Beef, Burqa and Happiness

I am on the last leg of my stay in India for now. In the last one year I have realized that my intimacy with India is deeply spiritual, rooted in consciousness and the burning quest to shed off the chains of existence. This place will offer me a mother’s lap where I will pass off into an eternal and soothing slumber, when I will come back after the full circle of my destiny’s wheel. However, the underlying cosmic undercurrents of my destiny will take me places, discover, explore and alter the lands, jungles and seas of human mind and when all that will be done, the dusk, the setting sun and the evenings of India soaked in the fumes of cow-dung, and temple incenses will wait for me along with the eerie silence and the haunted tales of mystic nights which will merge into hustle and bustle of the day.

Superficially, the phenomenon known as India seems like a medieval zoo and a land of ridiculous ironies with its middle-aged practices like caste system, child marriage, worship of monkeys and elephants – which all makes a perfect masala for a derogatory article for NYT by the likes of Arundhati Roy and Pankaj Mishra. In a myopic perspective i.e. a perspective of the millions of file-pushing Sharma jees and Varma Jees spread across the length and breadth of this country, India presents a picture of highly rigid, monotonous and extremely boring society of rigid death rites, birth rites, same caste marriage rules and orthodox religious doctrines. However, there is a third way to look at India which is above the previous two, and in a way which transcends the plurality of perspectives. This is a perspective of a detached witness, an observer, most appropriately referred to as Drishta in Indian cosmology. This view is a view of a spiritually consciousness being where one is just a chronicler, a note-taker of his senses. Unfortunately, we Indians seem to have stuck in the previous two ways. And, surprisingly a large number of foreign scholars ranging from Magesthenes to Bernier have seen India with this third perspective.

In the last few weeks I have heard rantings of semi-literate reporters with dubious credentials on TRP hungry channels about the increasing communal violence or rather communal rhetoric in India. The killing of a poor old Akhlaq Muhammad in Dadri and the tweeting -Modi’s studied silence on the whole issue has raised several questions. My friends from other nations have asked me questions like –“Is India headed for a civil war between Hindus and Muslims?”, “Is India’s rendezvous with secularism over and are we becoming a Hindu version of Pakistan or Taliban?” or “Is it the time for minorities to flee India?” and “Is RSS a de facto power wielder in India and Muslim hatred the dominant narrative?”.  Before I begin to answer these questions in an academic manner, I feel restrained and a little hemmed in because of the grand red-revolution staged by our secular and leftist liberals in the brothels of dialectical materialism. It becomes a little difficult to deconstruct and analyse this complicated and shaded relationship with structures and theories, that at the best fail to comprehend the real picture or even if they do, we are left with a highly distorted and moth-eaten truth. (Our liberal intelligentsia and media bigwigs are well-trained moths; though they all learned to wear a tie and some of them speak great English on NDTV).

Therefore, I decided to follow a different approach. Lately, I got a chance to visit my maternal uncle’s village. It’s a typical village in the remote and backward hinterlands, located on Gujarat borders, with a sizable Muslim population. In the rest of the post, I have written what I saw with my bare eyes and heard with highly inquisitive ears. This village can be a highly representative village for the whole of India with some minor deviations. However, temporarily my observations will throw some light on the real situation between Hindus and Muslims.

The total journey of 100 kms included a rough patch of about 40 kms from the nearest town of Dungarpur. While I was driving through the narrow and shoddy roads flooded with potholes, I felt my car scratching a couple of times against Thoor[1] . In the night which was fading into darkness and haunting silence, I could hear some religious chanting and songs by the Bhil tribals on the way. I had been strictly advised not to stop my car on the way as in the night the tribal youngsters get drunk and rob the travelers for petty drinking bouts. The encroachment of modern development initiatives had taken away their forest-based livelihood and made them a little restive.

My maternal grand uncle Mr. Babulal was ready to receive us. He is a man of 40 kgs but exudes an aura of authority, arrogance and dominance. He had come with his man Friday Akbar bhai Pathan to receive us. I found the duo a little strange in their interactions, body language and demeanors. I guess with all the intellectual baggage that I had I was trying to find out the ‘identity consciousness’ or to put it bluntly –a hindu and a muslim. I would not say that I could not find it out at that moment but it definitely raised my inquisitiveness to know a little more about the village.

Geenth Rawla i.e. the house of Thakur,

 which is now kept on mortgage with Babulal ji, 

as the royal family squandered

 its wealth on wine,

 women and donations

Akbar bhaijaan told me that there were about 4500 Muslims in the village. Akbar bhai was a tailor and a shopkeeper by profession. But, immediately he said with a tinge of pride and glory,” bapu hukum, we are originally pathans. We are from the lineage of Mughal pathans.” I said, “wow, that’s impressive.” And, immediately he was joined by Babulal ji, saying that pathans are sahukari and good Muslims. “What do you think of me? I do not hang out with Ganchis (local Muslim converts from low caste Hindus)”.

“Akbar bhaijan is a high-caste and noble-blooded Pathan”, said Babulal Ji with a grin of pride and social status”. “Bhaijaan, Moo tamane kau kea me pathan ghanchi thaki vivaah nee karaa ne hathe bai na khaa bhi nee. Ame pandit, Thakur, sayyid and sahukara hathese meljol rakhaa” (brother, I tell that we, proud pathan Muslims never marry or eat with Ghanchi muslims because they are of lower caste. We interact with sayyid muslims, Hindu pandits, Thakurs and other sahukari i.e. noble and high caste people.)

Akbar Khan was a Mughal pathan by origin and tailor by profession. When he uttered Mughal Pathan, faces of my Pashtun friends like Rafi, Shabbir and central Asian friends like Romanbek started flashing across my mind. I was expecting the huge built, fair complexion, thick whiskers, big faces, and the thick pathan accent. But Akbar Khan was dark-skinned man with an average built who spoke Vagri-Gujarati in highly local accent and in no way exuded his pathan ancestry.  But, there was still something unique in his persona. When I looked at him for a moment, I could locate brownish almond eyes and an aquiline Pathan nose. His ancestors had been brought by the Rajput zamindars of Geenth village, which was a big and rich thikana of Dungarpur  riyasat, as archers, police and palace guards. Even now the pathans in the village and neighboring areas were known as sipahiyaas (Sepoys or armymen). In Rajasthan, almost all the Rajput principalities brought Pathan mercenaries as gunners or archers for the superior marshal abilities. Vijaynagara kingdom in southern India was the first major Hindu kingdom to induct Turkish archers in its armies, to fight its wars against the Bahmani rulers of Ahmadnagar.  These pathans who were brought as warriors enjoyed great prestige, social status and power in the court and society. In Maharana Pratap’s army Hakim Khan Sur was holding a major command against Mughal armies led by Maan Singh of Jaipur. In the history of Mewar Hakim khan is revered as a great martyr who died fighting for his master. Later, these pathans were also given administrative posts of Dewaan and malgujars. They settled in the remote lands of Rajasthan, flourished and prospered there and became an indistinct part of the local religion, culture and folklores. There were many Hindu religious festivals and local gods whose worship was initiated by the pathan landlords. With their noble manners, military prowess and hard-working nature they won people’s heart and were assimilated into the society in a very smooth manner. In this process, they lost ties with their ancestors in Afghanistan, their tribal origins, culture and language. When I asked Akbar khan about his ancestors’ tribal origins in Afghanistan, he had no clue of the names like Yusufzhai, Sherzhai, Durranis and Sur etc.

“Saheb, Babulaal ji has been a great support to me in the times of distress. My father Haji khan ji had married twice. Choti Ammi was a very clever woman who used to add little amounts of opium in my abbu’s tea. Gradually, he kind of lost his neural strength and in his last days was strictly controlled by choti ammi. She controlled everything i.e. access to him, his food, his movements and the visitors. In his last days his will was changed and we lost our jagirs to my step-brothers, who are now big merchants in the near-by town of Bhaiswara. Aslam is dealing in imported electronics and Salim is selling oil. Though they took away our hordes of wealth but they lost the social prestige. You know, sahib, Salim married a weaver Muslim girl from Badhoi (UP). In our Pathan panchayat, they hardly visit and even if they do, our elders hardly respect them. They are not allowed to sit on the samaj jhajham[2] .  But I still command the respect which my dadajani(grandfather) and abbu (father) commanded. I married a pathan girl Rubina Khan from the near-by town Kheemalwara. From my mother, we are four- two brothers and two sisters sahib. I am the eldest. In spite of bad finances, I married my sisters in pathan families.  Bauji, our family always enjoyed high caste status. Saheb, you can ask anyone here, when dadajani was dewan bahadur, our buajani was married to Thakur Banka Singh of Rantagarh state in MP.”

“Did you just say Thakur Banka singh, a Rajput Hindu married to your bua jani (Grandfather’s sister)? How is that possible?”, asked I. I was quite amazed to know of this strange union. Although I had heard of Kings like Man Singh marrying off their daughters to Mughal King Akbar, but never heard of this practice among the common folks of India. But, it was rather strange, a bit funny and interesting phenomenon. For a time, it felt like music to my ears in the times of love-jihad and beef riots in India.

“Saheb, you look a bit surprised. I should have told you before. In old times influential Pathan families had roti-beti (dining and marrying) relations with the Hindu Rajputs, because both served the royalty and both were warrior communities. In those times religious identities were not very important. They were old days, loyalty towards your master mattered a lot. Kings and landlords were regarded as divine agents and we always followed their social, cultural and religious behavior. These days, it sounds strange because the politicians have spread a lot of communal poison. Things have changed a lot. Hindus have changed, Muslims have changed. Kings are gone, landlords have become beggars and we have lost our wealth and clout.” 

I was quite impressed with Akbar khan’s knowledge of the social customs of his ancestors. He often used to sit with his grandfather and Thakur Banka Singh ji for hours and talk about society, politics, culture and their times. With his stories, I was reminded of the incident in Ain-E-Akbari, where Raja Maan Singh offered his gratitude to his master Akbar, while having a discussion on Di-e-Ilahi, to the extent of becoming a Muslim if he ordered. I guess, in those feudal days loyalty towards one’s master brought prestige and authority in society. The feudal ethos venerated the master as gods, be they Hindus or Muslims.

Akbar bhaijaan’s stories were accompanied with piping-hot cup of ginger-tea in the rice fields of Babulal Ji. I was having that kind of tea made over angithees, almost after an era. The tea smelt of ginger, cloves, tulsi and smoke. While sipping the tea and listening to Akbar khan, I felt myself being hypnotized and transported to a different age where evenings greeted warriors tapping the village streets hard with their horses and spending the evenings over a bonfire and folk music of mand singers. The place smelt of burning woods and cow dung and earth was reeking with its freshness. I just wanted to close my eyes and lose myself in the flow of my breath high on the pristine odor of burning wood and dancing on the rhythm of aartis and evening azaan. After a while, Akbar bhaijaan took leave of us, for his Namaz.

