Double Dealing
The summer afternoon was sizzling with heat. The path from the grand trunk road to Adikeshav ghat was lined with gulhmohar and Shiuli trees. The gulmohar trees in the month of April were adorned with fiery orange flowers. The dense trees were interspersed with bougainvilleas, chameli’s and wild roses, impregnating the atmosphere with a heavy fragrance.
It was almost a year since I had married Jatin. Even his simplest statements appeared to me uttered with an air of authority: “Are you accompanying me to the bank?”
Boomed Jatin’s voice one afternoon. He knew I was finding it difficult to adjust to the rhythms of the city after my sedate small town existence in Koderma. He would make it a point to drag me along wherever he went. However, the idea of going to the bank revolted me, I relented anyway, as I was keen to visit Chandan shaheed, the shrine of a Sufi saint which was near the bank of the river Ganges. I had so many things to pray for, peace for my old mother back home, for my new marriage which was passing through a rough turf. A small voice told me that a visit to the shrine would do me good.
Jatin parked his car under a gulmohar tree and went in for his transactions. I switched on the radio FM and reclined my head to listen to the mellifluous old songs. The beauty of the surroundings made me take out a piece of paper from my purse to scribble some lines:
The gulmohar tree dapples the road
Leading to the shrine
Creeks in the wind
A few brilliant red flowers
Fiery with colors sucked from the sun
Drift reluctantly towards me
Whole and unbruised
I pick them up
Tenderly
In my palm
Such a simple thing can give me
So much pleasure
It has taken me so long
To see that happiness isn’t hard to find
As I was keeping this hastily scrawled poem in my purse, in a distance I noticed a bored security man listlessly lying down in a creaky bench. There were some passersby. I saw an old man on a rickety bicycle with a small child, who I guessed must have been his grandson. He collided in the blind corner with two young men on a scooter.
Collecting themselves after the collision the young men were quick to reprimand the old man who had fallen down from his bicycle: “Don’t you see where you are going? Why don’t you stay at home if you are too old to ride a bicycle properly? You will die and so will your grandson by your blind riding.” The old man got up apologetic as if whatever had happened had been solely his mistake. He looked as helpless as a mouse in a parachute’s talons.
The security men who were also eying the scene got up and scolded the two young men in harsh terms: “What do you mean, I saw it all, poor Baba was on the right, it was your entire mistake, these young men they just get hold of bikes and scooters these days and think no end of them. They forget where they are going, what they are doing. Hah! Too much influence of Hindi movies! They think they are heroes! I am sure these heroes don’t have their driving license with them.”
“Do you have it?
“Come show it to me?” he spoke in an authoritative tone.
The young scooterist mumbled that he had it but it was at home. That was reason enough for a second blast from the security man: “I knew it, I knew it, the moment I saw you’ll I knew it. I will lodge a complaint against you–you know by your brashness you could have even caused the death of this old man, he could have had a brain haemorrhage. Let alone the law, the villagers down the road would not have spared you; they would have split you apart. You’ll don’t know how they behave when they are angry.”
The boys were really frightened out of their wits at the turn of the events. However, the truth was that except for a few scratches the old man was hardly hurt. They knew the only way to get out of this mess was to appease the security man: “Okay, sir we will do as you say.”
They knew the situation was fragile and they must handle it delicately. They promptly took out a hundred rupee note and handed it to the astonished old man: “O, Baba, we are extremely sorry, hope this will help you to buy medicines for your wounds and help you to get your bicycle fixed.”
Saying this they rode off in haste to save their skins from any further mess. The dazed old man still held the hundred rupee note as the two boys departed.
I was quietly appraising the scenes enacted before me; my sympathies were with the old man. I felt like applauding the security man by saying: “A Daniel has come to the judgment.”
