Someone Else's Garden (30 page)

The news is with the zamindar before the bandit has locked his cell door. Singh Sahib chuckles. His disability cannot camouflage the delight that takes over his entire frame.
At last, the rules change.
He smiles with carefree zeal and meanders through rows and rows of thoughts and plans, all to do with breaking Daku Manmohan’s will and his ultimate downfall.

Why does he relish this prospect of cruelty? Why is he bent upon snatching away Daku Manmohan’s dignity? The reason is strange and convoluted. It is because of his sons: one a do-gooder and the other a common thug, with not an honourable bone between them. Both his boys have let him down, his fate has let him down, so now he has declared war on Fate. He will be avenged. And what better revenge on Fate than to ruin someone else’s by taking away the one thing he values above all else: his dignity.

The laughter gurgles in his stomach like a bad lunch.

Asmara Didi rushes to his side, and sets him upright, but she can’t quell the strange shakes that have conquered his body. ‘Calm yourself, Singh Sahib,’ she says, just about ready to rush off and get one of her balms when she notices his eyes.

Since Bibiji’s death, the zamindar’s eyes have lacked a vigilant depth. But today she sees something extraordinary in those old and weary sockets. She sees an ancient zest in them that makes her anxious.

As for the bandit, he gave no quarter and asks for none. Without a struggle he offers his burned-out body to its torturer. And the torture is tremendous. There are days when the bandit cannot rise from the floor, still he whispers to the earth beside his mouth, ‘I will not do a woman’s work.’ One of his legs has been dislocated at the hip and jammed back in without care. It will leave him with a limp for the rest of his life, still he says, ‘I will not do a woman’s work.’

Each evening Prem is there by the bandit’s side, soothing his hair through the bars or bathing his eyes with a wet cloth, scurrying away like a cockroach at the sound of Asmara Didi’s footfall. Even she has to turn away from the injustice of the scene. And as for Gope, he too has stopped relishing the bandit’s torture. The beatings are too much, seeing the bandit dead would be much easier.

But Singh Sahib remains resolutely keen. The zamindar demands the precise details of the bandit’s condition and torture every day. Slowly he is beginning to recognise the true twist of Fate, which is offering him real revenge. In the bandit’s actions he recognises a budding axiom, a dedication to honour that makes Honour proud.

If you want to see a real man, look at Daku Manmohan. Him I understand. His honour is the most important thing, without it he would die, just like me. What has a man got anyway, but his honour? My prisoner knows this, but not my sons. How can I bring Lokend back to govern these lands? How can I stop Ram Singh from terrorising those

that depend on us? I wish they would learn something from that man. What a man!

What a man. Indeed.

Though the guards beat Daku Manmohan for not grinding the wheat, Singh Sahib secretly prays that the bandit will not break under torture. And the bandit doesn’t disappoint him. Each day that Daku Manmohan refuses to grind the wheat is a private victory for Singh Sahib and a public victory for Honour. It is with greater and greater reluctance that Singh Sahib orders the torture of the bandit, but he can find no reason to stop.

Until the day Lokend shows up.

‘Bapu, what you are doing is criminal, it is inhumane!’ says Lokend, more agitated than his father has ever seen him before. The mongoose makes an appearance out of Lokend’s kurta to inspect the scene; he too has never heard this tone in his master’s voice before.

So finally something gets to you.

‘I agree with Bapu. Now that we have the opportunity to torture him to death, I say let’s do it, for all that he’s done to this village,’ says Ram Singh from the doorway. Neither his brother nor his father heard him come in.

The father’s lip twitches at his older son; he wishes he could speak at this moment and let loose the words needed to crush him.

‘All your looking can’t harm me now, you old, crippled man. All this time you have tortured me like that bandit with your pathetic talk of honour.’ Ram Singh remembers every silent, torn and jagged day when he yearned, first for his father’s love, then his respect, and finally his approval, but he got nothing.

‘Stop it, stop it, Ram Singh!’ says Asmara Didi. Compromised by her weak knees, she is unable to prevent Ram Singh from entering Singh Sahib’s room and making his acrid speech. Ram Singh will not be stopped today.

