A Life Misspent Read online

  ‘Touring is all we will get. What work will he do? He never thought about untouchables earlier. Now that the government is after him, he wants to escape by promoting social reform.’

  ‘Aren’t you engaged in social reform, too, my friend?’

  ‘I am not working for any organization,’ Kulli said angrily. ‘If Mahatma Gandhi believes in social reform let him a marry a Muslim woman and bring her home to live with him.’

  ‘What sort of a person are you? He is too old to bring a woman home.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Kulli said. Perhaps he was contemplating the letter he would write.

  ‘How can I find a way? There is no help in sight and yet the work must be done.’

  ‘The direction great men take marks out the path,’ I replied. ‘Keep walking the way you are going. You will meet others more famous than you on the path. Join them. That’s how it works. Each one of us uses the materials available in our time. We observe how others use the material. We learn from them and then make our own contribution. If you want to improve conditions for untouchable people, meet those who pursue similar goals. If they are deceiving others, there is nothing you can do about it. You need to keep moving forward. Mahatma Gandhi is respected by the great ones of the world. He is no ordinary person.’

  Kulli fell silent. ‘We lack the presence of the Congress Party. We are a good-sized town, but people here laugh at the idea of an independent nation. We need to bring the Congress Party here.’

  A fire blazed, and from within Kulli the true man appeared. There is no man greater than such a person. He can raise his voice against the Almighty if necessary. He measures good and evil by his own standards. Fame has nothing to do with such greatness.

  I was watching Kulli intently. ‘The tanner Madhua’s wife is running a fever. She is in a bad way. I will take her to the hospital if I can. Otherwise I will beg the doctor to make a charity call. How can they possibly come up with money for his fees? She is alone at home. Madhua is at work, and their son is out grazing cattle.’ Kulli left in a hurry.

  I got up to go and meet the members of the Maheshgiri ashram management committee. The members of such committees are reputable citizens, which means they are constantly threatened by the disreputable things going on around them. Lalaji was the first committee member I ran into. He was at a tailor’s shop waiting for a coat to be fitted. I knew him well. He owned a little land and was quite the dresser. His tailor told me in Lalaji’s presence that he would not have moved his tailor shop from Rae Bareli to Dalmau if it were not for Lalaji. Lalaji was particular about the correct measurement of individual limbs and particular about the fitting. An artisan is drawn to patrons who require fine work.

  Lalaji said namaste when he saw me; the tailor did likewise. I am not one to mumble automatic benediction upon those who join their palms to greet me. Usually I grin foolishly. My young son asked me once why I never conferred blessings on those who bowed to me. I told him I was not in the habit—that I hadn’t picked up the formalities of behaving my son had learned from my in-laws.

  ‘So what do you want?’ Lalaji asked boisterously.

  ‘I hear you are a member of the Maheshgiri ashram management committee. People think well of you. You are my friend; I think well of you, too. But there is a little matter I would like to discuss privately.’

  Lalaji led the way out. The tailor eyed us with the detachment of a literary critic. When we were alone, I spoke words of prose in my best poetic manner. ‘Have a care for the untouchables,’ I said.

  ‘I see Kulli has spoken to you and you being a simple person imagine things are the way he described them. I would advise you not to get into this.’

  ‘I am used to things not being the way people describe them. I practise literary irony myself.’

  ‘What kind of irony?’

  ‘For example, you have a head on your shoulders. But it may not be an ordinary head. It may have horns growing out of it.’

  ‘Which means…?’

  ‘I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘Tell me what you want.’

  Now he is coming around, I thought to myself. Time to have some fun. ‘I overheard a group of people as I was walking home,’ I said to him. ‘They were saying, “Lalaji should be taught a lesson. We might need to break a bone or two. He is at the tailor’s all the time.”’

  ‘Did they give a reason for their hostility?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. They were dark-skinned people, probably tanners or toddy gatherers.’

  ‘Have you seen Kulli recently?’

  ‘Not for a while. I kept trying to understand why those people on the road were unhappy with you.’