“Did you see my raub(power) in the village ? I have cultivated all these Rajput lads and muslim chaps so that no one can mess up with me”, said Babulal ji, curling his thin, clownish, effete and insignificant mustaches upwards (it was a trend among young Rajput lads, who he was trying to copy). Mamaji further informed me that Rajputs and Muslims are like brothers from two different religions and they have the tendency to backstab. They suck milk from one breast and slash the other breast with their swords. Mamaji’s pitch got a little intense and he sounded a little aggressive. “Rajputs sold their daughters to Mughals so they also deserve to be punished. Now the time has come for the rise of and dominance of Brahmins. We have always been the teachers.  And we will be vishwa-guru again (Teachers of the world)”, roared Mamaji.

After a while, Mamaji’s close friend Nirbhay Shankar shastri , the block head of RSS (Hindu rightwing organizations)joined us. He was followed by Bajarang Panchal, the local VHP cadre (Radical and extremist hindu outfit). We were served with potato curry (aloo ki subzi) and poori, with some halwa. “Abhinav Ji, you should not be so nice to people like Akbar khan. Though they are upper caste and noble blooded people but they are Muslims, and gone are those days of bonhomie and love. These Muslims committed atrocities on Hindus, forcibly converted them, broke our temples and now they deserve to be punished”, argued Nirbhay Shankar Ji.

I tried to convince him that we have lived together for centuries and both the communities should exist as brothers. “Saheb, you are being too liberal. See, what they are doing in the whole world. They are exploding bombs. They killed 100ds of people in Mumbai. In Gujarat, before the riots of 2002, local Muslims had made life hell for Hindus. They used to terrorize us, abduct our females, bully us and our faith, and openly eat beef. But we taught them a lesson and since then there has not been a single riot. We, Hindus are not violent by nature. But they are violent by nature and custom, because their book teaches jihad to them, their prophet allows them to indulge in all kinds of debauchery in the garb of four marriages. They have forced us to become violent and reply them in the language they understand. They should have been sent to Pakistan in 1947”, argued Nirbhay Shankar ji like a ferocious Hindutva ideologue. He was interrupted by Bajrang Panchal, “Shahstri Ji, you guys just talk, we Panchals brought them on their knees in 2002”. “Shut up you bloodthirsty demon. I know what you did. You packed off those thirty innocent ganchi Muslim boys and girls in a mini truck in Kheemalwara and set fire to the truck. And, you were the one who got Ramjan Bhai Patel chopped by his friend Bhairolal Damor. You lured him with your sleazy land deals. You also took the entire cash of 25 lakhs from his departmental store. It is not Hindutva. It is a wild demonic behavior. The Muslims here have always been peaceful, humble and nice. They have respected our customs and beliefs. Even now in their marriages, they do our religious-cultural dance of garba and some of them even worship Goddess Durga. Why did you have to kill the innocent Muslims here and spoil the years of peace and brotherhood? In Gujarat, it was justified because they killed our car sewaks, but here that dance of blood was the blot on our Hindu values of mercy, tolerance and peace. I know you did it because you wanted to take their property papers and I also know that Rahmat khan did not let his daughter elope with you, so you took revenge.  RSS never supports such barbaric behavior. Our Hindutva is different from your barbarism”, complained Nirbhay shankar with a pain that lied deep, buried inside his heart. Babulal Ji intervened with his hawkish idea that we don’t have to spoil the peace. The aim should be to cultivate them and other lowers castes of Hindus as good economic resources. “But yes, we should be generous and nicer with Pathans and sayyids, as they are upper caste Muslims. You Panchals, can never  match the noble blood and regal manners which they have. You have this newly acquired wealth but not what one calls Rawayat(traditions) and Khandaan(pedigree).

Village pathway to Akbar house

After a sumptuous meal, I decided to take leave of my old friends. Next morning I was greeted by Akbar Bhaijaan, who offered me to show his shop and the local Masjid. After a quick cup of tea, I left with Akbar, much to the annoyance of Mamaji, as he was scared of being revealed to me as a shrewd money-lender of the village and a local mafia.  It was hardly 11:30 in the morning and the village seemed dead. There were few mongrels eating the leftovers from the temple waste. There were a few octogenarians lying lifeless and deep in reverie with their small and wrinkled eyes gazing at the skies, on their old charpoys, as if waiting for their departure with complete poise, detachment and equanimity.

Akbar’s house was a dilapidated and shoddy structure which was, though newly made but looked like poor quality toilet constructed by government of India with its damp ceilings and thin brick walls. There was just one room and one dark kitchen where Kasim bibi (Akbar’s mother) used to blow air in the phookni over the chulha. He had two sons and two daughters. One of his sons could hardly walk and his younger daughter Sakina was mentally retarded from the birth. He had shown her to several doctors, peers, fakirs, Pandits and sadhus but to no avail. One of his brothers was also staying with him. His brother was once a normal man but a few years back while coming back from the village pond, he urinated at an old deserted tomb. After that, he had become lunatic. People said that he was possessed by several Jinnats who were very powerful and they would not set him free until he is dead. Akbar told that once Shahbaz got a fit of ginni and he walked for 120 miles and he was found outside Udaipur after 15 days. But, Akbar love his brother a lot. His other brothers had already stolen his family jewelry and escaped to Bahrin.

Selfie with Akbar Khan's family

Akbar’s shop was a small cabin, which he had purchased with Babulal ji’s help. He greatly revered Babulal Ji because when all the Muslim members of the village had voted to expel him out of the village because of a fraud Maulvi, Babulal Ji came to his rescue and lent him money to buy the shop. Since then, he had great regard for Mamaji and Mamaji also, on many occasions like his daughter’s wedding etc. helped him generously. Akbar earned a meager $241 per month from that shop. A few days back a burglar broke into his shop and stole the goods and cash. People suspected it to be some Bhil tribal’s work but later Akbar found out that it was local rival and drug-addict from his Pathan community only who did it for buying drugs. Police was still investigating bit Akbar did not want the proud Pathans to be taken to the court.

Akbar's family

It must have been extremely difficult to manage so many dependents with that small amount but still I found a smile of satisfaction and inner happiness on Akbar’s face. He offered me some fresh sugarcane juice which I relished for its purity and the love of Pathans, after ages.

I was sitting on the back-seat of his bicycle and the cycle was meandering its way on the rough terrain with several potholes. Boulders used in MGNREGS(government scheme) were strewn around laying the truth and corruption of such schemes threadbare. The twists and turns and the ups and downs, in the beginning tended to rupture my innards, but after a while, it felt like an Indian folk music laden with its powers of making you a little tipsy, emerging out of its chaos. I think chaos is not all that bad. When one leaves things and systems to chaos, then he surrenders his will, his abilities and in a way accepts his inefficiency and expresses his desire to fall asleep in a lazy afternoon. But often, out of such chaos emerges a highly superior symmetry, a divine and cosmic rhythm which synchronizes with one’s soul, one’s breath and teaches you to be in harmony with snakes, lizards, bears, panthers, tigers, ghosts and celestial dancers. Such rhythm is internal and not very often visible. India offers such rhythm out of its chaos of million gods which include cows, monkeys and elephants, stinking public toilets and corrupt officials. One can go completely berserk for the first few months if he is visiting India, but after a stay of an year or so in a remote village of Chhattisgarh, he or she realizes that things like nations, development and climate finance, sustainable development are vanishing like a writing on the water, and he is quite at peace with himself even if there is no electricity for ten hours.

Sleepy, deserted and lazy pathways
 of the village

After a tumbler of buttermilk, I enjoyed a nice afternoon siesta in the fields of Babulal ji. Akbar khan informed me that those fields previously belonged to the king of Geenth and lower caste people were bonded laborers there. Now the king is reduced to penury and has kept the fields on mortgage with Babulal ji. Akbar bhai called it a result of his karmas and stated that the king should now devote himself to bhagwan (god). He brought me cool and fresh water of the nearby well which was famous for being a resting place of an 18 feet long python. The fresh breeze brushing against my cheeks while I was gulping down the water, was absolutely refreshing and energizing.

I asked Akbar bhai about that episode when he exposed a fraud Maulvi. At my question, he started giggling and said, “leave it sahib, people are superstitious and they will never change.” I insisted him to narrate the whole episode.

“Babusaheb, about 8years ago, we started the practice of bringing Maulvis from the madrasas of UP and Bihar. Although, I was against it but the fellow Muslims said that Deobandi maulvis of UP and Bihar have sound knowledge of Islam and we must bring them if we want our kids to be practicing Muslims. I mellowed down against the majority. Then they brought Mushtaq Muhmmad from Sasaram, in Bihar. He was trained in Deobandi Taleem (study or discipline). He was quite a young fellow with mild and pleasing manners. As a religious mentor in Masjid, I was not satisfied with his job. I mean, our kids were not learning anything. He himself had those warped notions of Islam like not to visit Dargahs and stay away from peers. He was teaching strange things like not to mingle with Hindu boys and girls, not to dine with them, and he even told our children to stay away from the garba dance. He became quite popular among our community for his fundamentalist views. Our people started distancing themselves from Hindu festivals and minimized their interactions to business purposes only.  I was not very happy, but still I paid my respects to him because he was a religious man and popular in our community.

There, started a strange phenomenon after a couple of months. Every morning our people would find pieces of human excreta outside their houses i.e. right outside the main entrance. People got scared and though that it was the indication of some supernatural evil force i.e. some kind of bala. They all went to maulvi sahib and he started writing tabeez to them. He would charge 5000 to 10000 for each tabeez. People were getting impressed with his ilm (knowledge and supernatural powers). They did not face any problem after getting the tabeez. His popularity was increasing and people started visiting him form far-off villages for divine interventions in the case of diseases, ghost-problems etc.

In the midst of this popularity, one day, I raised the issue of his poor teaching methods. Some people supported me but he could sway the majority with him. But from that day, his relations with me became bitter. I used to greet him and pay my respects. He kept a cold and formal demeanor.  After few days, I also faced the same problem. I found pieces of human excreta outside my newly purchased shop and house. Ammi got scared like hell and accused me of the problem. She believed that since I insulted Maulvi sahib, the Allah got displeased and now the satan would play its nasty game on us. We would be ruined. She went to Maulvi sahib and said sorry like a million times. Even I begged him to get us rid of that evil but he always asked me to find some other way.  I even cried in front of him but he did not budge from his anger. Then, one day, Rahma told me that Maulvi sahib is leaving the village for his home town in Bihar to see his ailing mother.  I was pondering over my situation and expecting that Maulvi sahib will shower his blessings on us before leaving. After a while, I was called by Maulvi sahib. In the masjid, he told me that since I had requested him many times therefore he would capture the bala and get us rid of that problem. He said that his heart melted at our situation and he didn’t want to be a culprit in the eyes of God.  I was on his feet and I was crying like a baby. He gave me holy water, tabeez and other petty things to spread them in my house, but while coming back he warned me that this solution will be effective only for about 28 to 30 days. Still, I was happy.

