In the Shadow of a Dream (3 page)

Krishna’s only contribution to the life of his village had been the setting up, ten years ago, of a shop for bicycle sales and repairs. But though he was able to locate it in the clean and spacious market square next to the temple, it made little impact. The villagers came, stood, gaped at the bicycles in wonder and then slipped away. ‘
Arrey
they’re waiting for two things,’ his father said: ‘firstly, the completion of the road to Biwara, and secondly, someone to teach them how to ride a bike. The price of a bike is lot of money to them. Your customers are likely only to be Veena’s brothers, and are a useless lot when it comes to outdoor activity. In any case they live in Biwara.’

But Veena had inherited her father’s business acumen and on taking over her husband’s legacy, she had the good sense to realise that the road linking Biwara to Fatehpur was at least a decade away, and transferred the bicycle shop to her town, permitting Chotu Ram, the village
durzee
, to move into the vacated premises at a rent that was a tenth of his income. The village tailor had another condition to meet before he took over the shop. Veena had taken to designing women’s clothes, and Chotu Ram had to make and display these prominently, and a third of the sale price was to be handed to her.

With the Vishnu Temple as its hub, Fatehpur radiates from there to its perimeter walls in concentric circles. These were designed to serve as caste boundaries, which were meant to keep its lower caste inhabitants to the outer rings. But an over-spill of menial workers around the West Gate broke the scheme and a bulge in the west of the village led some pariahs, that is people without caste, to encroach into the inner circles. In time, and entirely for commercial reasons, even the protected temple area could not remain exclusively for the priestly Brahmins and warrior caste Rajputs. Lower caste
bunias
or merchants had to be allowed to set up shops and to live in their premises. Among them, Mangal Singh, the
halwai,
or sweet-maker, who took on the role of a medic, and dispensed borax eye-drops free to children suffering from mild conjunctivitis and brown fennel and dill seed placebo pills for those with minor tummy upsets.

The Maha Narayan Temple to Vishnu is raised on a square pyramid of steps. It was on these steps that Motilal’s mother, Girja Devi, had found the abandoned baby six years ago…Regularly at about two o’clock in the afternoon, the old woman would draw water from the temple well, which lay under the shelter of a sacred pipal tree. There she would bathe, change into a clean white sari—as mother of the village headman she could do this at the well without raising objections—then climb the temple steps, enter the porch of the temple, ring the large bell that hangs from its central arch, fold her hands and bow her head in prayer. On that day, when the sound of the bell died down, she heard the crying of the child. Girja started, listened and, having located where the crying sounds came from, went down the temple steps and behind the main entrance. The child had been left on the lowest step. Girja Devi was a kind and wise old woman. Many young mothers-to-be had turned to her for advice and help and now she knew at once why the child had been abandoned. Girja Devi cradled the boy in her arms and rocked him till he stopped crying. She looked around and called out. ‘Are you there? Come out. Don’t hide. I can help you. I’ll care for you and your son.’ She put the child down, waited, and called out again. The boy started to cry and jerked his hands. She picked him up and the child tugged at her lose bodice. ‘You must be hungry,’ the old woman whispered.

On her way home, she passed the
pan
shop. The
panwalla
, a coarse, rather loud man, called out to her. ‘
Arrey Mataji
!’ (All the villagers addressed Girja Devi with the respectful title of “Mother” or “Deviji”.) ‘I saw the mad woman leave that bundle there. She did not return to collect it. Is it a child? Must be her child.’

The woman stopped. ‘Look, it is a beautiful boy child.’

‘Chee! Chee! He’ll be some untouchable
Bhil
baby; unclean and defiling to touch. Keep him away from me. Let not even his shadow fall on my person. Or I shall have to bathe seven times.’ The man held up his Brahmin string, which ran across his bare chest, by his thumbs, and waved his hands, as if to ward off evil.

