Karmachari Read online

  Karmachari

  short stories about

  ordinary people

  V.P. KALE

  TRANSLATED FROM THE MARATHI BY

  VIKRANT PANDE

  CONTENTS

  Translator’s Note

  Anamik

  Vaidya

  Sadashiv

  Gokhale

  Deosthali

  Joshi

  Khambete

  Sridhar

  Satwalekar

  Kalpana

  Karkhanis

  Vandana Samant

  Notes

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  I grew up listening to Vasant Purushottam Kale’s – VaPu’s – ‘katha kathan’, though I had not read most of his short stories before I embarked upon this task. I was not fortunate enough to hear him live, but heard a lot of his audio-cassette recordings. It is always a greater pleasure to listen to him as opposed to reading his works. There is nothing like the author himself reading out his stories, with all their nuances and intonations, and conveying the right emotions. But I realized that the non-Marathi audience was being deprived of his stories. Hence, this translation.

  VaPu’s writing is deceptively simple, and what began as an ‘easy’ task turned out to be complex. Not because he uses a language which is difficult to translate. In fact, the conversational style makes it look easy, but when I sat down to translate I realized that it was not a cakewalk. VaPu builds his characters through conversations and does not try to create a portrait by mere description. He grips the reader from the very first line. While the story may progress at a normal pace, the reader is aware of a tension accumulating, waiting to erupt. His forte lay in building up a rich story through mere conversation.

  VaPu’s stories make one reflect on life. Many are poignant, but not necessarily dramatic. VaPu holds a mirror to society and makes the reader introspect. His stories represent the joys and sorrows of a normal middle-class family. Most of his stories have a Marathi touch wherein he presents their financial, social, cultural and other problems, and the associated emotions of pain, desperation, temptation, anger and joy. He conveys very effectively the mysterious nature of the human mind and the unexpected things one sometimes ends up doing. A lot of his stories are also women-centric, and his heroines, as is the case with his other characters, are normal people we meet every day. One of the hallmarks of VaPu’s stories was that he would introduce a philosopher in many of them, whom he would use to convey his message.

  The world VaPu creates is all around us – which we often do not realize until we read his stories.

  In Partner, one of his most famous works, VaPu tackles the age-old issues of relationships, marriage, attachment, and so on. The novel is full of his philosophical musings, but the author consciously stays away from advocating any one way of living. He paints upon a wide canvas.

  In Hi Waat Ekatichi (Her Solitary Road) the feminist in VaPu is at the forefront – in this novel, the heroine leaves her parental home to raise a child born in unusual circumstances on her own. Even in Partner, VaPu gives us a male protagonist who wakes up early in the morning, cleans the kitchen and makes tea for his wife.

  Vapurzha, an autobiography of sorts, has a structure that allows it to be read starting from any page. One does not have to read it in a linear fashion. The intention is to free the mind and make it receptive towards all ideas, concepts and feelings.

  Coming to Karmachari – I was hooked on to the collection from the moment I read it. It attracted me from the very first line with its simplicity. The stories are set in suburban Mumbai in the ’70s, but have relevance everywhere in India. VaPu’s forte lies in creating characters that are real and with whom one can identify. One feels as if one knows these characters and has seen them in real life. Karmachari talks of people one encounters every day – while commuting in local trains, in one’s office, or in one’s neighbourhood. His ability to get under the skin of an individual is what makes the stories enjoyable. And each story makes one pause for a while and reflect upon one’s own life and self.

  I thoroughly enjoyed translating this collection. As the stories are all set in Mumbai, in a primarily suburban Marathi milieu, I have retained some words from the original language. This gives it a local flavour, yet it allows the story to be enjoyed by anyone from India – or from any part of the world.

  ANAMIK

  It’s generally considered indecent to try and eavesdrop on a conversation between two people. It’s considered good behaviour not to. I fully agree, for I am a decent man. But what does one do if the two people are talking loudly while standing in a local train where people are packed like sardines in a tin can? I may want to stop myself from listening by pushing my fingers into my ears, but in such a crowd it would not be an exaggeration to say that there’s no guarantee of the fingers reaching the ears they are supposed to.

  One of the two people was excessively loud. He was talking about some trouble at home – personal, but not something he couldn’t share with his friend. He was talking about the mess his son had got him into.

  ‘Arre, I was in a hurry to leave for work, you know. I have to catch the same train every day and can’t afford to miss it. I opened the cupboard and before I could take my shirt off the hanger my younger son came and, with no warning, stuck his hand inside to get to the camera. I couldn’t stop him. Then suddenly he was distracted by a loud shout from my wife and dropped the camera on the floor.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘What could happen? The lens got dislodged from its groove. The camera repair guy is going to charge a princely sum of thirty-five rupees to set it right. It has totally messed up my budget this month.’