To my dismay, the security man was quick to turn his tune. He now instantly pounced on the old man with a volley of accusations: “So old man, see how I saved you, thank your stars that I was on duty today, otherwise you were sure to be handed over to the police – look at the way you were riding on the bicycle. Youthful brazenness is still coursing in your old veins! Yeah! You are from the village, Saraimohana, huh! I know what the likes of you do in the evening–no work, just drink and laze! What will the country come to with the lazy drunken bums like you! Come out with the truth, you idle drunken fool!”
The old man unable to comprehend the complexities of the whole episode muttered weakly: "last night, I did take a little Saab!”
“There you go-confession at last. I knew the moment I saw you come riding that bicycle in a wayward fashion, I had said to myself this old man is up to mischief.”
Lighting a cigarette he added: “Don’t you know the traffic rules–drinking and driving is punishable by law. You can be thrown behind bars–look at your grandson, what an irresponsible grandfather you are. Thank your stars and me that he is still alive.”
The old man bowed his head in gratitude and extended his hand which still held the hundred rupee note. The security man craftily slipped the hundred rupee note in his pocket and with a show of magnanimity dismissed the old man saying: “Okay, enough of your tamaashas. Now go to your village before the whole village converges here to watch the show. Pray to the Baba at Chandan shaheed for saving your life.”
The old man like the two youths before him had done–rode away in his bicycle as fast as his old limbs could carry him with a sigh of relief writ large on his wrinkled face.
And for the security man he took out the hundred rupee note, lovingly eyed it, folded it and hastily kept it in his pocket and with a swagger moved to his original place in the rickety bench.
I could now see Jatin come out of the bank. His work done, we drove off from the scene of high drama that sultry summer afternoon.
Anita Singh works as a Professor in the Department of English, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has a number of articles, translations, book reviews and short stories published in various journals, anthologies and magazines, including Arthur Miller: A Study of the Doomed Heroes in his Plays (1993); Indian English Novel in the Nineties and After: A Study of the Text and its Context (2004); And the Story Begins: My ten Short Stories (2008); and 1857 and After: Literary Representations, edited R.N. Rai, Anita Singh, Archana Kumar, New Delhi: Pencraft International, 2009.
The summer afternoon was sizzling with heat. The path from the grand trunk road to Adikeshav ghat was lined with gulhmohar and Shiuli trees. The gulmohar trees in the month of April were adorned with fiery orange flowers. The dense trees were interspersed with bougainvilleas, chameli’s and wild roses, impregnating the atmosphere with a heavy fragrance.
It was almost a year since I had married Jatin. Even his simplest statements appeared to me uttered with an air of authority: “Are you accompanying me to the bank?”
Boomed Jatin’s voice one afternoon. He knew I was finding it difficult to adjust to the rhythms of the city after my sedate small town existence in Koderma. He would make it a point to drag me along wherever he went. However, the idea of going to the bank revolted me, I relented anyway, as I was keen to visit Chandan shaheed, the shrine of a Sufi saint which was near the bank of the river Ganges. I had so many things to pray for, peace for my old mother back home, for my new marriage which was passing through a rough turf. A small voice told me that a visit to the shrine would do me good.
Jatin parked his car under a gulmohar tree and went in for his transactions. I switched on the radio FM and reclined my head to listen to the mellifluous old songs. The beauty of the surroundings made me take out a piece of paper from my purse to scribble some lines:
The gulmohar tree dapples the road
Leading to the shrine
Creeks in the wind
A few brilliant red flowers
Fiery with colors sucked from the sun
Drift reluctantly towards me
Whole and unbruised
I pick them up
Tenderly
In my palm
Such a simple thing can give me
So much pleasure
It has taken me so long
To see that happiness isn’t hard to find
As I was keeping this hastily scrawled poem in my purse, in a distance I noticed a bored security man listlessly lying down in a creaky bench. There were some passersby. I saw an old man on a rickety bicycle with a small child, who I guessed must have been his grandson. He collided in the blind corner with two young men on a scooter.