‘Not so,’ said the woman. ‘Here, look at the boy. He has a light complexion and no untouchable or low caste child will have such fine features. Do you presume to teach me about caste matters?
Bhils
are almost black. You should know that, if you have eyes in your head.
Arrey
, I dangled you in my arms when you were born. And even you were not half as beautiful as this boy.’

‘But Mother, there must be some bad reason for any child to be left there. I have been watching for some time. It is a wonder the
langurs
did not pick up the child?’

Langurs
, the black-faced, long tailed, grey monkeys, lived and frolicked in the branches of the large, spreading banyan tree, near the Temple and under which the
panwalla
sets up his stall every morning. The woman drew nearer. ‘
Arrey,
speak of the monkeys with respect. They are sacred children of Hanuman. And have you not noted, when they gather together there are never more than seven? Every Brahmin knows seven is an auspicious number…’ She hesitated as if in doubt. ‘But long time now I have not seen that number. Don’t seem to be seven left, now.’

‘That’s because the main colony moved to Biwara. Hast thou not seen them at the Biwara railway station? It is festooned with monkeys.’

‘Biku, why would I go to Biwara?’

Biku rolled his head. ‘Believe me, they have become a damn nuisance. They raid the trains and harass the train passengers. Children of Hanuman! Huh!’

‘Biku, if you drove them away, some evil fate will befall you. Mark my words.’

‘Mother, I don’t believe in all that nonsense. My protector is goddess Lakshmi.’

‘Spoken like a bunia.’ The old woman shook her head, pressed the child to her breast and moved on.

But her son Motilal was unhappy. ‘Mother, what have you done? See, the boy is hungry. See how he searches to be fed.’

‘My dugs may be dry!’ Girja Devi shouted, ‘but…’ Her son gestured her to keep her voice down. She took a deep breath. ‘I have thought with great care. I’ll not let this child die.
Hai Ram
! Padmini is full with milk. She can suckle the boy.’

‘Our cook Padmini? She has her own child to feed.’

‘She can spare a little. Seen how big her breasts are? Like melons. All that
ghee
she robs from us…’ Girja Devi was interrupted by the sound of Motilal striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Don’t do that! Lately you have been showing a lot of impatience. Listen, whenever Padmini can’t,’ she continued, ‘I’ll dilute cow’s milk with water that has been blessed by the temple priest. It’ll be doubly sacred—
gow mata,
mother cow, is holy—and will give the boy strength. Just leave me to it… to…and since when does a man know more than a woman? My maternal instincts have never failed me.’

Motilal threw up his hands. ‘Well, do what you want. Old age, they say, truly casts its spell of madness. Anyway, that child won’t live. Not without his real mother.’ Motilal left the room.

‘See! As I said, you know nothing.’ She shouted after him.

Motilal returned with frowning deeply. ‘What do you mean? I can’t be the village headman and be accused of knowing nothing. Mother you do…’

‘
Arrey
, just you wait. The boy will live…he’s
Bhagwan
Vishnu’s gift to me. For too long my life has been loveless. All that’s been left for me till now is to patiently await death. Evil spirits took away my grandson, Krishna. But now, great god, Harè Ram a, gives me a gift to bless my last remaining days.’

‘Then, ungrateful mother, pray that the gods give you a long life, because once you’ve gone, I’ll not have a fatherless child in the house. I can’t. I am the village headman and my role is an example to all. Understand?’

‘I shall call him Balaram, the child of Rama, Lord Vishnu’s gift to me.’

‘Make up your mind. Rama or Vishnu?’

‘Fool. They are the same. Lord Rama is an
avatar
of god Vishnu.’

‘And in time he will be called Bal for short. Thought of that? Bal means child. Fancy how he’ll feel to be called “child” all his life. Yes, yes, it also means hair. That is even worse. But have you heard? I said I’ll not foster him. He will be homeless. Better to let some low caste woman bring him up in a permanent home. I’ll make enquiries when the elders meet. I’ll find a mother for him. I am not headman for nothing.’

‘I will not let you do that. With my dying breath, I will see to it that he goes to my brother’s house.’

