The Walls of Delhi (10 page)

That day Mohandas had a slight fever. He'd been weaving baskets all day and all night, hauling water to the seedlings they'd planted, and was so tired that he'd fallen asleep without
eating anything. When he woke up, he felt a little warm. He was still resting on the terrace when Ghanshyam came. He'd also brought Gopaldas, Kasturi's brother-in-law, along with him. The two of them told Mohandas that a friend of a friend of theirs knew the general manager of the Oriental Coal Mines, S.K. Singh. They told Mohandas to wash up and get dressed quickly and to catch the next bus to the mine. Ghanshyam and Gopaldas were nearly jumping out of their skins with excitement. They said that it was of the utmost importance that he go right away since the general manager was leaving to go on vacation the day after next. Gopaldas opened his bag and produced a pair of pants and shirt that he'd thought to bring with him. ‘Put these on! You're not going to the manager looking like an old sack of bull's balls,' he said, and laughed along with Mohandas.

It proved not difficult at all to meet S.K. Singh, the general manager of the Oriental Coal Mines; the new shirt and pair of pants that Gopal had given Mohandas gave him a whole new level of confidence. He told S.K. Singh the whole story about how he'd come for the job interview on the eighteenth of August 1997, and had come in at the top of the list of candidates who were offered jobs; how on that day he deposited all his certificates and papers in the employment office, but never received the formal letter of offer; how Bisnath from Bichiya Tola had been working for five years having stolen Mohandas's name as depot supervisor, earning a monthly pay cheque of ten thousand. Ghanshyam had advised him not to mention when he'd gone to the mine to collect his papers and been beaten up at the behest of the clerks of the employment office, and was later threatened in Lenin Nagar by police inspector Vijay Tiwari.

S.K. Singh had an excellent reputation as a manager who
was on the level. If he did get mixed up in any funny business, it was merely due to his abiding fondness for a fine glass of whisky. Otherwise he was so on the level that he was capable of neither hurt nor help.

In any case, after listening to the story from beginning to end, the general manager summoned A.K. Srivastav, welfare manager of the Oriental Coal Mines, and instructed him to launch an enquiry, adding that he wanted a full report in a month's time when he returned from holiday. Mohandas was so moved by this development that he was on the verge of tears, silently incanting the names of Kabir and Malihamai.

The enquiry took place the following week. Welfare Officer A.N. Srivastav arrived at the apartment located at A/11, Lenin Nagar. Bisnath had got wind of the entire affair beforehand and there was nowhere he hadn't spun his web. He'd been living in Lenin Nagar under the name of Mohandas for five years, so everyone in the area knew him by this name. No matter who A.K. Srivastav asked what was the name of the person living in A/11, the answer was invariably ‘Mohandas!' And the name of the man he himself had approved a loan from the welfare fund, and whom he'd himself known for over five years, was called ‘Mohandas.' And the individual he saw in the office of the general manager, the man who called himself Mohandas – well, he had a hard time believing that someone who looked like that could be a college graduate. Srivastav had his doubts. Despite the clothing that Gopaldas had provided, years of hardship and penury and labour had imbued Mohandas with the look of a slightly demented illiterate. Enquiry officer Srivastav thought it over and concluded that it was possible that the depot supervisor was really someone else and had taken the name ‘Mohandas,'
but he couldn't believe that this person insisting he was the real Mohandas, could, in fact, be Mohandas.

Bisnath's preparations had been stunning. He rolled out the red carpet in welcome for Srivastavji. He instructed his wife Amita, who was wearing a low-cut top under her sari, to come into the living room with a tray of cool sherbet. Amita had gone to Lenin Nagar's newly-opened Shilpa Beauty Parlor for a full makeover. She commented while placing the tray on the table, ‘You didn't bring sweet Sarita with you, sir?' He smiled, and the atmosphere instantly became intimate, homely, sensual. The enquiry officer's gaze was fixed on Amita's exposed midriff. Those days, fashion shows from Delhi and Mumbai were shown non-stop on the TV news. But this was a living model standing before him, not the TV news, but the real thing.

‘Sir, this is my wife!' Bisnath announced holding out a plateful of munchies for Srivastav. ‘Kasturi!'

‘It sounds like a rather old-fashioned name, no?' the enquiry officer asked, picking up a cookie from a plate on the table rather than the munchies that'd been offered.