‘You remember how I used to follow you round like a puppy dog,’ the elder son’s gaze hangs on tight to his father’s and takes him on a journey demanding remembrance, ‘until the time you beat me because I didn’t wear the correct-coloured turban. Do you remember the time you locked me up without any food because I didn’t bag enough partridges? Or the time you insulted me in front of the villagers because you didn’t like my method of calculating interest payments? I could go on forever, but what’s the use? You probably don’t remember any of these incidents. You disguised your hatred as disapproval. That I understand now. You never liked me, and you never knew why, that was your problem. Perhaps you are worse off than me, cursed to live with me when you cannot bear the sight of me. But all through that time, I loved you. It’s just as well you’ve lost your speech, because your words have lost their power. You old, bitter man, waiting to die. Die, I say, die! Die.’

‘Ram Singh, you will get out of your father’s room now.’ Asmara Didi has managed to get on her feet. She clamps her hand on Ram Singh’s elbow and steers him toward the door. ‘Out, Get out!’

Lokend rushes to his father’s side, his mongoose dives deeper into the safety of his kurta. ‘You know Ram Bhaia; he’s a firecracker, full of explosive words.’

‘Lokend, you’ve no more done your duty by your father than your brother has.’ Finally Asmara Didi will have her say. She too won’t be stopped, she knows where her loyalties lie. She may love Lokend, but she knows that his deeds are partly responsible for the enmity between his father and his brother. ‘You and your good works. How far above us are you that nothing touches you? Who is your father going to leave these lands to?’

‘No one, Asmara Didi. Share these lands with those who till them. These lands don’t need governing.’

‘What you are suggesting will leave us with anarchy.’

‘Asmara Didi, I am not suggesting a political or an economic solution, I seek a spiritual solution. Open your eyes. If Bapu goes on like this he will kill Manmohan.’

‘Well, that may be in both their fates. What do you care? Isn’t that what you believe in? Fate. Leave everything to Fate, let Fate take charge.’

Lokend smiles. ‘Yes, yes, it is, but that’s only half the story. Half will never satisfy you, my mother. Yes, Fate may be in charge, but only when we live on its level. I am talking about a step up, a chance for Bapu to create his own fate. “As the mighty air moving is rooted in the ether, so all beings rest rooted in the Eternal,”’ he quotes from the
Bhagvat Gita.
‘Bapu, listen to me. Don’t do this to Manmohan. Don’t give him wheat to grind, give him something more difficult to do.’

The father looks up into his son’s eyes. Lokend can see a tiny reflection of himself in them. There is nothing but contentment in those still, deep, old eyes.
Finally, something gets to you.

The torture stops, not because of what Lokend or Ram Singh have said to their father, but because Singh Sahib wants to get to know Daku Manmohan, a man he considers to be moulded from the same clay as himself.

‘He’s calling for you, Daku Manmohan. They are going to take you to the Big House.’ Prem clings to the bandit’s hand, shackled behind his back in steel for the first time in many months. ‘Tell me, Daku Manmohan, why are they taking you away? Are they going to kill you?’

‘Go home,’ urges Daku Manmohan. ‘Go home.’ For him, death would be a release.

‘Come closer,’ Asmara Didi commands Daku Manmohan.

Singh Sahib lies almost supine on his bed. He faces his prisoner.

‘Singh Sahib says you don’t have to grind the wheat any more.’

‘I never did grind the wheat.’

‘Hold your tongue, I could have it chopped off just like that.’

‘Look, big sister, I am not your performing monkey. I am a prisoner. Kill me, that I understand. Torture me, that too I understand. But talk to me and I am unimpressed.’

‘Huh.’ She has to admire his spirit if nothing else. The complete absence of fear makes the bandit much stronger than any weapon could. ‘Sit.’

Now it’s the bandit’s turn to be surprised.

‘Not here, there at Singh Sahib’s feet.’ But the zamindar pats the mattress next to him with his good arm, inviting Daku Manmohan to sit as an equal.

‘Singh Sahib –’ He lifts the same arm, silencing Asmara Didi mid-sentence, and waves her off. ‘But, Singh Sahib, are you sure?’ She doesn’t have to spell out the danger for her employer; they both know the bandit could break the cripple’s neck if he wanted, even with his hands tied behind his back.

‘Release me.’

‘You’re mad or you think me mad. Like hell I’m going to release you.’

‘I choose to stay here of my own will. Now release me.’

She feels compelled to argue. ‘So you can wring Singh Sahib’s neck? So you can kill us all in our beds? Huh, I may be old but I am not senile yet.’

