleased to see them squatting in there. After another two months they placed their first possession inside the house, an idol of their deity, and put up a fence around the hedges to keep away encroachers. There had been word that a new nation had been created and displaced people were looking for any unattended place to make their home. Nobody knew exactly how all this had happened, or even where. Some said it was in the East, some said it was the West, none guessed that it was both. For a few weeks everyone was keeping watch like hawks, but finally no encroachers came to this district.
But, change was coming, and it wasn’t a cooling wind that blew. This region was not blessed by rain and the land was dependant on irrigation. Because of the administrative overhaul a lot of the day-to-day functioning was interrupted. Water supply was erratic, markets were frequently closed, even incidents of theft were rising. One such day, when they turned on the pipes in the fields all they got was a gurgling sound, like a hookah. Everyone gathered to enquire frantically and eventually they learnt that the pipe had burst about four or five kilometres upstream and all the water had been shut off. Nobody at the offices could say when it would be restored, only assuring that “it will take longer that you think.”
All that was left was for the father to start drawing water from the wells, and the son from the hand pump, and together just moisten the fields bucket by bucket. They started waking up two hours earlier, in the black of night, to sprinkle water over every inch of the ground. If they started any later it would dry up instantly under the sun.
In just a few days, Girdhar’s father had doubled up with a bent spine and his fingers could barely open out any more. Twisted like roots, they were incapable of lifting anymore weight. Seeing his state, Girdhar told his father to rest while he went out to work. But, before long his father felt restless lying in bed and hobbled out to the well. At least he could stand in one place and draw the water for his son to then carry away. Girdhar was already in the field so his father threw in the bucket and got started. As he began pulling he trembled under the weight and the taut rope vibrated with his exertions. Somehow, he managed to get one bucket out and threw in the next. He had almost got this when suddenly his crooked fingers lost their grip and the rope shot out of his hands. He lunged to catch it before it went down, otherwise short of one bucket they could never finish the field. He caught the rope, but the weight gave the old man a jerk that his bent back could not withstand and it pulled him down headlong.
From where he was, Girdhar couldn’t hear his father’s last whimper, but did hear the clanging of the bucket falling down the well. He thought it was one of the intruders from the new country come to steal their water and he ran to check. “Who’s there? Shoo! Who’s there?” In the darkness he could not see anything and it was only when daylight slowly made its way down the well that the bloodied water could be seen splashing against the old man’s body.
Life never got better for Girdhar from that point and all their plans to move into the new house were put off indefinitely. He and his mother had to seal off the well, and sell nearly half their land to Ram Lal to make ends meet. With just half the land and half the manpower, the mansion remained a dream at best, and a taunt at worst. Though he did get married to Kamala and started his own family, the future never meant anything anymore. Eventually his mother also died and only the house remained to haunt his days. As the years passed Girdhar became a bitter and often vicious man, railing against the world and his own family. His son’s aimlessness became a great disappointment to him, which he dutifully told him at every chance he got. Kamala would pray everyday for the family’s eventual uplift out of their misery while helplessly watching her husband and son drift apart.
As he tried to sleep that night, Girdhar’s mind played tricks on him and he imagined Ram Lal standing at the entrance of the mansion with his buffoonish grin and his buffalo trotting about the upper floor. The time had come for them to live in that house or somebody was going to die trying.
The next morning Girdhar was out in the fields early, but instead of tending the crops he was collecting thorny branches from the babul trees. His wife was looking at him with puzzlement from their hut when their son also came from behind her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s father doing? Why has he wrapped his turban around his hands like that?”
“I don’t know, son” she replied. “He’s been collecting those branches since dawn. It looks like he expects a horde of elephants to come rampaging through.”
By noon Girdhar had collected a whole heap and then proceeded to scatter them all around the house and threw loose earth over them. Once the sun got too high in the sky he headed inside. Hearing him returning Rupesh quickly flicked his magazines under the cot and opened his school books. Girdhar looked from his son to his wife and gave a chuckle.
Needing more of an explanation than that for his bizarre behaviour his wife questioned him outright, “Whatever for did you need to put such a barrier around the house? Do you think someone will just sneak in?”