I could not follow his instructions for a couple of days but surprisingly, I did not find the excreta next morning outside my house. My ammi was so happy. Her faith in Maulvi sahib increased manifold. She thought that a mere visit to that holy man could do such a great miracle. But, then, I somehow could not understand the whole thing. I had not even used his tabez and the problem vanished.

I was chosen by village elders to receive Maulvi sahib when he came back after a month. We organized a small get together at Masjid to say thanks to Allah for his safe return from Bihar. Maulvi sahib seemed very happy with me. I told him that the problem had vanished but he warned me that it might resurface after 30 days as the bala was a 500 year old gini and was a very powerful one. I expressed my unconditional faith in his ilm and returned home. Next day, I saw the excreta again in front of my house. Ammi panicked and whole house was fear-stricken. We all went to Maulvi sahib and offered him 25,000 to make a powerful tabeez. But there was something which was disturbing me.

I decided to stay awake that night on the roof top. I carried my tea kettle and began to wait. At 3:30, I could see someone coming towards, our house with small container in one hand. His other hand was wrapped in a polythene bag. I used my torch a little and discovered that, he was coming from the direction of Masjid. When he came closer, I found that he was wearing a green turban. Then, I saw that a lean and lanky fellow with those deep, and cunning eyes, looked hither-thither and when he was assured that there was no one, he took out a fistful of shit with his polythene wrapped hand and smeared it on the walls of my house and spread the rest of it in front of my house and the shop.

Saheb, Not even in my wildest dreams, I could ever think that a Maulvi would do such a lowly thing. That creepy, Bihari was the dirtiest and the most evil man I had seen in my life. I wanted to smash his head with my lathi but I restrained myself. I wanted the whole village to know his truth. For next ten days, I brought other members of our community and made them see the whole thing. They were all enraged.  They were angry and wanted to expel him from the village. But, none could dare as they were scared of his religious powers and they thought that Allah would ruin them if they hurt a religious man. I could not control myself. One afternoon, after the Namaz, I broke his legs with my lathi. He started howling. He was abusing and cursing me.

In less than 15 minutes the whole village gathered, including the Hindus. The Maulvi accused me of bashing him. I told everyone about his deeds.  But, that nasty fellow started crying and then said that the gini was taking on the form of Maulvi and doing that nasty act. He said that the gini was a very powerful bala who wanted him to go out of the village so that he could make life hell for the villagers, and deviate them from the path of Allah. He even accused me being hands-in-glove with the gini and practicing black-magic. When I asked the people who saw his sleaze, then those people joined the Maulvi and said that the shaitan was visiting in maulvi jee’s garb. Even the Hindus of village accused me of disrespecting a religious elder. Pandit Nirbhay Shakar Ji, the RSS chief and that Panchal fellow of VHP were the first ones to come and kiss the feet of Maulvi jee and they were seeking pardon for the insult hurled at him.

Finally, our sadar mufti ji and Nirbhay Shankar ji passed a resolution in village panchayat to expel me out of the village for three years. I was heart-broken. I could not convince these superstitious fools and backward idiots. Everyone was accusing me, abusing me and my family. In those narrow straights, Babulal Ji used his clout, threw large sums of money to the Masjid, Maulvi jee and sadar mufti. He knew one secret of Sadar Mufti i.e. his illicit alliance with a bhil female who was married. Finally Sadar mufti gave in and, I were saved from the expulsion.”

I did not know whether to laugh or to express my sympathies with Akbar. I was looking at him with a dumb faced, and he was in splits,” sahib, how could that rascal put his hand in human excreta for 5000 bucks? The idiot was giving vivid descriptions of Jannat and driving our youth crazy and he himself was in such hell, such gutter!!!!!! Tauba tauba !!!tauba tauba!!!! Astakhfarullah”.

In the evening, Akbar bhaijan took me to the newly constructed village mosque. I must say that it a beautifully constructed structure with nicely carved domes. The building had greenish interiors and in many places blue glasses were used with Persian effect.   While I was watching the hustle and bustle of the evening, I was greeted by a middle-aged bearded man who was popularly known as Ibrahim bhai Ghanchi. He was a sadar Mufti. He looked rather fair, red and well-built for a Ghanchi community. One could feel the reflection of his newly earned treasures from gulf countries and the pride of authority which comes from the position of Mufti and connections with the bigwigs of the district.  He greeted, “Khushamdeed khushamdeed!!!”. I could feel the poorly made effort to speak Urdu heavily dominated with Gujarati accent.  Akbar bhai standing beside me, whispered in my ear that Ibrahim Bhai could only speak Vagri-Gujarati, but he had developed this new passion for Urdu and Arabic under the new Maulvi jee who hails from the esteemed Wahabi school of Islam.

The moment he uttered “wahabi school”, I went back to the book of William Dalrymple, that goes by the name,” Nine Lives”, in which he mentions the deplorable plight of Sufi Islam in Sindh (Pakistan) after the advent of Saudi sponsored Wahabism in Sindh.  While I was thinking about “Nine Lives”, I saw a bunch of robust dark skinned man climbing down the stairs in “Thobe or Kandura” , traditional ankle-length Arab garment for Namaz. It was getting a little dark outside. When the white light of the tube-light splashed on damp green walls, with those robust men in Kandura offering Namaz, I felt as if I was in remote mosque of a war-torn West African or North-African country. 

Ibrahim bhai came back and he seemed impressed with my Urdu. “Saheb, I must tell you there will be a day when Islam will rule all over the world. And, what the great Nabi said, is irrefutable. Now see that fellow, Yakub, the one who is doing wazoo. Until yesterday, this fellow did not know that the pyjama should be worn above his ankles. Maulvi ji gave him an earful and slapped him. He learned from his mistake and see, today he looks like pious Muslim, the pride of Prophet.  Saheb, these youngsters are wasting time in flirting with Hindu girls and whole day they are on whatsapp and facebook. This facebook is a new weapon of satan which has come from the west.  Saheb, Islam is being threatened by everyone these days. In India, we have to get ready to protect our community from the RSS and BJP. But these guys don’t know the power of Jihad. In India also, you see Muslims are suffering a lot. They are poor. The government does nothing for us. We are slaughtered like carrots in the riots. We have become aliens in our home land. You must listen to our new maulvi sahib. He was in Saudi for years. Akkal thikane laga dee hum logo ki (fixed our brains). He taught us that these tombs and dargahs are the lands of Kufr (Apostacy). I issued a circular yesterday that no one will play garba in marriages”, opined Ibrahim Bhai, with a firm conviction and strong political vision for the community (or I guess, for himself). 

With Ibrahim Bhai

While coming back to Mamaji’s place, I asked Akbar bhai about his feelings and views on the general condition of Muslims in the village. He said that sahib, we have been living with each other in peace for years, for centuries. In fact, he felt that his Islam was very different from what the new Maulvi jee was teaching. It sounded very alien and dangerous to him.  He further told me that over the years, friendship and warmth has vanished.  Akbar was lost in the year 2002, “In the riots, our Hindu neighbors who had lived with us for decades butchered us or were an accomplice to that pogrom. But what do I say sahib, if one man kills, than another one saves. The Hindus of our village only saved us, otherwise we would have been massacred by the rioters and hooligans who came from Gujarat. Here the youngsters are misled by the politicians on both the sides. The older generation of Hindus, might not be dining with us as the brahmins are pious vegetarians, but they do not have that communal hatred which I see in the youth. But, sahib, our people i.e. Muslims are also no saints. These young boys of our samaj are not interested in studies. They go to madarasa for few years and after that they are just wasting time in smoking and running after girls.  They get into looting, kidnaping and anti-social activities. Once they become a little powerful gundas, they start terrorizing Hindu merchants and they make life hell for the Hindu girls. They run away with them and after having sex, they are not interested in these girls as they come from a different religion.

Now tell me sahib, we had never eaten bada janwar (beef) for centuries. We always ate goat and chicken. But our youth, under the influence of these new Maulvis have started eating cows. In Gujarat, they were butchering cows and in some Muslim areas, Hindus could not enter. And Saheb, these monsters were even talking to Jihadis in the neighboring country. I have heard the police seized a wireless set. One of my cousins worked in Gujarat police.  How can they eat cows? It’s a sacred animal.

I am not happy with these changes. Now a days even Hindus don’t interact with us that much. They do not invite us to their marriages. I mean, I understand if they dont invite Ghanchis, but me!!!!! I am a Pathan, a sahukari. My ancestors played key role as neighbors and village heads in their marriages and festivals. Things are not the same. We don’t fly kites together now. I don’t know if there will be a riot in future, I will be safe or not. People like Ibrahim bhai and Nirbhay Shankar ji have no guts and spines. These Ibrahim Ghanchi has bought several plots of land. He has done a big ghapla ( embezzlement) in the donations which came for building this new mosque. He has built excellent relations with the state congress chief and sahib this fellow is eyeing for the MLA ticket from Congress party. And sahib, you will be surprised to know that Ibrahim and Nirbhay Shankar ji must be speaking against each other in public like dogs but these rascals are best friends and they have grabbed several benami properties from the bhils in the nearby town of Khemalwara. The poor people have hardly anything. Leave aside beef or mutton, they don’t even have khitchri to eat.  Most of them earn like less than $100 per month and spend it on marriages”.  Akbar sounded like one of those last few sane voices in this insane scenario where a man gets killed on the suspicion of eating beef and the media, along with politicians leaves no stone unturned in adding to the pains of that family, going crazy in increasing TRP ratings and making political gains.

And, on top of it the Prime Minister, who otherwise makes record in giving excellent speeches in India and abroad keeps a studied silence as if his Hindutva credentials will get washed away if he spoke one word of sympathy.  And, the foreign media is going absolutely crazy as if India will see 21^st century’s biggest genocide of its minority communities. Organizations like RSS and VHP are being branded and depicted as Nazi thugs of 1940s, which is far away from the truth. The other day I saw a shakha ceremony of RSS where its leader was wielding a stick, his shoes were torn and his socks were stinking like hell. I heard him explaining the virtues of eating vegetarian food and Jaina values of non-violence. I am quite sure Hitler would have laughed his heart out if he were alive and known the people who his organization was being compared to. I guess he would have found it a great insult. And, the truth – Either someone like Akbar Khan Pathan knows or I get to know which hardly makes any difference. I felt like singing the old song of Mera Naam Joker,

“kahta hai joker, Sara Zamana

                                                                  Adhi haqeeqat, adha fasana

                                                                  Chashma Utaro, phir dekho yaro

                                                                Duniya wahi hai, Chehra Purana

My generation did not bring BJP and Modi into the power for the kind of Hindutva which these guys are practicing and propagating. Well, in my years of experience of Indian society and its intensely emotional nature when it comes to religion, I found that Hindus and Muslims, both are communal. When it comes to matters like pigs,cows, conversions, mosques and temples, they are ready to slit each other’s throats at the slightest spark. But, at the same time, these same people exhibit such great human values of mercy, love, detachment that you feel they are the greatest people, the torch-bearers of peace and spirituality. India has always been a land of contradictions which are beyond the limits of my cognitive comprehension. I find them cosmic and metaphysical, many a times.  