‘I give you my word.’

‘What is it worth to me? The word of a bandit like you.’

‘My word is my life!’

Again Singh Sahib raises his good arm and points to the bandit’s hands, open like flowers behind his back.

‘I will do it if you say so, Singh Sahib, but I am warning you, such a man is not to be trifled with. He could have your head off your neck in a second.’

Singh Sahib waves her off, his arm obeys much too slowly for his impatience. If he could speak he would tell her to stop her rambling. He has no fear of the bandit; Daku Manmohan’s word is good enough for him.

The bandit is disoriented by the zamindar’s offer of dignity. His chest feels too small for thoughts, forming close to his heart for the first time in a long time. His wounds are instantly cauterised. The bandit’s memory fades in patches. He looks at his captor, unexpectedly filled with gratitude. He feels like a free man. The zamindar too finds himself dreaming his own dreams, he recalls a distant conversation in snatches, words flowing freely between himself and Bibiji, his own true love.

Both men have received a charge from being with the other. The zamindar draws out his favourite chess game from beneath his pillow.

The bandit knows what’s expected of him and he lays the board out on the bed between them. They battle out their differences, matching move for move. Both are formidable players. The familiar room becomes a new place for the crippled man. The old and tired conversations bleeding from the fissures that have plagued the zamindar’s every waking and sleeping dream are at last silenced. There are no words any more, only chess, and the soft thud of a piece sacrificed in battle to a better mind.

Today the day is over quickly. Asmara Didi kept watch outside his door the whole time Daku Manmohan was inside. She listened, but heard not a word spoken.

Singh Sahib looks forward to the evenings now as eagerly as a schoolboy looks forward to the holidays. Daku Manmohan walks slowly to the Big House every evening to sit with the old man. They play chess, drink tea and laugh. Through their chess games, the two opponents begin to regard each other with a new respect.

Daku Manmohan has resolved not to hold anything back from Singh Sahib. He sees the zamindar as his equal, his conscience, his judge, his jailer, his defender . . . Each day he talks of raids, expelling the poisonous memory from his soul. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness, he doesn’t even ask for understanding, but for something simpler, something more primal: he asks for companionship.

The servants of the Big House have started talking openly about how the zamindar has betrayed them by befriending the bandit. It is Asmara Didi’s job to silence the voices of dissension, though she can be counted amongst them. Asmara Didi has already sacked four bearers, one of them was a fourth generation servant in the Big House. He had taken off his turban and placed it at Asmara Didi’s feet, saying, ‘Blood and water cannot mix. It turns both to poison,’ before leaving.

Asmara Didi couldn’t agree more, but she has to keep up appearances. She is the only buffer between the zamindar and the outside world. Perhaps the zamindar is insane, she thinks secretly, but she knows that not to be the case. The zamindar is more lucid than he’s ever been.

*  *  *

The moon is out of hiding, a beam knocks against the prison bars. In silent desperation he pulls into himself. At last he has something to lose, and he experiences the alien feeling of fear.

‘So who won?’

‘Singh Sahib, of course. It was just one bad move that decided my fate, just like in my life. But tomorrow I get a chance to do it over. Tomorrow it’s another game.’ Daku Manmohan gives Prem a pat on his back, locks himself in his cell and tosses the boy the key. Singh Sahib has dismissed the bandit’s guards. The bandit could go free, but he chooses to live inside his minute cell with its straw mattress and tin bucket. He cleans his own cell daily and washes out his chamber pot.

‘Is that all you do? Play chess all day?’

‘I do all the talking, not that there is much, and Ram Singh doesn’t come in any more to annoy us. That is what I miss most, my sparring with Ram Singh. But no, we don’t just play chess all day.’

‘So what else do you do then?’ Prem has been waiting all day for him to return with a story from the Big House.

He looks at the boy.
What can I tell one so young? We talk without speaking of grand things, of brave things, of pure and clear things, of things that make a man who he is, of unchangeable things, of permanent things.
Suddenly all the talk, all the valour seems ridiculous. He laughs. ‘We talk of useless things like the old days. Singh Sahib and I see the same pictures, we dream the same dreams. But how can you understand that with the legacy that people like us have bequeathed you? You must follow your Lokend Bhai’s example. He is the truly honourable man.’