Collecting themselves after the collision the young men were quick to reprimand the old man who had fallen down from his bicycle: “Don’t you see where you are going? Why don’t you stay at home if you are too old to ride a bicycle properly? You will die and so will your grandson by your blind riding.” The old man got up apologetic as if whatever had happened had been solely his mistake. He looked as helpless as a mouse in a parachute’s talons.
The security men who were also eying the scene got up and scolded the two young men in harsh terms: “What do you mean, I saw it all, poor Baba was on the right, it was your entire mistake, these young men they just get hold of bikes and scooters these days and think no end of them. They forget where they are going, what they are doing. Hah! Too much influence of Hindi movies! They think they are heroes! I am sure these heroes don’t have their driving license with them.”
“Do you have it?
“Come show it to me?” he spoke in an authoritative tone.
The young scooterist mumbled that he had it but it was at home. That was reason enough for a second blast from the security man: “I knew it, I knew it, the moment I saw you’ll I knew it. I will lodge a complaint against you–you know by your brashness you could have even caused the death of this old man, he could have had a brain haemorrhage. Let alone the law, the villagers down the road would not have spared you; they would have split you apart. You’ll don’t know how they behave when they are angry.”
The boys were really frightened out of their wits at the turn of the events. However, the truth was that except for a few scratches the old man was hardly hurt. They knew the only way to get out of this mess was to appease the security man: “Okay, sir we will do as you say.”
They knew the situation was fragile and they must handle it delicately. They promptly took out a hundred rupee note and handed it to the astonished old man: “O, Baba, we are extremely sorry, hope this will help you to buy medicines for your wounds and help you to get your bicycle fixed.”
Saying this they rode off in haste to save their skins from any further mess. The dazed old man still held the hundred rupee note as the two boys departed.
I was quietly appraising the scenes enacted before me; my sympathies were with the old man. I felt like applauding the security man by saying: “A Daniel has come to the judgment.”
To my dismay, the security man was quick to turn his tune. He now instantly pounced on the old man with a volley of accusations: “So old man, see how I saved you, thank your stars that I was on duty today, otherwise you were sure to be handed over to the police – look at the way you were riding on the bicycle. Youthful brazenness is still coursing in your old veins! Yeah! You are from the village, Saraimohana, huh! I know what the likes of you do in the evening–no work, just drink and laze! What will the country come to with the lazy drunken bums like you! Come out with the truth, you idle drunken fool!”
The old man unable to comprehend the complexities of the whole episode muttered weakly: "last night, I did take a little Saab!”
“There you go-confession at last. I knew the moment I saw you come riding that bicycle in a wayward fashion, I had said to myself this old man is up to mischief.”
Lighting a cigarette he added: “Don’t you know the traffic rules–drinking and driving is punishable by law. You can be thrown behind bars–look at your grandson, what an irresponsible grandfather you are. Thank your stars and me that he is still alive.”
The old man bowed his head in gratitude and extended his hand which still held the hundred rupee note. The security man craftily slipped the hundred rupee note in his pocket and with a show of magnanimity dismissed the old man saying: “Okay, enough of your tamaashas. Now go to your village before the whole village converges here to watch the show. Pray to the Baba at Chandan shaheed for saving your life.”
The old man like the two youths before him had done–rode away in his bicycle as fast as his old limbs could carry him with a sigh of relief writ large on his wrinkled face.
And for the security man he took out the hundred rupee note, lovingly eyed it, folded it and hastily kept it in his pocket and with a swagger moved to his original place in the rickety bench.
I could now see Jatin come out of the bank. His work done, we drove off from the scene of high drama that sultry summer afternoon.
Anita Singh works as a Professor in the Department of English, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has a number of articles, translations, book reviews and short stories published in various journals, anthologies and magazines, including Arthur Miller: A Study of the Doomed Heroes in his Plays (1993); Indian English Novel in the Nineties and After: A Study of the Text and its Context (2004); And the Story Begins: My ten Short Stories (2008); and 1857 and After: Literary Representations, edited R.N. Rai, Anita Singh, Archana Kumar, New Delhi: Pencraft International, 2009.