I feel that in such a society, the role played by government becomes immensely important. Prime Minister should take a cue from Singapore and unleash his ideas to maintain peaceful race relations and inter-faith relations. The nuisance unleashed by media and third grade Hindutva organizations must be dealt with firmly. The damage which such unfortunate incidents do to India’s image is immense and with such an international image, no economic development can take place. And, India will lose its credibility of a tolerant and multicultural society in the world community. No one will take us seriously in the diplomatic community.

I feel that there is another and much superior way to advance the cause of so-called Hindutva (personally for me such terminology smacks of short-sighted political motives). The government can initiate a major program of research into the scientific, literary, dramatic and philosophical and metaphysical achievements of ancient India. The Prime Minister, who lobbies so hard for Yoga day at UN, does not look nice when he keeps a political silence on the most horrendous and condemnable violence of killing a man for eating beef.

Santan Dharma and Yoga have no room such barbaric intolerance. When I say this, I don’t mean that beef eating or cow slaughter should be legalized in India. The intellectuals, who are demanding this or taking proud in eating beef, are adding tons to the nuisance value already generated by our politicians and media. What I am suggesting is that we need to find a way to manage our inter-faith relations and we must have a strategy for that, if we want to be known as civilized and democratic country which is worth investing time and money.

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[1] A Local variety of cactus

[2] a Hindu caste rule that if one follows caste rules they are allowed to share the mat with the other respectable members of that particular caste (Over the interaction of centuries Muslim immigrants adopted many Hindu customs and those who converted from Hinduism carried their caste identities)

Pandit Ji and Phool Singh

Back in late 1990s life in India had become quite uneventful. We had kind of forgotten the drama of Mandal, Ram Mandir movement and economic liberalization. It seemed that things were coming to a dull and dead end. The era of stable governments has already become a bygone one. One could witness the monotony and gloom in the conversations of the common people at several tea stalls. However, for me it was not as gloomy as it was for the people of my previous generation. For me, things were quite new.

In fact I had developed a new sensitivity to look at things, a perception to feel the things happening around me in a very novel and unique manner. I would say a kind of journey which Kant would have called the discovery of noumena. On Sundays, I used to visit one such tea stall called Kaka café in the vicinity of my house. The place was about 30 years old and it owner had named it after Rajesh Khanna. At Kaka café, the Sunday samosas were the main attraction and for me it was a big respite in the midst of a regimented life which one leads when your father happens to be a police officer and all your relatives want you to become a civil servant at the age of 15.

Every Sunday, I would go there and while having tea, overhear a jovial and hefty man dominating some conversations. The man was Ratan Lal Bhatt. He was popularly known as Bhatt ji and was present as an inevitable presence in almost every social, religious and political event of the locality. He was a very talkative man who regaled people over endless cups of over-boiled ginger tea, with his stories of the past, the past which for him was a true golden era. With his wits and humor and intense narration, he would surely make the most progressive of the intellectuals believe in and long for those fairy-tale days. Suddenly the villains of yester years like kings, queens, darogas and Thakurs would appear as heroes with all their ‘evil’ and ‘not-so-evil’ traits.

Today while writing, when I look back I feel that the story of Bhatt Ji’s life is the most interesting one, much more than all the stories narrated by him. Bhatt Ji was Brahmin by caste but his features and physique told a completely different story. They were the aquiline features of young princely Rajput- sharp nose, tall roman face, thick whiskers, dense, snake-like mustaches and a tall, muscular built. Bhatt ji in his manners, ways, style and demeanor acted like a noble and felt like a royal jagirdar. After his stories, he would always say, after all, I am a Thakur. There is a slight twist to this demeanor of Bhatt ji.

Bhatt Ji’s father Ambalal Bhatt was a nagada Brahmin in the service of Durbaar Saheb i.e. Thakur Jee. Thakur Jagat Mad Singh was one of those few kings left in India who still enjoyed some power, money and influence in his region. However, he was fully aware of the fact that his power and health were waning like a moon and this change is not one of those medieval changes when one king would be replaced with another. The change that he felt was devastation, fuelled by the dance of democracy just like the tandava of Shiva which destroys unleashes destruction and death. Therefore he concentrated his energies in living like a king to his last breath which means ‘wine and unlimited wine’, ‘sex, sex and lots of sex’ and a dark curtain of intoxication descending on his mind, matter and soul. 

In the aristocratic circles of Mewar, there was an unsaid and unofficial custom of Nagda Brahmin females entertaining the kings and other royal males. There were many other unsaid customs but this one was peculiar because Brahmins which is a higher caste and had say in the society and court, agreed to an unethical sexual slavery. But, in those days it was the king or rather the man with divine origins who could desire, conquer and alter any earthly system of morality, religion and social order. Bhatt jee was a result of one such communion between Sharda bhatt and Thakur Jagatmad Singh. Sharda bhatt was a stunningly beautiful Brahmin girl who was quite modern for her times. Even after her marriage with Pandit Ambalal Jee bhatt, she continued to be in the royal, dark and lusty embrace of an adulterous king. She was a very powerful woman who wielded tremendous influence in the court until a Bengali singer Leela Dasgupta, charmed rana jee with a dusky magic of her inviting bosoms and the jungles of her dark, long and snake like hair locks. It seemed that Rana jee got lost in the jungles of sundarbans and never came back.

After the arrival of Leela the musical magician, Sharda jee was dumped and she retired into the eternal sorrows of her life. She lived a simple and an austere life full of repentance just like any other female who had ruled the portals of royal harem in her heydays, would live. She raised Ratanlal as the last souvenir of her heydays and always reminded him of his true rajput blood. Ambalal ji was a man devoted to religious pursuits and he hardly had any influence in the life of Ratan Lal Jee.

Ratan Lal Jee grew into a hefty and pricely looking handsome young man for whom the loyalty towards rana jee was the ultimate duty. He became a decorated archer, swordsman, shooter and an ace equestrian. He took pride in his natural ability and affinity with these princely sports. On the other hand he hardly showed any interest in purohitai (priestly services) which was his family profession. He often accompanied Rana Durjan Singh, elder son of Jagatmad Singh, in his hunting expeditions. Rana Durjan Singh was another typical spineless royal scion, which emanates from an overall decline in the moral sub-conscious of the kingdom. Ratan Lal was an accomplice to Durjan Singh in all his existential adventures or sinful creativity which included violating the tribal women and feeding her to his ferocious dogs, ravaging fields, hunting innocent bhils and raikas for a pompous display of princely power and an absolute authority in a democratic state. Ratan Lal Ji was in reality the half-brother of Durjan Singh. Durjan’s quest was the endless lust, money and authority which comes when the waning power completely intoxicates or rather usurps one’s consciousness. In such a state the notions of morality and immorality become the objects to be trampled upon by the King’s Juti (royal footwear) and self-obsession becomes a disease. Ratan Lal Ji’s quest was to be recognized as a Thakur with a royal lineage. The idea and the feeling was hardwired into his mind since his childhood by Sharda Jee. He had always thought of reclaiming his true identity. This blind search for the identity brought him closer to Durjan. In fact, deep down inside he had nurtured intense hatred and jealousy with Durjan. But in a feudal society, if a person is not born in a royal family, he hardly gets the fortune to know his real mind, real soul and true desires as everything is owned by the divinity of the king. There is only one way to discover one’s true self in such a milieu and that is to attain Buddhahood. Certainly, Ratan lal jee was not among those enlightened ones. In a feudal society, someone like Ratan Lal ji is raised on fictitious notions of morality which are in the best interests of the state or rather the royal family.

In his heydays Ratan Lal ji had become a very powerful man because of his proximity to the king. He had been a part of court intrigues and conspiracies that silenced 100ds of people in the dead of night, with in the ramparts of the fort. Such cases neither came out in the press and nor were they ever investigated by the police as the lower officials of police also held the durbar as their mai-baap and anndata.  Random dead bodies were found floating in some lone river or a haunted nala. These murders always became a part of folk lore and haunted stories. In connection with one such case, Ratan lal Jee had once even slapped a young IPS officer who had come to arrest the king. Ratan Lal jee had done that to prove his loyalty. He had become an overnight hero after the incident. But the superintendent could never forget the feudal slap that came from loyal servant of debauched king. It was like a slap on democracy, a slap on his uniform and his ego. He was in a look-out for Ratan Lal jee.

Durjan Singh was facing a challenge from Mritunjay Singh, who was also his half-brother; son of Leela, the magical musician and Rana Jagatmad Singh. In the dispute to the royal throne, Mrityunjay was coming out to be more deserving and a rightful heir. He was also backed by his father Rana Jagatmad Singh. The Bengali charms had still kept the dying rana in an ideal hypnotic state. When Durjan found himself utterly helpless, he sought Ratan Lal Jee’s help and Mritunjay was silenced.

The matter could not be hushed up like the previous. It left a trail which was soon followed by Superintendent Mangla Ram. Durjan struck a deal with Mangla Ram and Mangla Ram who was waiting to heal the feudal wound, which hit hard his newly acquired hierarchy, arrested Ratan Lal ji in the matter. With that, an era of hot-headed sword wielding, faithful and energetic young man who had bathed his sword a number of times for the rana jee in several court intrigues, came to an end.

Ratan Lal jee came out after 20 years. When he came out , he was no more the princely looking fellow who symbolized the royal authority.  He was a bag of bones, with hairline already receded to the middle of the head. Those dense snake-like mustaches seemed lifeless now.  Durjan Singh had died and he was survived by his son Rana Kunwar singh who had turned the palace into a hotel and had become an entrepreneurial rana. When Ratan Lal Jee came out, no one came forward to receive him form the royal family. Ratan Lal jee, himself found the new ways of the maharana very merchant like and unbecoming of a chivalrous prince.

“All the ranas have become waiters and they are cleaning dishes used by white monkeys. They are no more the royal kings and they don’t even have the blue blood now. I doubt this poofy fella with his fashion and hotels can even lift the sword of great Jagatmad Singh ji or Durjan Singh ji.”Ratan Lal Jee uttered, while sipping the piping hot tea in January winter Sunday. He further continued,” those were the days Jain Sahab. I get lost in that dark, haunting night when Durbar hukum shot the man-eater. Actually, I shot the beast. Durbar sahib had almost fainted when the beast leapt. What a ferocious and beautiful beast it was. The animal claimed 33 human lives. Those days are lost and lost are the dances and grand feasts of the palaces.