Amita, half laughing, gushed in, ‘You see sir what happened was that the astrologer told father that a Pisces girl should have a name based in astrology even for her nickname. And then it was settled, that's why people also call me ... oh, it's not important. They call me what they call me.'

‘Oh! So Kasturi's your zodiac name?' he said, addressing Amita directly. ‘Okay, so then what is the name people call you?' he asked, the grin growing wider, less formal.

Amita scrunched up her face in confusion, and didn't respond. Bisnath jumped right in.

‘That's rich, Kasturi! Why be shy about giving your name?'
he asked with a chuckle. ‘Fine, I'll tell him. Sir, I guess you could say her more common name, what we all call her at home, is Amita. Amita Bhardwaj.'

Enquiry officer Srivastav let out a grunt of laughter.

‘You know, I'm always a little suspicious when ladies don't exhibit any modesty. Some femininity should be there, shouldn't it? I'll tell you what, Kasturiji. From now on I'll only refer to you as Amitaji! That is, if you don't object?'

‘No sir, not in the least!' she warbled. ‘But if you want to know the truth, whenever I hear someone calling me ‘Amita' I think it's someone from my very own family.' She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. ‘The problem around here is that there's nobody like us. No one civilized, it's just these backward people, and for me it gets boring!'

‘Naturally, it will take time to develop these people. There are plenty of projects here in progress for just that purpose. Two years ago what was there? Nothing.' Srivastav said matter-of-factly. ‘So what do you do with yourself here in Lenin Nagar?'

‘Not much, whatever I can, we ladies have our kitty parties, I'm on a couple of committees for helping out the poorest workers, I like working in social services.'

‘And it's good that you do, very good. Sarita's got a deep interest in social services, too. You should come over to our place sometime, and see if you can bring Sarita on board.' By then Srivastav had completely forgotten what it was he'd come for.

Bisnath was smiling from ear to ear. Now was the moment. He said:

‘It's like this, sir. Lenin Nagar's the kind of place where
everyone's suspicious and jealous of everyone else. There's no easy conversation or having a laugh with your neighbour. And now this much ado about nothing. Someone didn't get their way, so they found some perfect nobody, threw him a few peanuts, and next thing you know a complaint's been filed. I know who's been doing the meddling. There's a lot of caste business going on. Those people are breathing down our necks. I know exactly who's responsible for this funny stuff, but that doesn't matter. I'm not afraid of the truth. Please conduct your investigation without prejudice.'

‘What is your father's name?'

‘BABOOJI! O, babuji! Could you please come into the living room for a moment!' Bisnath said with a loud voice and a smile.

‘It's just dumb luck that Amma-Babuji happened to come here yesterday. They'd made some pickle, and used that as an excuse to come by and see us! You should please ask my mother and father themselves their names.'

‘Please excuse me,' Amita said, as her in-laws were about to enter. She then added in English, ‘We're a traditional family.' She got up and left the living room.

Trailing behind Nagendranath as he entered the room was his wife, Renukadevi. Noticing the tilak piety marks affixed to their foreheads, Srivastav couldn't help but leaping from the couch and greeting them with a heartfelt
namaskar.
Then, words coated in honey, he asked, ‘May I please know your full names? It's really just a bureaucratic formality, full names if you don't mind.'

Nagendranath didn't pause for a second: ‘My name is Kabadas.' He reached inside his kurta and drew out a necklace. ‘I took a vow and took this necklace and since then the verse
of Tulsidas has been my guide and protection, and that's when I added ‘das' to my name. And right here is my wife Putlidevi, Mohana's mother.' Renukadevi nodded her head in assent.

And thus, the enquiry was completed. Welfare Officer A.K. Srivastav's investigation concluded that all charges levelled against Mohandas, son of Kabadas, resident of Purbanra district Anuppur, Madhya Pradesh, were groundless. For clarification, he attached the certificates furnished by Purbanra chief Chatradhari Tiwari and the secretary of the municipality, Shyamala Prasad, to the report – certificates given to Srivastav by Bisnath himself.

