earn Gopalpur a mention in the city papers, but news of the surrender has. From now on, Gopalpur’s fate will be to teeter on the edge of infamy, written up far too often in the daily papers.
Evening has come to Gopalpur and with it some lone cowherd’s flute cries out to them. Its lilting voice melts into their pores, stirring up a sympathetic pathos. Such is the nature of this trained wind, to bring equal parts sorrow and joy to the listener.
Chapter 2
RAM SINGH ENJOYS THE CRISP FEEL of the razor blade against his cheek. He needn’t bother shaving for the wedding, but he does. He shoos off the flies dancing around his face with his free hand.
‘Looks respectful,’ he says to Babulal his overseer who comes over with steaming tea. ‘When they see me all shaved and dressed up, they will know I care about them. You can’t let slaves know they are slaves, they might become discontent. All you need to do is throw these people a bone or two and like starving dogs they will stop barking and lick your hand.’ His words are carefully chosen for maximum effect. ‘You’ve put Seeta Ram down in the book, haven’t you?’ Babulal nods, taking a warming sip of tea. ‘My father always made the time to attend both weddings and funerals in the lands, and I will be damned if I’m the one to break with tradition.’
‘Ram Bhaia, Ram Bhaia!’ Lokend comes running to his elder brother, grinning from ear to ear. His teeth, big like shelled peanuts, burst out of his face. ‘Ram Bhaia, I believe Seeta Ram’s daughter is getting married. Take this box of sweets to her, will you. I would take it myself, but those damn policewalas have made a hash of Daku Manmohan’s case and now he says he won’t surrender unless I am there to guarantee the safety of his family. As if I could guarantee anyone’s safety. They only listen to me because I am Singh Sahib’s son. Anyway, if Bapu’s position can be used to help someone, then why not.’
Ram Singh arranges his stance for a fight. ‘What should I tell you? What could I tell you that you don’t already know? The evidence is before you. You know what the villagers say? They say they will find peace only in their graves. They say that once again the bandits will rule this land, and do you know why? Because of your ridiculous surrender scheme. Every four years a politician passes through this place with a stack of promises, a bunch of gundas and a pack of chaiwalas. All standard issue from Delhi, but they have done nothing for our village. We shouldn’t let those bandits surrender; we should hunt them down like rabbits.’
‘Bhaia, guns will bring more guns. You hit a man with a rock, he’ll come back at you with a stick. You hit a man with a stick, he’ll come back at you with a sword. You attack him with a sword, he’ll retaliate with a gun. Surrender is the only answer. Non-violence is the only lasting weapon. To that there can be no retaliation.’ It’s easy to mistake the younger for the elder.
‘This may be the land of Gandhi, non-violence may have worked against the British, but against these motherfuckers we need guns.’
‘Guns can never be the answer; violence is a primitive tool, the antithesis of civilisation.’
‘You are a dreamer,’ says Ram Singh. ‘All your effort won’t move one grain of the future.’
‘Yes, in a way you are right, but even so, you only make your enemies stronger by fighting them. It’s a misguided man who’ll fight without the backing of his people. It’s a foolish man who’ll fight without the backing of his god . . .’ He laughs. ‘We must all be foolish men then.’
Ram Singh feels himself pulled into his younger brother’s eyes. He shivers with irritation and says, ‘I have to go, I will be late.’
‘Don’t forget the sweets, and give Prem a ride too. I don’t think he’s ever sat in a jeep before,’ Lokend shouts before running off, his white dhoti flapping in the breeze.
At first glance he is a hunchback, with none of the awkwardness of the deformed, but at a second it is easy to see the deformity for what it is – a pet mongoose.
‘I wish he’d get rid of that damn thing. It gives me the creeps. He says he keeps it to remind him that sometimes kindness can defeat cruelty, just like a mongoose can tear the head off a snake. Why is the mongoose “kind” and the snake “cruel”, I ask you? I think he says that to make an impression on me. As if I care. Our great-great-great-grandfather was a zamindar. Should we stop now just because my younger brother doesn’t have the taste for it?’
The overseer knows better than to reply to Ram Singh’s rhetorical questions. His brother’s presence induces self-doubt. Nothing a little rum won’t cure. Babulal takes a bottle out of his kurta pocket.
‘No, not before the wedding,’ says Ram Singh. This time Lokend’s presence has an unusually long-lasting effect on him. ‘I am going to see Bapu,’ he says, without moving his reluctant feet. ‘I better go see Bapu . . .’ He looks back at the Big House. Anxious beads of perspiration have sprouted on his face. ‘I must go see Bapu now or I’ll be late.’ Managing to convince himself in stages, he moves swiftly towards the house.
The Big House shimmers in the distance with an inner light that shrieks at the onlooker. Its gleaming whitewash puts a glare in the eye. It has been that way since it was built more than one hundred years ago. It has stood gleaming through every summer, every monsoon and every addition. Its glow comes not just from the trueness of the whitewash, but also from the belief in its power. It stands apart and above the brown plane, a jewel of prosperity and control.
Many families living in Gopalpur owe their existence to the Big House. Most of their forefathers worked on it during the great drought. Singh Sahib’s great-great-great-grandfather, the then king, kept extending the building as a means of paying the villagers in grain. The construction stopped only when the rains arrived, and it was at its completion that Gopalpur got its name.
In the old days this land of ravines was a malingering nomadic expanse, visited mostly by cattle. They would arrive from nowhere and everywhere to leave great heaps of dung pats for the wandering tribes to collect. The tribes’ people named the place Gobarpur: gobar – cow dung, pur – site. Cow dung site. But Gobarpur didn’t sound elegant enough to support the shining Big House, so Singh Sahib’s great-great-great-grandfather changed the name to Gopalpur – the abode of Gopal, the flute-playing, blue-skinned god of love. And to firmly establish Gopalpur as the true eponymous land of the love god, the great-great-grandfather planted a virtual forest of mango trees brought all the way from Vrindavan, from the very same legendary orchards in which the young Gopal was believed to have seduced throngs of milkmaids with a lot more than just his flute-wielding prowess. Few trees survive today, but their fruits are blessed with extraordinary sweetness. Come dusk, there is at least one flute to be heard in Gopalpur, perpetuating its name.
The Singhs didn’t remain kings much longer after Gobarpur became Gopalpur. They were forced to give up the throne and their privy purses when the country achieved independence from British rule.
Gobarpur or Gopalpur, king or zamindar, the people still look to the Big House for sustenance.
Ram Singh strides to his father’s room, a man with a purpose. The slaps of his sandals echo so loudly in the corridor that he has to turn and look to make sure he is alone. Asmara Didi is standing outside Singh Sahib’s room, waiting as it were for Ram Singh’s appearance. He is annoyed.
They enter the room together.
Singh Sahib, the widowed father of the two boys, is in bed. An untidy chess game is spread before him like an unfinished meal. From his vantage point Ram Singh can see that the black king is in a snare he can’t get out of. He feels in