The conversation was interrupted by the hot-piping samosas brought by Lasiya, the small raika kid who worked at Kaka café. After having another cup of tea, Ratan Lal ji continued, “ Bhairosingh I must tell you about the day when I slapped Mangla ram, superintendent police. Durjan Singh jee gave me an exotic gift that night. In the stillness of gangaur ghat, I explored the curves and dark alleys of lust, love and wildness that night. Those were the days and those were the people and those were the girls and those were the horses and those were the boys.  Life appears so dull today. No desire to live and no human relations left”.  The talkative man became a little monotonous and boring after a while. He always had the same set of stories. When people got bored they avoided him. Since Ratan Lal jee had nothing to do, he would go and sit in some other gathering or become a part of some social, political or religious event that happened in the locality. He was all alone in the family. His wife had died while he was in jail and the elder son was murdered in a local street-fight. The younger son got a job in Delhi and ever looked back.

I had known Ratan Lal jee for almost four years but with every year I saw his energies dying.  When I went for my vacations in my undergrad, I found a different Rattan Lal Jee. These days he had fallen under the charm of a very old Bhagwad Gita which belonged to his father. The person who for his entire life was the most insignificant in his life became such a good friend and relief in his old days. Through that book , he would often talk to his father and surprisingly, he was turning into a true Brahmin. His only quest i.e. recognition as a Thakur was vanishing into the thin air. He began reading Gita for hours and hours now. I often spotted him in near-by temples. He would often talk about the temporariness of life and thought of becoming as serene as a lake. Once he told me, that he was getting closer to his atman.

Then one day, someone came from the palace and informed him that rana jee wanted to meet him. He dressed up in his royal attire and pulled out his rusted sword which had pierced Mrityunjay Singh once. He was escorted to the palace where Kunwar Singh jee addressed him as ‘Thakur Saheb hukum, Khamma’. Ratan Lal Jee was overwhelmed as if his purpose of living had been fulfilled. He got a new lease of life and rorared, “ jo hukum mai-baap” . Rana Jee wept for a while and remembered his old days of glory. Then Rana Jee asked him to sign a paper which would transfer his jagirs( which were given by Durjan Singh Jee) to the palace. Rana Jee cried and said, “ We are building a school in the memory of Durjan Singh Jee.”  Ratan Lal jee readily agreed and signed saying, my life is yours, lordship.

He went back home like a proud conqueror of Chittor fort. He offered his prayers to his mother Sharda Devi and truly felt like a royal Thakur, a Rajput who ruled the earth with all the might and divinity. That night, he got drunk and in the red wine of power, glory, history  he felt a journey of soul coming to life. It was a dark, still night just the one like that when he shot the beast or when he got lost in the lusty eyes and hairy, sweaty armpits of Bhanwri. He secretly entered Gulab Bagh, the local zoo. In his old days he would often visit Gulab Bagh and sit for hours outside the cage of Phool Singh, who was an ailing tiger. When people started running away from his stories, he found a friend in Phool Singh and often told stories to him. That night, in a drunken state he met Phool Singh and roared, “ I am a Thakur, a tiger just like you. You have to salute me. I am coming inside to meet you my friend.  You have to honor me. I have killed a beast that looked like you. But I am your friend. You are a nice man, a holy tiger just like my religious father. I am coming. “

Next morning a dead body was taken in the state mortuary and burnt after a post-mortem. The forest guard was suspended. An Italian restaurant was inaugurated in the name of Durjan Singh Jee. 

The Thakur was no more. I left for Delhi, next morning.

Sands of Marwaar

It is an amazing feeling to be a witness; pure, clean and impartial witness. In fact the crux of oriental religions like Buddhism, Jainism, Taoism and Hinduism lies in being a witness. Sage Ashtavakra in his Mahageeta says that there is nothing worth doing on this planet except being a sakshi, a detached observer who just relaxes in his own spiritual being just like a tortoise coils up in its own shell and sees the world with a detached mind. This is the reason why the enlightened masters in India like Mahaveera and Gautama have been called seers and the true seers are above all i.e. good and evil, god and the satan and, the truth and untruth. In the western world, the highest status is awarded to fathers and nuns who are priests not seers. The religiosity in the western world has not entered the domain of ‘sakshi bhav’ i.e. being a witness. Being a witness is not just beneficial for the spiritual enlightenment but it makes you enjoy, perceive and understand the world with such a perfection and sharp insight, that you don’t feel the sorrows and happiness of the world, even when you are the lead actor in the story. I have always tried to develop this ‘sakshi bhav’ in my persona. Although I have not been able to scale the heights of spiritual skies but, in my worldly existence, it has certainly helped me to perceive the characters in my immediate environs with a unique and novel insight reeking with the freshness of an unspoiled childish heart. The characters which have existed for thousands of years in my environs and which became super-mundane and boring for a lay local observer appeared to me in a totally different light, like the characters of ‘Alice in wonderland’ and ‘Panchtantra’. When I see them with spiritual detachment as if I don’t belong to their world, they come out with myriad colors teaching deep philosophical truths through their life stories.

Shanti Sheth of sewari in Marwar was one such mundane character. In the first appearance he just looked like another Marwari merchant in who is in his 50s and enjoying the fruits of his hard work and struggle. Shashi was sitting in his bedroom in his house at Juhu (Mumbai) with his father Dhurjati Narayan Mishra who was now Deputy Inspector General of Police in Rajasthan. Shashi thought that he was getting bored. Actually, he had always thought that he would be terribly bored with him, and before that day, he always was bored except for the old music which Shanti Sheth always played. “Saab, thei vali ni padhariya, Santinath Ji ra sangh me apo  vees karor kharasiya. Jhamak Bhai pons karor mate po deeda. Zordar function veeyo”. (Sir, you did not come to Jaina religious function at Bali in Rajasthan. You should have come. It was a great function. I donated 20 crores to Jaina saint Shantinath and my brother gave 5 crore on top of it.) Usually, whenever Shashi sat with them, he heard them talking about muni Shantinath Ji,  sarrafa market of Mumbai, politics of Rajasthan,  bureaucrats of Rajasthan and their hobbies or rather “shauk” which included many unmentionables, and their corruption also. Their stories were abhorrent to Shashi as a writer. On top of it, when they were discussed in scorching hot May afternoons of the deserts of Marwar, devastating Shashi’s afternoon siestas, over endless cups of over-boiled tea, they looked like an absolute hell to Shashi, who was in his mid-20s and engrossed in his own world of yester years which revolved around the tales of second world war, sexual adventures of Nehru and his days spent in the cool clime of Harrow and Cambridge.

After a while, Nisha brought the juice of Alphonso mangoes in a beautifully carved antique silver cutlery, with the toppings of figs, cashews and nuts. Desert cooler was appropriately placed in the window giving a perfect cool breeze to the room and that too without humidity which is a luxury in Mumbai during rainy season. The room was reeking with the smell of mangoes and khas. In the background beautiful melodies of Lata Mangeshkar like “Dil Ka Khilona hai toot gaya, koi lootera aa ke loot gaya hai” were playing on Shanti Sheth’s old sony tape recorder, which he was the first one to buy in his community in 1970, and the old “goodman” speakers, making the voice quality perfectly like one from the 50s, which he had brought from Rustam bhai batliwala.

Nisha was a daughter of Shanti Sheth’s brother Jhamak bhai. Nisha looked like perfect Marwari daughter-in-law in her red saree bedecked with gold embroidery. After her marriage to Praful Bhai Shah, she had graduated from a naughty village beauty into a perfect house wife, with a little more weight. Nisha was a very important character in the entire drama but, she displayed a unique pattern. For every significant event, to begin with she was in the forefront but that was just a tip of the iceberg. The real act was always performed by her in the background. In fact she was the primary reason for beginning of the friendship between Shanti Sheth and Dhurjati Narayan Ji, which was now three decades old. It goes back to late 1970s when Mishra Ji was a young Deputy Superintendent of Police in Bali, a mofussil town in a semi-desert region of Marwar. The town and the villages around it were mostly inhabited by rich Marwari Jain merchants, who had migrated to far-off places like Bombay, Assam, Chennai, Calcutta and Burma in the search of greener pastures. But they used to visit their home town at least once or twice a year. Those merchants had a very strong attachment to their native place and they had kept strong ties with it through their regular visits and costly religious ceremonies. Mishra Ji had already become very popular with the prominent Jaina monks like Vimalnath Ji and Jin Sagar Ji as he had recovered the gold idols of Mahavira stolen by kanjars from Jaina temples. He was able to control the theft of ancient idols from the Jaina temples and that had made him very famous among the Jaina community. He was invited for Jaina religious ceremonies, marriages and other events where his main attraction was vegetarian delicacies cooked in pure ghee. With his mild mannerism and humble nature he could build personal relations with some of the influential and wealthy merchants. Shanti Sheth was one of those merchants who had become a close friend of Mishra Ji.

Then, one day major crises had emerged in Shanti Sheth’s family. His brother’s daughter Nisha had eloped with a young Muslim boy named Farukh. Both were madly in love with each other but the girl’s family was staunchly against the marriage as that would invite the wrath of society which could come in any form like the expulsion of the family from the caste panchayat, a major fine or severe humiliation. Shanti Sheth immediately rushed to Mishra Ji’s house at 1:30 in the night with a bag full of notes. He offered them to Mishra ji and begged him to bring Nisha back at any cost before the sunrise as he would not be able to show his face if the society got to know about it.  Mishra Ji refused to accept the bag of notes and without a second’s delay, left his house to look for the girl.Shanti Sheth was thinking of committing a suicide or running forever to a remote place where he would not find a single person from his community. But, luckily, Mishra Ji could bring Nisha back by next day’s afternoon. She was caught with Farukh at Falna junction, exactly five minutes before they were to board a train headed to Calcutta. When Mishra Ji brought her back, Shanti Sheth fell on his knees and cried with a deeply felt sense of gratitude.  He promised Mishra Ji that he will stay a steadfast and a loyal friend until his last breath.

After that, it was not just a relation between a police officer and an affluent merchant. It became a memorable friendship between the two families, shaping things that would happen in the distant future, transcending the physical and bodily existence of the actors involved in the story. With the passage of years like the sands of Thar, the friendship became stronger and gradually included the cousins, aunts and other relatives of the two families. When Shashi’s younger sister was born, Nisha and Vimla Ji (Shanti Sheth’s wife) stayed in the local hospital for ten days with Mrs. Mishra, as Mishra Ji had almost disappeared in the trail of a dreaded dacoit Bhanwar Singh, in the forests of Desuri. 

Both the families used to watch old black and white Hindi movies over delicious vegetarian delicacies. Such feasts, which ended late into the night, were the only source of recreation for Mishra Ji and his family in a remote mofussil town. Those were the days when television was a rare luxury, beyond the reach of a government servant. When Mishra Ji visited Shanti Sheth’s family in Sewari for such evenings, the entire compound of Shanti Bhai’s house would be populated with prominent village elders which included Jhamak Bhai Mehta, Valchand Ji Bhandari, Badami Lal Ji Daga and the crew assembled for hours on end, discussing the arrival of Muni Shantinath Ji for his next Chaumasa (Four months of the rainy season when Jaina saints stay at one place and meditate).