  The listener didn’t respond. He was looking for the right words to console his friend but seemed unable to find them. The first one continued,

  ‘You know, we don’t buy such expensive things often. We save for years to be able to – and only if no unexpected expenses come up in between. But incidents like this set you back by almost two months.’

  The listener remained silent. He was still searching for the right words. At that moment, someone from the crowd, someone eavesdropping on the conversation like me, said,

  ‘You are really lucky.’

  It wasn’t just the people listening in who were taken by surprise at the comment. The two men looked askance at the stranger who had butted into their conversation. He continued,

  ‘I beg your pardon. We don’t know each other. But I couldn’t help interrupting. Not that I could help overhearing either. But let me reiterate – you are really lucky. You only have to spend thirty-five rupees more. My camera got spoiled beyond repair.’

  On hearing this, the man with the broken camera relaxed a little. He’d got visibly irritated when the stranger had called him really lucky. Intrigued, he asked,

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘It was a situation similar to the one in your house this morning.’

  ‘What make was your camera?’

  ‘A Rolleiflex.’

  Listening to the stranger, I was convinced that he was bluffing. He didn’t look like a person who could afford an expensive Rolleiflex.

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘The lens got shattered when the camera fell down. Totally destroyed, you know. Beyond repair.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I now have to import the lens. I’m told it will cost at least two or three hundred rupees. I can’t afford to pay that kind of money. At least you’ll get your camera back once you save for a few months, but I will have to save for another year before I can get my camera back in working condition.’

  The
man with the broken camera seemed convinced by the logic and, looking at his friend, said,

  ‘Yes, it seems I am really lucky!’

  We had reached Churchgate station by then. Time had flown listening to this interesting exchange.

  It’s always a Herculean task to board the train during peak hours – and god forbid if the train is late by a few minutes. Then the task is almost impossible. It was on one such evening, having barely managed to push myself into the compartment, that I heard,

  ‘Oh god! Someone’s picked my pocket.’

  The victim displayed his trouser pocket, which had been neatly slit open by the expert pickpocket. He listed his losses – his train pass, three five-rupee notes, a few coins and the wallet itself.

  ‘I’d bought a three-month pass before the fares were hiked,’ he was telling the people around him. The he proceeded to curse, in order, the person who had picked his pocket, the crowd, the delay, the trains that always ran late and, finally, the government.

  He had barely managed to calm down when I heard the words,

  ‘You are really lucky.’

  I turned to look in the direction of the voice.

  It was the same man. The one who had told the story of his damaged Rolleiflex. I recognized him even though I was seeing him after many days.

  ‘What’s so lucky about losing one’s wallet? You’d know the pain if you lost yours.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I have suffered the pain. You were lucky to get away with very little damage. When I lost my wallet, it had five tickets for Nagpur and three hundred and fifty rupees in cash. I had borrowed the money from a friend that very day. Now, what do you have to say?’

  ‘I may be luckier than you, but today these fifteen rupees are equal to a hundred and fifty for me.’

  ‘That’s always the case. The three hundred and fifty were equal to three-and-a-half thousand for me. And I had to spend extra to buy five more tickets to Nagpur.’

  ‘Did you put in a formal complaint with the railways?’

  ‘You must be joking. The railways are not for us. We are for them. We have to travel like this without complaining.’

  ‘The last journey,’ someone quipped.

  Everyone laughed, and soon it was time to disembark at Churchgate.

  Many days passed. There were many conversations to overhear while commuting, many comments to listen to.

  Two men were speaking. One said,

  ‘Many have died for want of timely medical treatment, many more than have survived!’

  As usual, the people around them laughed. But the other person replied in all seriousness,

  ‘You’re absolutely right. Our Sandeep suffered so much, thanks to the incompetence of the doctors.’

  ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘How would I? We’re meeting after nearly a year.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’

  ‘So, what happened to Sandeep?’

  ‘Don’t get me started! It began as a simple fever. The doctor gave him a penicillin shot but it didn’t suit him and he went into shock. He was unconscious for four days and when he recovered he was unable to speak properly.’

  ‘My god!’

  ‘I feared the worst. I was worried he would lose his speech. But he recovered gradually and now, except for a few words, he speaks quite clearly. We suffered for a whole year, me and my wife.’

  It was at that moment I heard the words from somewhere in the crowd,

  ‘You are really lucky.’

  The voice was unmistakable. The words, the delivery … It had to be the same man. I turned and my suspicion was confirmed. He introduced himself, as expected, in the same manner.

  ‘Please excuse me. We don’t know each other. But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. And let me tell you why I believe you are really lucky. My son had the same problem. He too was given a penicillin shot. But he is still bedridden. It has been three years now. He is paralysed. We have tried all possible cures. All my wife and I do is attend to him day and night. You, I feel, are really lucky.’