Motilal hooted. ‘Randhir Singh?’ He laughed
derisively. ‘Krishna called him Uncle Randy. And randy he is. You know what randy means? You’ll understand when I tell you he keeps a woman in Biwara. Sujata found that out and wanted her brothers to give him a good thrashing. I saved him from that indignity. Did I not?’

‘You! It was me. I told his wife, Sujata. I reminded her that I knew she did not care for my brother. I told her not to listen to empty gossip and rumour and as she didn’t care why should she mind even if the rumours were true? “Why,” I said, “why upset peace of a home? Apji,” she calls him Apji. I said, “Apji gives you clothes and jewellery. Be content and enjoy that.” She loves Bombay
halwa
. Loves sweets, that’s why she’s so fat. He brings her packet after packet.’

‘If that boy lives, he won’t thank you for it. Randhir will make him work at the oil mill, morning, noon and night. And he’ll beat the boy soundly for every mistake he makes. You know, if he wasn’t afraid of her brothers, he would like to beat his wife too. So he’ll take it out on the boy, when he is drunk. Why do you think their son ran away? First chance he got, he went. God knows where he is. Randhir is…’

‘My brother is not a bad man. It’s the demon drink. It makes him do bad things. And you don’t have the guts to stop Murari selling drink.’

‘He spends more time in Biwara. That’s where he does most of his drinking.’

‘You forget. If it wasn’t for Randhir we wouldn’t have a railway station. And still you did not make him an elder in the
panchayat.
’

‘We were happy without the station. He also wanted a post office and a
Tar…
a wire…telegraph office. We don’t need all that. Fatehpur is well without the modern world knocking on our door. And Biwara is near enough if we need…I know he’s your youngest brother, but you and your mother spoiled him…now Randhir is an old
saand
…a servicing bull. A violent man, who drinks and still chases women.’

‘Well, then, you tell me what should I do for the boy after I’m gone?’

‘Give him up, now. I’ll pay a
bhil
woman to bring him up and soon she will let him beg for his bread like any orphan does. And work for whoever will hire him, like that other village orphan. That – that
musalman
boy, Asif. He’s lucky to be here. Thanks to Rukmini, this is a kind village. There are villages where orphans and low-caste people are ill-treated, abused…sometimes even killed.’

‘I would rather he was free than to be brought up by some low-caste woman.’

‘Why not, mother? Most likely he’s low-caste too.’

‘Let it be. I know he’s not. Look at his face. His skin is light and his features are sharp. That is not the face of a low caste child.’

Motilal bent over, and pulling the child’s blanket down, started. ‘Fair? Yes, much too fair. I hope he’s not some Britisher’s child? Half-caste.’

‘Nonsense. He’s no lighter than our Krishna was. Oh, what a beautiful baby he was. Remember? Moti? I used to call you “Moti” my little pearl. For your son’s sake, give this child…
Hai Raam!
’ Girja Devi held the child up like an offering.

‘All right! All right, mother. But let Sujata find a
dai,
a wet nurse. Another thing to remember, Sujata gets little house money from Randhir. That boy will starve.’

‘I will give her my money for the boy. I will leave, in his name, all my
javery
.’

‘Your jewellery?’

‘Yes, even my mother’s gold necklace. When I am gone, Vishnu’s gift to me must live on.’

‘Do you realise the boy will still be a minor after you have gone? Randhir will bully Sujata and spend all your legacy on drink. Nothing of yours will benefit the boy. He will be abandoned and become a gypsy among the
Bhils.
’

‘Then you must help. See that does not happen.’

The fate of Bal went exactly as Motilal predicted. He was four when Girja Devi died. Her ashes were taken by her son to Benares, to be blessed and scattered on the River Ganges. Six months after his return the boy was handed over to the care of a childless
Bhil
woman, who once a week called at Sujata’s house to sort the wheat grains before milling it into flour. But the lazy, self-indulgent Sujata was not entirely without a conscience. When Bal was six, she sought to allay her feelings of guilt.