During such visits, Shashi, who had no other friend in that small town, became pally with Nisha who in age was 10 years elder to him, but at heart was still a naughty village girl jumping from one mango tree to other mango tree with her catapult. It was sweet relationship of friendliness, love; which at times unknowingly ventured into the domains of sensuality, and beautiful fights. Shashi used to tease Nisha as an illiterate village girl as she did not go to school after class five. But before this friendship could blossom into anything else, Nisha was married to Praful bhai and after marriage she moved to Mumbai where she stayed in Goregaon. The marriage foreclosed the most important chapter of this friendship, but as Buddha says every seed leads to a result. The ghosts of this friendship would be back again after 10 years in rather not so innocent, but a little sensual, little lusty and a little romantic fashion.

Sometimes Mishra Ji would invite Shanti Sheth to Bali for a musical house party. Shanti Sheth was a great connoisseur of arts especially music. He owned the largest collection of old hindi records and private albums of great Indian maestros like Bade Ghulam Ali and Omkar Nath Thakur. In such evenings, the participants included the District Collector Mr. Srivastav, Thakur Mahaveer Singh of kalore Superintendent Police Mr. Guman Singh Bhati, diamond merchant Seth Nahar Chand and Munsif Magistrate Mr. Ghulam Hussain Saheb, who used to regale initially, and then bore the audience with the shikar stories of his nawab ancestors. Mian Mansoor Ali used to start his singing performance at ten in the night and soon he used to be flooded with requests to sing Ghazals of Mahendi Hasan. An entourage of orderlies with long mustaches continued to serve Johny walkers until Guman Singh Bhati would start his feudal Marwari and travel back into the British era when his ancestors ruled the tracts of Jaisalmer and Cholistan (In present Pakistan). Those gentlemen lived an era with a strong passion, conformity and conviction of ideas which could be seen in their big, deep eyes and, thick and black snake-like mustaches. They stood like guards of the tradition and an order which was older and bigger than the modern India. They lived as friends of friends and foes of foes and often their relations and promises transcended the confines of right and wrong, the limitations of logic and the attraction of material gains. It is very rare to find that kind of collected personality in today’s post-modern generation which is obsessed with logic and suffering from mental vulnerabilities emanating out of gadgets, ‘hire and fire jobs’ of MNCs, and the release of long-suppressed sexual cravings of men and women. Later, when Shashi used to get agitated in his undergraduate days with his comrade friends over the “post-modern grandiose revolutions” like gay and transgender rights then after a while his writer’s self or a wiser self would revolt, and wish to go back to his yesteryears where he had seen the likes of Guman Singh and Ghulam Hussain who would get least bothered emotionally even if a genocide had taken place.

In the September of 1989, Mishra Ji and his family visited Bombay, where they stayed at Shanti Bhai’s place. It became a memorable visit, especially in the rains of Mumbai. Mumbai rains are very special. It is said that they make the love and bonding eternal. When great singer Muhammad Rafi died in 1979, it was raining heavily, and even then the entire city participated in the funeral procession of the man who ruled their hearts for three decades. For Mishra Ji’s wife, this Mumbai visit was the most romantic visit of her life. She came from a poor Brahmin family of a small village. Even after marriage when Mishra ji joined the prestigious and powerful police services, she was a daughter-in-law in a conservative joint family where her first duty was to serve her in-laws. But in the Bombay visit, where she got a chance to spend time with her husband on Juhu chaupati, see the bungalows of Amitabh Bachchan and Rajesh Khanna, and visit Lonavala and khandala with Shanti Bhai’s family, she felt as if she was in her happiest days and she did not want to go back. Even Mishra Ji had become a little romantic in the Bombay rains. After he returned from his Bombay trip, there was a major communal riot in which Mishra Ji had to take stern action and about 15 protesters were killed in police firing. As a result Mishra was sacrificed for political convenience and he was transferred.

In the next few years, Mishra Ji visited Shanti Sheth a couple of times in Sewari and Bombay whenever he went to these places for his official tours. But the era of those feudal parties, ghazals, Johnny walkers and thick mustaches came to an unexpected end. In fact 1990s marked the end of many things in India. The good old and laid back socialist days of India, when even the richest man of the country travelled in an ambassador car, came to an end. India was witnessing the onset of new forces of globalization, privatization and liberalization. Old ties and old set-up of villages started shattering. For the government officials money became more attractive than the prestige. In politics also India was witnessing the ugly form of caste and communal politics in the form of Ram Mandir movement and Mandal movement. Mishra Ji had now settled in the state capital of Jaipur. He was no more a muscular and passionate police officer who used to chase dacoits for days on end and hunt them down. He had now become a mild and a bit religious man who wanted to stick around in Jaipur, earn little bit of money in the age of commercialization and see his children settled nicely in the future.  Shashi and his sister were growing up. Shashi was in the final year of his college. He had still not discovered a writer in himself and had grown up as a typical introvert, obedient and studious son of a police officer who was clear and firm in his mind that he had to pass the civil service exam and succeed his father’s influence and position.

Nisha smiled at Shashi after giving him the tumbler of mango juice. Shashi, without losing a second followed her into the kitchen. “You have become a complete babu with your suit and tie. You never wore this tight stuff before. I guess America has made you a robot. Did they leave you with any feelings or not? You hardly had any feelings, even before. After three years of stay in that snow land of yours, what do you keep saying all the time? Oh yes Newyorkkkkkk and Buffaloooo, you must have become either a mule who knows nothing except sitting in front of a computer or a robot who feels nothing or a playboy with all those white chicks who you fucked in America. Playboy, no not playboy, but you really loved sex even here”, said Nisha sarcastically.  Shashi had just returned from US after three years and he was finding himself an alien among the people who he grew up with but never tried to know them. But among all these aliens and through all these years, Nisha had always been with him through his thick and thin. He still confided in to Nisha. She was thinking that after a long stay of 3 years in US Shashi might have completely forgotten him. But he did not. In fact after his stay in US he could see those things in Nisha which he never cared about when he was in India. He had suddenly found her an extremely sexy woman who could give endless amounts of unconditional love with a super-human audacity, transcending the confines of human frailties like marital boundaries, religious customs and social order. And, he felt that she could take a poet like him into the land of endless lust, unfathomable carnal pleasures with her inviting koel-lined-half intoxicated eyes, dusky, shiny, slippery and taut skin, and heavenly thighs. She looked completely changed; energetic, young, fresh and rejuvenated now, to Shashi. She was no more the wailing Nisha who was sobbing while saying good bye to Shashi when he was leaving for US. Shashi could not just control himself and silently placed his lips on Nisha’s.

 “Mumma, where are you? I need my tie”, shouted Rishabh, Nisha’s elder son who was an engineering student and was going for his job interview. Nisha got scared and pushed Shashi way with a force, power, arrogance and indifference which comes when a woman fells complete and satisfied in the world of her husband and children. Shashi got a shock and felt humiliated for the first time. He was stunned to see that someone like Nisha who would give her life at a drop of his hat, would force him away. The women who would make love to him for hours on end, who would chat with him till four in the night, pushed him away with such contempt. He felt almost uprooted. He was thinking of his sexual encounters in US and felt that how could he be forced away by this village girl. She was not one of those European diplomats who were exuding sensuality through their eyes and backless tops reeking of the finest perfumes of France.

“What is wrong with you Nisha? I love you so much and you insulted me”, yelled Shashi in annoyance. Nisha yelled back, “Shut-up Shashi, where was your love when I was sobbing continuously for hours on end, in the last two years. You had completely ignored me after you slept with those white bitches. After a gap of two years you expect me to get turned on and give you a cock-massage. You are a typical man, only interested in sex. I still have the same emotional feelings for you but my physical attraction for you has completely died. I am pretty happy in the world of my family”.

Shashi felt like completely shaken and uprooted. He said with reminiscence, “We had such a beautiful and romantic relation when we were just kissing each other all over, every second and every minute”. “And, then you left me, ignored me and insulted my feelings. In fact you always left for your own convenience. First time it was when I got married, almost two decades back, and then it was in those summer vacations when I just wanted to run away with you and never come back into this world. Then, it was when you left for US”, said Nisha sobbingly but her eyes were brimming with revenge, love, hatred and a pain which arises when something lies hidden in the deepest corner of  your heart and you have to guard that pain for years with utmost sincerity and caution. Then Shashi was speechless and lost into the rains of August 1993 in Sewari.

In August 1993, Shashi was visiting his parents in Jaipur. He had finished his under-graduation with distinction. During his stay at home, he was being pampered by his mother like a Mughal prince who has returned from a battlefield. Along with that he was also getting his daily dose of a motivation lecture from Mishra Ji to get ready for the last academic battle of his life i.e. civil services exam which was approaching soon. One fine morning, at 8 am Shanti Sheth arrived at Mishra Ji’s place without any previous information. The whole family was so happy to see him. After a freshly brewed cup of coffee, he started telling about a major scandal that had taken place in his village. An year ago, he commenced a construction of a Jaina temple in his village for which he had announced a donation of one crore. Gradually, funds started coming from other quarters too. Seth Badami Lal had announced five crores and Seth Nahar Chand, who had now become a diamond king in Sierra Leone, announced a fund of 20 crores for the Dhwaja ceremony.

“But the management and supervising of the job was left to me, saab. I did my job well, but mostly I was in Bombay. I made Sohan lal, my cousin the main contact person in the village. That crook stole 7 crores of funds and has now escaped to Africa. I can’t trace him anywhere. The other trustees have blamed me for this embezzlement and they have also filed a suit against me. It is a matter of great insult and humiliation for me in the society, where I have earned respect and position with my sweat after years of hard work. They are calling me kala naga (black snake) who has stolen God’s money. I can’t bear this anymore. I need your help saheb. Or else I will end my life”, said Shanti Sheth.

“I am organizing a social feast and discussion where I will be inviting my opponent group also. Their leader is Seth Nahar Chand ji. I am inviting all my relatives and my friends who can vouch for my honesty and integrity. I want you to come for a day at least saheb and tell those devils that it’s not me who should be blamed”, said Shanti bhai with an urgency which showed that he was almost going lose all his earnings and social prestige, if his only friend would not help him. Mishra assured him of his presence in the event.