A devious smile cracked Girdhar’s face and he replied “No, I’m not afraid of someone sneaking in at all.” Kamala knew her husband was inscrutable and would never give a straight answer if he could help it. She went back to sifting the grain, and seeing the magazines under the cot, she coyly pulled one for herself to read later.
Dusk arrived and a pot was put on for tea. Rupesh brought out his shoes and helpfully announced, “I’ll go get a packet of biscuits to have with the tea.”
“Easy, boy, easy,” said Girdhar blocking the door, “we don’t need any biscuits today, or blades, or soaps, or matches.”
Rupesh backed down, dejection clear on his face. He started to take off his shoes when Girdhar interrupted again. “Don’t take them off, there’s other work for you.” Not liking the sound of this he looked at his mother for some explanation, but she too didn’t know what work there could be at this time. Seeing this Girdhar imitated the nicest smile he could, which sent a chill down his son’s spine. “Why do you both worry so? I’m the boy’s father, what does he have to fear from me?”
Girdhar took Rupesh to the mansion, Rupesh dutifully staying two steps behind. “Son, you’re quite grown up now so I’ll get to the point. There is much that we need to do in life to just make ends meet. A roof over our heads, clothes and two square meals. That’s as little as we need and yet life drones on with endless labour to sustain even this little. Today you have all these, and tomorrow an ill wind can blow it all away.” Rupesh became even more concerned now by his father’s philosophical bent.
“Now, I know you aren’t one for farming. You never have been, and that’s fine. But, you aren’t one for anything else either, are you? I send you to school but you cut classes. I made you work at the village store but you couldn’t even do simple additions. I even told you to just help your mother at home, but you prefer reading your stupid magazines.”
They reached the house and Girdhar stopped just before the ring of thorns which was almost indistinguishable now in the dying light. Without turning around he beckoned his son to stand next to him. Both of them stood in silence for a few moments before Girdhar spoke again.
“You know that we had hoped we could live here someday. It’s something I had given up on since with every passing year it seems more and more unrealistic. Things never get easier, son, and waiting helps no one.” He bent down and pulled out a branch. “There are sharp thorns in the ground here so I can’t go over them barefoot. You go across and help me with something.” Rupesh did as he was told.
“Now throw me your shoes.”
Rupesh looked a little alarmed hearing this. “But, why?”
“So I can come across too.”
“Why bother yourself, father? Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”
“Don’t argue, boy. Do as you’re told,” Girdhar said sternly.
Rupesh knew it was pointless to expect any further explanation and threw his shoes across.
“Now listen, I’m going to tell you something that you must try and take to heart. It’s simple, but important. Do you remember how your grandfather died? You’ve heard the story. Even though this was way before you were born, there’s a lesson in it that you have to abide by. Don’t give any slack in life, Rupesh, thinking you will catch a hold again when you’re ready. That’s not how it happens. Before you know it, it’s slipped through your hands and you can’t do anything except let it go. Or die. My father’s death was an accident, but in all my life I haven’t been able to catch the rope either. What will you do, boy?”
The words weren’t sinking in for Rupesh. All this sounded too psychotic. What was his father suggesting? “What do you mean? What do you want from me? Please, return my shoes.”
Girdhar shook his head and explained, “You’re staying in there until I can see that you’re capable of looking after yourself. That is now your land. Just do something with it. Anything. Grow something, make your home, do whatever you can. Just do something.” There was a hoarse desperation in his voice as he spoke the last words. “But, father …” implored Rupesh as his father began to walk away, “you don’t have to leave me here for that. Don’t leave me like a prisoner.”
“How else will you know,” Girdhar shouted back, “what life really feels like? We won’t be here forever. It’s only your work that shall free you.”
Kamala had come out of the hut by now and heard their shouting. Frantically, she asked her husband, “Why have you left him? What’s all the commotion?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’ll explain everything.”
“But, it’ll be dark soon, bring our boy inside.”
“He’s not a child, mother, that he needs to be protected from the dark.”
The next morning, Kamala was out before her husband and she quickly went up to the house. She called out to her son on the way. “Rupesh! Rupesh, my son.” Suddenly a stab of pain shot through her foot and she let out a sharp scream and fell backwards. She had stepped right on a thorn. “Ma?” called out Rupesh. Kamala’s eyes searched for him at the doors and windows of the house but couldn’t see him. “Son, where are you? Are you okay?”