  Lalaji returned to the tailor shop. I made my way to the Pandit’s house. It must have been eleven in the morning. The Pandit was flying one of those square kites. He had ordered special string paste from Lucknow to keep other kite flyers from bringing down his kite.

  ‘I have come on important business,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t you see I am busy?’

  I realized he would be a difficult case. ‘The Deputy Collector is down from Rae Bareli. He wanted a bath in the Ganga. He knew I would be here; I met him when I visited Rae Bareli recently.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ the Pandit asked eagerly.

  ‘At my house. He wanted to see you. He would have accompanied me, but I advised against it. “You have just bathed,” I said. “You will get hot in the sun. It’s a climb to the Pandit’s house. The Pandit is my friend. I will ask him to come see you here.”’

  The Pandit handed the kite to a servant and instructed him to wind the string on a spool. ‘Hurry up and wind the string,’ the Pandit shouted, ‘I am going out to meet the Deputy Collector.’

  He put on a fresh kurta and picked up his walking stick. I marvelled at his brisk pace as we walked. We were half way to my house when he paused and asked me if I knew Mahadev Prasad.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What about him?’ He did not answer; he was absorbed in his own thoughts.

  I opened the door to my sitting room. ‘Where is the Deputy Collector?’

  ‘He may have gotten impatient and left.’

  ‘You tricked me,’ the Pandit said.

  ‘It’s not as if you dealt with me generously. You are a pandit, but you’ve never imparted any wisdom to me.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to people like you,’ the Pandit answered angrily.

  I realized then that the Pandit’s upper storey was empty— no learning there, no wisdom. ‘My coming to your house was as pointless as your coming to mine,’ I said. ‘Please go home and resume flying kites.’

  Fourteen

  I had to spend some time in Lucknow. When I returned to Dalmau, I was eager to know whether Kulli’s work had moved forward. I heard his praises right inside my in-laws’ house. My brother-in-law’s wife had taken over the running of the household in place of my wife. She was already the mother of three children; it was permissible for me to engage her in conversation. From behind her veil, she responded gladly to talk about literature.

  I reminded her that Mahatma Gandhi was against the veil. It was not becoming of a disciple of the great man to be wearing a veil while conversing with me. ‘I don’t like the veil,’ she said, ‘but the men here read meanings into everything.’

  ‘So you want to pull a veil over their eyes by covering your own,’ I remarked.

  My mother-in-law and my brother-in-law’s young wife wanted to talk about nothing but Kulli’s work. ‘He is a good man,’ they claimed, ‘performing important service. At first people would assemble and spend their time criticizing one another. Now they cooperate. The Congress Party has a base in the town. There is a strong core of volunteers. All this is Kulli’s doing.’

  ‘He works eighteen hours a day,’ my brother-in-law added. ‘He will walk ten miles to add a new member to the Congress Party rolls. People respect him. They get up from their seats when he enters a room.’

  ‘He is superhuman,’ Mother-i
n-law said.

  My brother-in-law’s wife concurred. ‘He is an avatar. The tanner Binda’s bride lay dying. Nobody stepped forward to help. Only Kulli went to sit by her side and look to her needs.’

  ‘I have to see him,’ I said. I was eager to know how Mahatma Gandhi replied to the letter Kulli must have sent him.

  My brother-in-law said he would let Kulli know. He got his walking stick, cast a quick glance at his wife and at me, then a longer trusting glance at his mother. I made my way to the sitting room.

  I was beginning to be recognized. Students from nearby schools and colleges often dropped in and I had to make time for them. They would ask me what chhayavaad poetry was. I had gotten used to explaining, but the students couldn’t understand. I would assure them that they would understand by and by.

  I also made the acquaintance of Babu Iqbal Varma Sehar at this time. He had sought me out on account of his interest in literature. I was delighted to discover that his in-laws and mine dwelt in the same town. He brought along a friend who was the brother of Babu Rajbahadur Lamgora, the famous scholar and critic of Tulsidas. I admired Babu Lamgora’s criticism and had long wanted to meet him, but there had been no opportunity. I mentioned this to Babu Lamgora’s brother who invited me to their house in Fatehpur. Babu Sehar asked me to recite my poetry, which I was happy to do. There were other occasions, too, in which poetry recitation was involved, but we can let those pass. The listeners associated with these occasions were not newsworthy. I noticed, incidentally, that people were puzzled upon reading my poems but understood them perfectly when they heard them recited.