Initially, only Mishra ji was going but then the entire family decided to go as the other relatives were also coming and they thought of the event as an occasion for a good reunion after ages. Shashi had a strange feeling going back to the place where he had spent his childhood. He was going to meet Nisha after a gap of eight years. He was reminded of those eerie, haunting and scorching hot desert afternoons where he spent hours playing with Nisha. “Nisha must be the mother of several kids by now. Will I be able to touch her and fly kites with her?”, thought Shashi and he fell asleep in his journey back in time. Going back in time has always been a very curious phenomenon. It’s not just an objective fact which is one for all. For a scientist, the journey back in time can be a sci-fi adventure phenomenon, purely coming out of the concepts of physics. For him it is the victory over nature, brute victory of a man’s rational prowess and hard work. For a writer and a philosopher, it could be something totally different. For him, it could either be an experience of bliss, reliving the bygone times or visiting those corners of life where hearts were broken and life became completely meaningless. For him, it may be a sense of complete surrender to one’s emotions in a highly vulnerable state, purely coming out of that domain of his being which transcends the quest of reason. In that sense it could be a glimpse of his journey towards the ultimate, but only a glimpse which would soon get lost in a few lines of a random poem.

Shanti Sheth was gasping and losing his control before the arrival of Nahar Chand ji. He was thinking of the trial which he would face in the next few hours. Meanwhile, an emaciated, middle aged Shramana (jaina monk) wearing dirty and smelly robe visited his house asking for alms. Shanti Sheth made him sit and started explaining each and every fact related to the scandal, and his contributions towards the community. Shramana was nodding his head after every sentence of Shanti Sheth and in return, getting one cashew each time, he nodded. Whenever he would nod in yes, Shanti Sheth would give either one almond or one grape or one cashew, keeping the Marwari traditions of miserliness alive. While leaving, sramana yelled at him, “have a big heart, you thief. You made me sit for two hours and in return gave me mere seven pieces of grapes and cashews. These people are right about you. Where the hell will you take all these cashews and grapes? You and your kids must be eating that horde and must be farting and shitting next day in bathroom. Lord mahavira will not spare you. You miser, cheat!!!!!!”. Shanti Sheth was terribly annoyed and in a fit of rage he yelled back,” you bloody fraud and greedy glut masquerading as a sramana!!! Its people like you who have made the religion worthless. Get the hell outta here or else I will kick your dirty and stinking arse. You guys anyways never clean your arse”.

“Calm down Shanti, relax. What’s wrong ? Don't worry, it will be fine”, uttered Mishra Ji. “No, how could he call me a miser?”, shouted Shanti bhai. “That, you are. You never gifted me the Kanchivaram saree. During our last trip to Shirdi, you made me fast for three days”, a voice came from the kitchen where Vimla Ji was mumbling under her breath. She was worried about the insult of a sramana, thinking that it’s a bad omen which would bring bad news. However, in the meeting Mishra Ji gave a long speech defending Shanti bhai and urging the community members to look at his contributions to the society. Nahar Chand was an old friend of Mishra Ji who relented when he got to know that Mishra Ji could be immensely helpful in getting a Lok sabha ticket in the next national elections. Meanwhile, Mishra Ji had also managed to trace the whereabouts of Sohan Lal. He had lied about Africa. He was caught in Calcutta with her mistress Priyanjali Sen, and was brought back to Sewari, where he was first, appropriately lashed by Shanti Sheth to his heart’s satisfaction and then made to apologize to the temple committee. Next day, Mishra Ji left with his wife but left Shashi at Sewari to re-live his childhood for a couple of days.

Next day in the evening, when Shashi was sitting with Shanti Sheth in his drawing room, a familiar face came with a cup of tea. Shanti Sheth was in good mood after a long time and was passionately telling about his LP records and their history to Shashi. “Do you hear the golden voice of Mukesh—Dil ki Nazar se, nazro ke dil se---- ye raaz kya hai? It’s so mesmerizing. I bought this from Dinshaw bhai Petit of Mahabaleshwar. We had driven for seven hours in ghats in heavy rains to see his antique and music collection”, jovially, said Shanti bhai.

“ohhh Common baby.. get us the tea and please bring some Khakra with it. Don’t forget to spread ghee and masala on the khakra. It tastes so heavenly with the ginger tea in the rainy season. Common let’s sit outside for a while. Peacocks are dancing and singing like Lata Bai”, said Shanti with such zest and happiness as if he was letting the bliss seep into his each and every breath after a year of excruciating pain, depression and humiliation.

Shashi’s heart was beating faster. He was eagerly waiting for that ‘someone’ who brought tea. She appeared again. “Shashi, do you recognize her. Let me see, how is your memory? Do you remember Nisha ? aahaa, yes, how would you recognize the girl who was always running around with you in her red shalwar kameez. Now she is a mother of two kids and see, she is panting hard under this gold –embroidered saree”, said Shanti bhai with a bit of sarcasm and nostalgia.

Shashi was stunned to encounter a lady who was loaded with gold jewelry from her head to toe. The shine of gold rhymed perfectly with her dark complexion and shiny skin. He was thinking of someone with whom he would fly kites and chase rabbits, but he met someone who, in the first glimpse looked a boring housewife and an over-burdened mother. He was looking for Nisha whose blouse would just get stuck in a keekar(a local tree found in Marwar) and her cleavage would come off letting her milky white boobs and raisin like tits come out. Shashi was thinking of that Nisha who would then ask him help remove the leaflets resting on top of her breasts, and button her blouse with his mouth. He was lost in thoughts of that Nisha who secretly loved and took a deep sensual breath when Shashi brought his lips close to the milky white domain and from a hair-split distance, softly blew away the leaflets from her breasts, tickling her all the way down her breasts. He was thinking of those eyes which drooped with an endless desire for carnal ecstasy when his red lips came closest to the milky white wonderland. He was trying to find the Nisha who would get her blouse stuck in keekar again and again- with purpose or without purpose, smiling always sometimes with lust, sometimes with a sisterly innocence and sometime with a simple feeling of being together.

“Mumma, won't you introduce us to your friend. You told us about him several times. Now I want to play with your friend”, said Rishabh, who was ten years old now. Shashi left for a walk after meeting the mother and son. He felt a little sad. He thought he had lost his friend and now Nisha was not her naughty friend, with whom he flew kites. He was planning to leave next morning for Jaipur, but still felt that there was a something which was not complete and things can't be just meaningless and purposeless events. He was trying to find his Nisha and was lost into a deep reverie.

After an era almost, Shashi was having a Marwari dinner. The mouth-watering dishes of methi-kishmish saag, dahi bhindi (ocra with curd), urad dal (lentil soup) cooked in asafoetida with smoky flavor and batis dripping with ghee followed by sheera transported Shashi from his world of Delhi University where the rat-race for career had made all other pleasures like writing poetry, watching a bird, kissing a girl one meets randomly in a train journey and chatting with an elderly villager over a bone-fire a cause of guilt. Shashi had already started feeling suffocated with his Delhi University friends for whom life stopped at becoming civil servant, or getting a prestigious management degree or making out in a fresher’s party with a pseudo, shallow and half-naked Punjabi bimbette from Welham girls or indulging in some pseudo-secular JNU styled-jhola chap communist non-sense. His last few days in Sewari were like a nostalgic rendezvous with the memories of his first rain shower with Nisha, where everything looked fresh, wet, soft, damp, green and intoxicated in every way i.e. physical, romantic and spiritual.

After the dinner, he thought of spending time in Shanti Sheth’s antique room which was again a travel back in time. He was exploring the old LP records, sometimes playing a piece from 1930s and then changing it to play an older gem of Surendra-Suraiya. Old ‘goodman speakers’ made one feel as if Gurudutt was about to come alive, and when “ayega ayega aanewala” echoed in that room; lit with dim red light which was coming like an old French red wine being poured into an ancient Roman glass, from an Austrian chandelier, it felt as if some old enchantress would come, and look into your eyes, in that haunted haveli. Shashi was getting drowned in the mesmerizing golden voice of Lata bai. It was 1:30 in the night and there was mild intrusion in the music, which sounded like anklets moving around. First, it sounded like the crickets screeching in the rains but then it became louder and was coming nearer to Shashi. His first reaction was to go back to the story of badi bahu’s ghost, which he had heard several times from Nisha. He had always accused her of cooking stories to scare him but then he thought that Nisha was probably right and no one could save him today. He had become stand still with fear and was sitting with his eyes closed. He felt the anklets coming closer and in a few seconds, there was a pat on his head which felt very familiar. The moment he opened his eyes, he found Nisha in silver colored night gown with her hair open and lose. At first he was startled, but then he felt a sense of completion. Something which he had long waited for and had vaguely dreamt of, for years was actually happening. He felt that there was a third force who brought him to Sewari for a purpose and that purpose was Nisha.

Nisha looked into Shashi’s eyes and smiled. “It’s been 12 long years Shashi. Did you ever miss you? You have mustache and a beard now. You have become a man now. I did not know that you were also coming. It’s such a pleasant surprise. Did you meet my kids? They are now ten and eight years old, age at which you flew kites with me, Shashi. But I missed you a lot Shashi. I spend my nights staring at the moon thinking that someday the eclipse will be over”. 

“But I can’t run after rabbits with you now. Neither can I fly kites with you now. I can’t even collect peacock feathers from the woods with you now. You are a mother and a woman heavy with gold now. I feel weird”, complained Shashi, as if lost with those rabbits and peacocks. “But, you can come and lie down in my lap just the way you used to. I will feel nice”, said Nisha, and Shashi placed his head gently on her thighs. Gramophone started playing, “ye raten ye mausam , ye hansna hasana, mujhe bhool jana, inhe na bhulana, inhe na bhulana”, and the wet hair locks of Nisha were brushing against Shashi’s cheeks, giving him a strange sensation, sending a shiver down his chest, stomach and pants. “You still wanna bring your lips in the milky white heaven”, asked Nisha and Shashi was gasping, with warm breath blowing against the earlobes of Nisha. Nisha, unbuttoned her gown and brought Shashi’s lips straight on the milky, white heaven. She took a deep breath and locked her lips with Shashi for a few minutes. It seemed as if time stopped and space became non-existent. Gramophone started playing, “Tadap ye din raat ki, Bhala ye rog kaisa hai”, and Chanda was slithering her palm below the soft hair carpet of Shashi’s bony chest, who felt like a snake meandering its way on his stomach.

Shashi, for the first time in his life was feeling as if a heavenly freedom was descending on him. He felt soft fingers crawling like serpents in his groin and then felt soft palm making a firm grip on his pubic national park. He cried, “aahhhhh”.   A sensation of losing himself into the faith, bliss and security of the unknown was dawning upon him like a divine light descends on a yogi, showering him all over with ancient wisdom. Next moment, Nisha was pressing his penis between her breasts and rubbing her vagina against Shashi’s chest with a force of a tigress and a lust of a celestial dancer. It seemed a passionate tantric union was taking place with Shiva and Kali themselves being there. Shashi grabbed Nisha’s butts in his fist and bit them hard, then travelled down between the lower lips to get immersed into the wonderland of wetness and dark slippery madness. He was drowned in incense of otherworldly ecstasy.  It was a sensation of freedom, a sensation that brings down the mental prejudices built over the years as a result of bondage of fictitious notions, assumptions and expectations. He felt his myriad identities like one of the obedient and conservative son, fake intellectual and an over-idealistic communist shattering like a house of cards.  Finally, when the dusky, slippery and fleshy Nisha was in the most passionate embrace with  Shashi, Nisha cried, “get inside me”. And, Shashi, who was now as erect as a ramrod, licked her thighs with the utmost intimacy of his tongue, letting Nisha crave with a streak of madness. He finally entered the wet, dark, golden and slippery tunnel with his love, lust and philosophy. And, the union had finally taken place, union of the moon and the eternity of night, the union of two souls where the feeling of “I” had vanished, and in the end of that journey, Shashi, found himself i.e. writer, poet and a sensual lover, that he was. 