“Here I am, Mother” and appeared from around the back of the house. “I was back there exploring the land. It’s become very hard so it needs watering. What happened to you? Why are you cut? Didn’t father tell you about the thorns?”
“He did last night, and I cursed him for such stupid ideas.” Kamala gingerly plucked out the thorn and wiped the cut with her sari. “But in my hurry this morning I forgot to keep alert and walked right onto one.”
“Go wash it, Mother. Go wash it and we can talk after. I’m right here.” He smiled feebly. “I’ll go in a bit, it is fine. But first tell me how you are. I’ve brought you food.”
Rupesh stood stiffly with no place for him to really move. “I am all right. I didn’t sleep all night. But I am happy now that you’re here. Where is Father?”
“He’s inside. I couldn’t sleep either so I came as soon as it was light out.”
“Did he tell you everything?”
“Yes he did, and I told him he is a lunatic. I told him that he had forgotten that he was your father and was behaving instead like he was your landlord.”
Rupesh listened to everything with a stony look on his face. “I always knew he didn’t like me as his son. He always berated me for everything I did. But I didn’t think he doesn’t even consider me a human being.”
“Hush, my child. He may be hard to understand but he’s doing this for your own good.” “That’s what he claims, and yet he has locked me away. That shows how little he trusts me.”
Kamala had nothing to say to this. It was hard to argue with thorns. “He must be up by now. Let me go talk to him.”
But, no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t reason with her husband. He kept shaking off her appeals and telling her to let things run their course. “Don’t forget, I haven’t just abandoned him. We are here, close to him, sending him food. And he is in a mansion. What prisoner is jailed in a mansion, pray tell?”
“I have to throw boxes of food to him like he is a monkey catching bananas. Some great seer you must be.”
“This is not an act of cruelty,” replied Girdhar, sounding a little unsure himself, “I have kept both our most precious things safe inside that ring.”
That evening, Girdhar sat outside their hut with his chillum pipe and stared at the house. At the doorstep of the mansion sat his son, staring back at him. He had never looked Girdhar eye-to-eye before.
Night came upon them all and put an end to the stand off.
The next morning both parents went out together. The initial force of Girdhar’s plan had started wearing off and he was letting his thick skin shed.
“Rupesh! Son, where are you? We’ve brought you your food.” Kamala’s eyes flitted from door to window to the sides of the house, eager for her son. “Don’t say ‘we’,” cautioned Girdhar, “He won’t come out if he knows I’m here.” There was a note of sadness in his voice that Kamala missed.
“Maybe he’s at the back and doesn’t hear us.”
“You stay,” said Girdhar, “I’ll go check.” He circled around to the other side. A few moments passed punctuated only by the sound of his footsteps.
Suddenly, he shouted out, “Oh, what a thing!”
“What?” asked Kamala with alarm. “Is everything okay?”
“Come, see for yourself.”
She limped over as fast as she could and saw what her husband was admiring. One of the doors of the old house, the one that had been barely hanging on like a child’s milk tooth, had been taken off its hinges and thrown across the ring of nettles.
Footprints in the mud came out of the house, disappeared near the fallen door and then could be seen on the outside again headed towards the highway before they disappeared. Kamala didn’t know how to react. She grabbed her husband’s arm and shook it. “But what is this? Where is our son? Where has he gone?”
Girdhar for the first time in years, had a real smile on his face. He was even laughing a bit as he kept imagining the running leap his son would have made to his freedom. “Son-of-a-pig turned out to be my master. He outsmarted his old man! I wouldn’t have thought of this even in a hundred years.”
His wife was concerned and wasn’t consoled by this. “But, he’s run away. You drove him away, you inscrutable madman! How will we find him? I don’t know what he’ll do on his own, alone.”
Girdhar patted his wife’s hand clenched on his elbow. “All these years, I underestimated the boy. Don’t you do the same now. He’ll be okay, I know it. He’ll be back after he feels I’ve learned my lesson.” And, they stood there, hand-in-hand next to the mansion of their dreams.