  I caught the liar as soon as we disembarked at Churchgate. ‘Wait, I want to talk to you,’ I said.

  He stopped.

  ‘Why do you lie to people in the train?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, unperturbed.

  ‘I heard you talk of your Rolleiflex camera, and then about the way you lost a lot of money when someone stole your wallet. Remember the three hundred and fifty rupees and the tickets to Nagpur? And now your son is ill. Why do you lie like this?’

  The gentleman stuck his hand out to shake mine and said,

  ‘You are absolutely right. It seems you’ve heard my earlier conversations. That’s good.’

  ‘I don’t find your behaviour funny at all.’

  He looked at me for a long time, then said without a hint of irritation,

  ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that there must be some reason behind people’s words and actions.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So I want you to know that I tell lies deliberately. My intention is to console people.’

  ‘What kind of consolation is this?’

  ‘By showing them that there are people in the world who are getting a much worse deal than them.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Let me explain. The human mind works in mysterious ways. When you meet a sick man, he won’t necessarily be cheered up by your “get well” message. He believes he’s in a world different from the one where healthy people reside. In fact, he’s irritated by the smiling and healthy faces that come to console him. The real consolation only comes when he sees people faring far worse than him. He’s irritated by healthy people because he fears he’ll never be able to be one again. A man in trouble is not looking for a solution to his problems. He is looking for someone worse off. The realization that his situation could have been much worse makes him feel happy. Do you follow?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I provide that satisfaction. Yes, I tell blatant lies. I’m lucky to have all I want. I have four cars and two apartments on Marine Lines.’

  ‘So why didn’t you lend some money to the person who lost his wallet?’

  ‘You have a point there. But monetary help doesn’t always solve problems. The person may feel the burden of debt, and it doesn’t stop him from comparing. There are many people who can provide monetary help, but not many who can provide such consolation. I have taken on that task. So I request you: if you see me bluffing in some other situation, please do not expose me.’

  We were outside the station now. And he wasn’t lying about his wealth. I saw an Impala car waiting for him. The man, wearing an ordinary shirt and looking very much like any other man on the local train, got into the fancy car and drove away. I stood there, staring at the tail lights of the car as it disappeared into the night.

  VAIDYA

  This is one of those problems that you’re always afraid of.

  I have not yet found a way to solve it. I’ve travelled on the Pune–Mumbai route many times. From way back, when the fare was two-and-a-half rupees and one could still manage to get on without advance reservation. I’ve been travelling since the time one could encounter the shrill voices of vendors selling combs, goggles, Maganlal chikki, batata-wada, toys for children, books and many other things. Since those days when travel was not a punishment, and the railways were not considered public property. But the problem has still not been solved.

  You stand in a queue for four hours to get a seat for the four-hour journey. You make it a point to check the departure time and date a few times, and ask a few other people as well to be doubly sure. You then pray that the seat allotted to you has not been inadvertently given to someone else too. You remember the warning signs outside the reservation counter, urging passengers to ensure that the booking clerk has entered the right seat number. There is the constant fear that someone will come over and demand the same seat as yours
. But finally, the train moves, and you are about to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Now all you need is to not be bothered by the constant stream of vendors, and pray for the train to reach on time.

  But things are never that simple.

  The moment the train moves, one of the fears turns into reality. An elderly gentleman, two or three bags in hand, enters the compartment at the last moment. You’re not sure if he knows that this is a reserved compartment. The elderly gentleman requests you to move a little. He has, after all, come with the explicit intention of finding such a space.

  The first thought to cross your mind is of the four hours you’d spent in queue to reserve your seat. This gentleman, having made no such effort, comes in at the last moment and coolly asks you to ‘adjust a little’.

  All eyes are on you. They all seem to be asking you to be large-hearted and give the old man some space to sit. They are safely ensconced in their own seats. It is you who has to ‘adjust’. You can read their thoughts: It’s just a matter of four hours, everyone faces such a problem at some point, and the seat isn’t going to remain yours forever, is it? You know that too. But you’ll look like a villain if you don’t give this fifth person some space to sit. Then there’ll be the dirty looks you’ll get if you refuse. And if you do allow it, the cowardice you show in not being able to stand up for your rights and the meekness with which you surrender what is rightfully yours will constantly plague your thoughts. And god save you if your wife is travelling with you! The dirty looks from your co-passengers will leave you the moment you disembark, but her comments will follow you home, and possibly reach the neighbours’ homes too! Recall the exchange:

  ‘So, back to Pune, huh?’ the neighbour asked.

  ‘Finally.’

  ‘You seem upset? Too crowded?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’

  ‘Didn’t you reserve seats?’

  ‘But of course. We travelled like kings.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’

  ‘He moved, when asked to “adjust”. What happens when there are five instead of four?’

  ‘Couldn’t he refuse?’