Next one month was spent in reaching the peak of sexual ecstasy in every possible way i.e. in a wild and brutish physical way, in a romantic and sensual way and fulfilling spiritual way. It was also a month of Shashi emerging as a poet and a writer. He wrote endless lines on the curves of Nisha and wetness of her dark and slippery wonderland. Now, he wanted to go back and tell his father that he was not meant for civil services and he had bigger aims. He wanted to explore the world and the ‘myriad dark tunnels across the world that could be conquered with love and expressed in poetry’.

Having discovered his real self, he never looked back. He plunged headlong into his intellectual pursuits, philosophical cravings, sensual conquests and academic brilliance. Nisha was left far behind. Before, leaving for US, Shashi stayed at Nisha’s place where she secretly entered Shashi’s room at 2 in the night, leaving Praful Bhai sleeping with his share market dossiers. Once again, she was all Shashi’s and didn’t want him go away even for a second. For a moment she thought of asking Shashi to take her along to US, but she knew that he would not as he never actually fell in love with her. For him, she was only a trouble shooter, an emotional support, route to his self-realization and an extramarital sexual adventure. She came to see him off at the metro station, and he was watching her, from the train, sobbing and wiping her tears off, with her saree. Next three years passed as if Nisha and Shashi would never see each other again. Shashi thought of Nisha as a childhood memory which needed to go to make way for the future. But for Nisha, those two years were the years of depression, death and betrayal. 

“I am out of it now Shashi. It was very painful when you did not even send a one-liner reply to my topless picture. My kids helped me come out. Still, I have something stuck in the past memories and it can’t go. Emotionally, I am always with you. And, you now, I have opened an NGO. We go and feed malnourished children in deserts of Rajasthan. I feel my bliss with them. I realize how shallow I was, neck deep in lust and carnal pleasures, and foolishly I was trying to find love in those lustful nights. But, I have no regrets. I am a women and I have every right to let my soul evolve and feel happy. I had every right to have sexual ecstasy and it was the first time when I listened to my heart and took my decision. With that, my soul came out of years of bondage and in its journey of evolution; it has come far away from lust to finding bliss with the kids of desert. Even though, the latter is a bit painful. I don’t say that I have got rid of carnal bliss. I am still a passionate lover in the bed but I don’t feel it for you anymore”, said Nisha, with a streak of indifference, and a feeling of having superior sexual fantasies and abilities.

Shashi was not just speechless, but also felt a vacuum inside where there wasn’t even a desire to complain and find Nisha. He knew that he was not talking the girl whose blouse was stuck in the keekar. The girl now hardly wore a blouse. Now she was the one who could swim openly with her bare body. Something had vanished and the innocence had found its way down her navel, long back. But, he felt as if he was still stuck in the keekar and was waiting in vain for the peacocks. Unfortunately, in Mumbai, it rained heavily but peacocks never came.

He stepped out of the kitchen, feeling less and detached. “After all, relations are alive as long as the actors involved are alive. Rituals are defunct, dysfunctional and secondary. They keep a façade, which might not be a state of happiness, but it certainly could be socially useful. The façade of Nisha and Praful’s marriage had lasted and would last for its material utility and under the burden of social conveniences. Had it been love, it would have shattered and died under the compulsion of its own madness, deceit, expectations, lust and the desire for power. My lips are still in the milky white heaven but heavens left the keekar, woods and the sands of Thar far behind”, thought Shashi. His parting ways with Nisha marked the onset of a different phase in his life. The journey of soul had moved ahead in its march towards detachment. It was leaving the wet and juicy tunnels of pleasure behind and lust was giving way to the quest for spiritual gratification which seemed even more confusing, disturbing and distant.

At this stage, frankly speaking the flow of the story comes to a kind of standstill. So far the narration seems to have gone truthful, objective to the best of my capacity, honest and in some sense meaningful. Though, off late, I have kind of transcended the desire to find and impose meanings in my life as well as my writings. The desire to find and impose meanings comes out of ego and ignorance, I guess. Sometimes, making a casual peace with the beauty of life and its flow could be meaningful or rather not, but yes, this strain of detachment at the least makes us a little wiser and happier, and I guess that is certainly a spiritually beautiful ending leaving you smiling. Hence, the remaining part is not much of a writer’s world but more of a real-life roller-coaster ride with its factual adventures leaving behind the trail of emotional, philosophical and spiritual possibilities.

Shashi came out and rejoined his father and Shanti Sheth. This time, he had come back but not with his baggage of philosophy, lust and love. He had come as someone who Mishra Ji always wanted to see in him, the one who did exist in him until the day he licked the dark, wet and slippery tunnels of carnal bliss. He was feeling a kind of resurrection, resurrection of Shashi, the professional man, focused, career oriented and ambitious worldly man. For the first time, he found the conversation of Mishra Ji and Shanti Sheth, bit interesting. Shashi found it rather amusing and interesting that for last three decades their topics of conversation had more or less been the same. He was wondering whether it was a heart, poised and calm, which had attained the most sought after quietude inside and the stability of thoughts, or it was rigidity, arrogance and ignorance of their minds which had calcified them in the realm of thoughts, without the slightest inkling of their comatose minds, reaching their neurons. 

He saw Shanti Sheth showing his berretta .32 revolver to Mishra Ji, which was quite unusual for Shashi. He had never seen this man doing anything except fasting, reading Jaina scriptures and shutting his mouth with the white cloth in the evening for the fear of insects getting inside and dying. He could never even imagine this having any remote relation with a weapon. He was also telling something about dividing his property among his sons as all of them were old enough to handle it.

Shashi could not stop himself and asked Shanti sheth, “Uncle, I could never imagine you with a weapon. Please explain”, at which, Mishra Ji grinned sarcastically and said, “my son, how oblivious you are of the ways of the world. That’s why I told you not to get into girls and poetry. There is much to earn and explore. You know, your uncle has done his internship with Haji Mastan”. “Saab, please pull the skeletons out of my old cupboards. Shashi will think badly of his uncle”, said Shanti bhai with a smile that hid a lot of unmentionables.

“No, uncle, please tell me. After all, you are not all that boring”, uttered Shashi.

“My son, our adventures or rather misadventures were our mistakes, our audacity or our ignorance, I can’t say for sure. But, yes, I learned a lot and lost a lot. I could also have lost my life but tis fine. My father was never happy with me as I was always glued to my radio-set when Lata bai and Rafi saheb sang on vividh bharti. Sahir Saheb was my favorite shayar (poet) and I was mad for joining the films of Bombay. I wanted to be like Dilip Kumar. Like him, I fell in love Ahana bano. I knew nothing when I was with her and was going to become a Muslim for her. I wrote endless couplets for her. Then, one day in 1971, when we were on the verge of war, she migrated to Pakistan with her family. I was left alone, shattered, disheartened with no desire to live. My father, in haste got me married for the fear of social disgrace. But, after Ahana, I felt my days in the village with poetry were over. One night, I left without informing anyone, and I think, my father wanted it that way. But my leaving the house was not a journey of self-enlightenment like that of Mahavira and Buddha, who left their houses like me. Mine was an escape from the haunting memories of Ahana, who I knew that I could never ever find her again.

In Mumbai, one night I was sitting on sea side when I saw few boxes being unloaded. They asked to help them and I did. They paid me and gave me food. From then, I was made the in-chagre of that coastal track. I used to unload every day and then, one day Haji bhai, who had come with Sukar Narayan Bakiya Bhai, asked me,” You know, what’s inside the boxes?” I opened it and they asked me to sell those gold biscuits in the market. I agreed to do that and one day, when Inspector Shyam Bahadur chased me and fired at me, I realized what I was doing. But Haji bhai was nice and he immediately sent me to Chennai, from where I was asked to help Gyana Ji and Punja Ji, the two brothers from Jalore. They were the real players of that underworld scene from the behind. They were the ones who provides money and brains to Haji bhai. When I met them, I found two emaciated, dark baniyas from Jalore, in a worn out dhoti . They were not even the remote cousins of Sicilian mafia. Then, after their dinner which usually consisted ghee and khitchri, gave me a beretta .32 and advised me to use it to frighten only, as a true Jaina believes in non-violence, but when someone spoils your profit, then use it to shoot him down.

I was helping them in hawala for years. Then, I was sick of that life where you got up with the fear of death every day. I said good bye to Haji bhai and started dealing in antiques, which was a milder form of sin. I was searching old and sick Rustam ji and Dinshaw Ji and Jaehangir bhoy to get their priceless antiques at a throw away price. I was calling them papa and mummy and fooling them all the time. I made a lot of money and then one day I disappeared in the jungles of Burma, where I earned huge profits in teak. I returned to Bombay, when anti-India feelings became violent in Rangoon.  When I met your father, I had left my past far behind except for one thing……………………………..let it be a secret.

Shashi felt like talking to Bombay while listening to Shanti bhai. Bombay appeared like hot belle dancer to him, who was always ready for the show. Only, the audiences and admirers changed with time. But none of them left with grudges. Bombay was a passionate lover. Even if she said bye, it was full of love and stories. He was now looking for Chanda, but Vimla Ji told him that she had already left as she had to catch a flight to Delhi for a meeting of NGOs.

After few days……………………..While getting into his old Contessa, Shanti sheth was shot dead at 9 in the morning. He died at the spot. A trail of blood went straight in the west…….the blood was hot, thick and a little dark……………….In the end, it’s very different and pretty much same for all. From his pocket an old post card was found which had a Karanchi address on it. It read…………… “Teri gustaakh najar ke, ab bhi hai kayal hum……………..tumhari…….Ahaana bano”.

After a month, Shashi left for Washington D.C. for his World Bank assignment. In his journey, he was again going back in time. Everything flashed for a second before getting lost into the oblivion………Keekar came first, then milky white heaven, Guman Singh Ji’s thick mustaches, then the wet, slippery and lusty tunnels of carnal bliss…………………..Haji bhai, Ahanna, Gyana and Punja ji………………………………..Teri Gustakh najar ke, ab bhi hai kayal hum and then Shanti Bhai’s smiling face………..But he was leaving everything far behind.

Had it not been for the imaginary pleasure of the past and future…………………..I would not come back as I already transcend………………………….