At the behest of Bisnath and Amita – aka Mohandas and Kasturi – Srivastavji spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing with them at home, followed by an evening of first beer, then whisky, which was the run up to a scrumptious evening meal of desi chicken; and when, at eleven, it was time to get into his Maruti Zen and say goodbye, he continually asked Amita, whom he kept calling ‘Kasturiji,' if she might, at his behest, come to their house and talk to his wife Sarita about getting more involved in social services.

But in spite of his being drunk, he kept his eyes fixed on Amita's midriff – in the dark of night, the flesh had grown magnificent and seeped deeply into his psyche.

(This occurred at the time when the director of the selection committee of the public service commission took millions in bribes and then installed thousands of his own government employees all over the state, and who went on the lam after a CBI raid; when suitcases full of banknotes arrived at the residences of top ministers under heavy security protection, while ordinary citizens were barred entry; when an inspector general in Haryana and a cabinet minister were arrested and charged with
illegal activities with women, and murder; when the ‘supercop' famous for killing underworld criminals in encounters turned out himself to be a hit man.

...at the time when, after making Hindi and Urdu the ‘national languages' of the people of the subcontinent, individuals from powerful political organisations, claiming that they themselves were literary figures, formed committees for the establishment of anti-establishment Premchand, Neruda, Faiz, Nazrul-Nirala as the national writers of India.... at the time when an ill, debt-ridden tailor, with no means

left to support his family, poisoned his wife and two children to death, and was then caught trying to kill himself. He was imprisoned and charged under Indian Penal Code sections 302 and 309 for murder and attempted suicide.)

Mohandas had a breakdown after the report of the enquiry committee. Ghanshyam and Gopaldas met once more with the general manager A.K. Singh pleading with him for an additional enquiry, but he said that it's not how things worked to open a second enquiry. He said that the most capable and trustworthy officer had conducted the enquiry, and he didn't want to create any sense of doubt in him by ordering a repeat. Later it emerged that Bisnath and Amita had also begun to invite the general manager to their home to make sure he was well fed and had plenty to drink; his wife had also become active in ‘social work' – and the kitty parties, where she would collect money for the next ladies' soirée, and keep a little for herself.

A rumour also spread in the coal mines that Amita had seduced A.K. Singh; his car was often spotted outside the gate of A/11 Lenin Nagar, home of coal mine supervisor Mohandas. People also began whispering that Bisnath, too, got involved; it seems that Singh sahib not only enjoyed partying, food, and drink, but men, too.

Mohandas had a breakdown, and smashed into smithereens. He couldn't eat or sleep, he worked absentmindedly. He was in a state of utter malaise, and all sorts of strange questions and doubts swirled through his mind. So, were all the people who had good jobs and held high positions and ran around in automobiles and caroused who they really claimed to be? The names people went by, was that who they really were? Or had they committed fraud and assumed the identity of others? Was anyone in Lenin Nagar authentic, with a real name, real father's name, place of birth? Or was everyone like Bisnath, chameleon-like, with many identities, counterfeit? Then Mohandas began to ask himself who, after all, he himself was? Mohandas or Bisnath? And the BA he earned from M.G. Degree College: had that been solely for Bisnath's benefit, too? Did it happen like this to everyone?

He looked high and low throughout the house for the old postcards sent to him from the government job office. He yelled and screamed at Kasturi when he couldn't find them. He did end up coming across a few postcards from a few years back with his name and his address. In town, people saw him and either didn't say anything, or told him he should approach some politician or high-ranking civil service officer about his case. But in his current state Mohandas was unable to do so. Even Pandit Chatradhari, head of Purbanra's village panchayat, had issued
a written certificate declaring that Bisnath from Purbanra was Mohandas; his son, Vijay Tiwari, was in cahoots with Bisnath. He was always stealing glances at Kasturi and, like a hunter, he lay in wait for the day when a broken Mohandas would come fall at his feet and beg for the job at his buffalo dairy.

Mohandas kept noticing that whenever a public water pump was approved by the local panchayat it'd be installed right outside the home of one of the more important people in the village. When teachers were hired, or slots opened up for female teachers or rural health workers, or grants became available for building houses under the Indira Awas program, or funds were released by the Grameen Development Department for digging wells or tilling land, when the Nehru Employment Program had openings in its program for the educated unemployed, those same people would be the ones to divvy up the spoils. Sharda and Devdas reported that the same kind of discrimination happened during lunchtime at school when they ladled out the gruel.