  I was absorbed in searching out new feelings to write about when my brother-in-law returned. ‘Here is Kulli,’ he said, showing him in. I greeted Kulli and he sat down beside me. My brother-in-law went to his own rooms. Kulli’s face looked bright, but his body was emaciated as of a person in the evening of his life. I felt stangely elated at the contrast between his failing body and his glowing presence.

  He sat without moving. I had never seen him this quiet before. I sensed he was on an interior journey, having shown the world the path to follow. I, too, sat quiet.

  Kulli sighed. I believe his sigh was for those who were unsuspecting. The simple-hearted people suffered the most. Those dedicated to the seva of society served their own interests as well. Many peasants joined the Congress Party for protection from landlords and moneylenders. Even poor people sang the praises of those who could do something for them. Was self-interest the only motivation at work in society? Could such motivation bring peace to the soul?

  He was so quiet I didn’t have the courage to begin a conversation. Just then my brother-in-law appeared with a tray of snacks. ‘Kulli has been looking after the tanner Dukhiya all night. Dukhiya’s wife is dead and Dukhiya has taken ill. He is on his way to Lalganj on Congress Party work. I don’t think he has had a meal since lunch yesterday.’

  Kulli picked up the plate of snacks and began to eat. His face was flushed. I bowed inwardly before the humanity that had taken root in him.

  He ate rapidly, rinsed his mouth and picked up a fold of paan. My brother-in-law left.

  ‘Kulli,’ I said mustering my courage, ‘did you write that letter to Mahatma Gandhi?’

  Kulli smiled. ‘What can I say?’ he responded.

  His smile was enough. I got up and walked from one end of the sitting room to another. The time for role playing was over. ‘It makes me angry. Why can’t the great ones tell genuine people from hypocrites? Once a few social workers deceive them, they imagine all social workers are imposters.’ Kulli showed interest. ‘This is why I stay away from politics,’ I continued. ‘I know I can never be the president of the provincial Congress committee. ‘The dharma of a foot soldier,’ they will say to me, ‘is not to aspire to be leader.’ The leaders, meanwhile, will pursue every stratagem to stay leaders. They won’t let others climb up.’ Kulli was stirred by my words.

  ‘What answer did you receive from Mahatma Gandhi?’

  ‘None. I addressed seventeen letters to him. Or was it twenty-seven? I can’t remember. Mahatma Gandhi remained true to his vow of silence. I believe Mahadev Desai scrawled a sentence in reply to one of my letters: ‘Write to the provincial office of the party in Allahabad.’

  ‘Didn’t you answer back?’

  Kulli cleared his throat. ‘I did. “You may be a thousand times more educated than me,” I wrote to Mahatma Gandhi. “You may be world famous. That does not mean you know about every kind of situation people face. If you knew about these situations you could never take a vow of silence. Because you are silent I know there is nothing divine about you. God is omniscient. You are not. Avatars have been born into other castes, but not to traders. Therefore traders have deified you, and you have happily become a deity looking out for traders.”’

  ‘Did you write anything of substance in your letter?’

  ‘Seventeen times in the earlier letters.’

  ‘Was this the eighteenth or the twenty-eighth?’

  ‘I don’t remember. You can see my copies when you come to the house.’

  ‘Did you include any lines of verse in your letter? These add to the effect.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it. I wrote directly whatever came to mind. I know I am not well educated. They can think me foolish if they like. But God does not distinguish between the learned and the ignorant. He regards both with an equal eye.’

  ‘Mahatma Gandhi isn’t that kind of god.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I sent a letter to Allahabad (I can’t remember the name of the office of untouchable affairs to which Kulli addressed his letter), but I received no reply. So I wrote to Jawaharlal Nehru.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I wrote a straightforward letter at first,’ Kulli said gravely, ‘such as we write to important people. But after not hearing from him, I wrote in a sharper tone. I had nothing to lose.’

  ‘You were writing to the king himself.’

  ‘Yes, to the king. He didn’t reply to the second letter directly, but he had it sent over to the office of untouchable affairs. They wrote to me saying they would help. Money intended for me would be sent to the Rae Bareli office.’

  ‘Did you get any money?’

  ‘Only once,’ Kulli said, staring out the window. ‘The great ones know why they act as they do. I don’t want to say much. I am also learning to see my own fault in such things. I wasn’t satisfied the way one is satisfied with a simple meal of rotis and dal. I must leave for Lalganj now. I am trying to enroll new members in the Congress Party. There is so much work to be done. My wife has taken over running the school. I would be happy if you visited the school again. I am going to be away for many days. There is no one else to help me. I have left things to God. Don’t mind my whirling words. Namaste.’

  He may have grown older, but there was vigour in his stride. He had turned his face to God only because he lacked for human help, human support, human encouragement.

  Fifteen

  I stayed in Dalmau another two or three days. I visited Kulli’s wife and saw his school. Then I left for Lucknow. But I didn’t like it there. Something kept pulling me back to Dalmau. Scenes of Dalmau’s natural beauty would appear in my mind—the flow of the Ganga, the open riverbanks, the wide horizons. The strongest attraction was to Kulli. I could hear his affection calling out to me: Come back to Dalmau, come back. I needed to bathe in the Ganga for the kakti festival, I reminded myself. Barely three months had elapsed before I found myself back in Dalmau.

  The banks of the river glowed with autumn light. The trees were washed by the rains. Everywhere there was clarity and radiance. I was riding in a trap such as I had ridden many years ago when I first met Kulli. How that fashionable revenue stamp salesman had changed. He had moved into the circle of light.

  The trap stopped in front of the house of my in-laws. A man came out to help unload the luggage. Mother-in-law watched from the gate. She had the cart driver pai
d at once. I touched her feet and went inside. My brother-in-law’s wife came to the door. She was wearing a sari, no other upper garment, no veil. I found myself bowing before her natural beauty.

  I have stumbled many times in my life, but I also know our stumbles enable us to penetrate the veil. My brother-in-law emerged from an inner room. ‘You have come at the right time,’ he said to me. ‘Kulli is very sick. The doctor says the case is hopeless, but they may have instruments and medicines in Rae Bareli that could save him. Try to see him soon.’

  ‘What is he ill with?’

  ‘Venereal disease,’ my brother-in-law said. ‘He had contracted it earlier, but he pushed himself running from village to village in the heat, signing up members for the Congress Party. There isn’t a village in the area now without party members. He would go days without food. His health failed him. His lower limbs have rotted. There is a terrible stench and strangely…’

  ‘Strangely?’

  My brother-in-law smiled.

  ‘What’s there to smile about?’

  My brother-in-law glanced at his mother and wife standing nearby, and motioned me to another part of the room. He whispered in my ear: ‘The genital organ is missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘It wasted away, that’s what people say. Even if he survives, they say, what use will he be to his wife?’

  I sat down at the edge of the bed. My brother-in-law’s wife said gravely, ‘He isn’t doing well at all.’

  Mother-in-law went in to prepare breakfast and called my brother-in-law’s wife into the kitchen to help. I sat stupefied. The talk over breakfast pertained to matters concerning our family.

  I set out for Kulli’s house the following morning. I met some Congress Party social workers on my way who were also headed to see him. I saw a group of untouchable children and a few parents by his door. Their eyes were despairing.

  I found Kulli in the same position in which I had seen him that first day. Those disturbed feelings had worked themselves out in his body; they were not present in his face. His face shone with light. At the same time, the stench was unbearable; I had to force myself to stay in the room. Kulli opened his eyes, ‘Ah, it’s you,’ he said. ‘How fortunate I am.’ He asked one of the untouchable people in the room to spread a small rug near his pillow. ‘If you sit at the head of the bed,’ he said, ‘the smell will not bother you. I have confined the disease to the nether parts. Above my heart, I am well. See for yourself.’