The shivering midnight sky was pierced by
millions of shafts of rain that arrived suddenly unasked like dhoomketu. The
next day was shining so bright that it erased the very memory of rain.
The ball of orange welcomed the
auspicious day that would see the inauguration of a temple which would bring the
nation worldwide fame. For months past the media had been agog with the news
like over eager hounds tracking down a prey. The temple would return to the
Hindu civilization its past glory.
Birju the beggar or Birju Bhikari was not
ashamed of his title. In fact, he had returned to this profession willingly. He
was crippled and had to hobble around on crutches. His bronze coloured hair was
pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes were clear and penetrating. Birju
had been reading about the temple for many months, and as the moment of its
inauguration drew near, confused emotions pulled him into a nightmarish vortex
for which there was no logical explanation. He was not a devoted worshipper, but
some uncertain sense of suppressed defeat drew him to the temple city. Was it
some sort of transanction or bargain that he wanted to strike with God?
This is an impossible proposition, his
friend told him. Do you have even the remotest idea of the scale of the
ceremonies? The Prime Minister himself, foreign dignitaries, and the wealthiest
men of our country will be arriving in planes and private helicopters. It will
be a sea of saffron, sadhus and sants will be converging here from all four
directions. Even within the film industry, there have been discriminations and
nitpicking. Only a few favored stars will be allowed to shine. The entire area
has been cordoned off. Thousands of security guards will put up a barricade.
Don’t you realise, you fool, and evictions have been going on for months. All
hovels and ugly establishments near the site have been razed to the ground. Why
do you think this superhuman work is being accomplished? So that Birju the
beggar can get an entry into the temple?
On the train journey towards the city, as
he watched the dry and arid countryside glide past him through the dirty iron
bars of his third-class compartment, scenes from his earlier life flitted along
with the moving land. Whenever he had a moment to himself, or whenever he was
asleep, these scenes surfaced involuntarily from the depths. He would feel again
the blunt, dull, faceless, hellish pain of his legs being deformed. He was
branded for life as a beggar. He could no longer be a child. That path of
childhood was closed to him forever. Much later, many years later in fact, he
had managed to escape from the clutches of the gang and return to his native
land. He never blamed God for his misfortune. His fortune had been crafted by
man. He cleaned himself of all the dirt in the way a doughty crow cleans its
ugly feathers of a heap of garbage dropped on it. The crow looks at the world
with its beady eyes and says, I dare you to knock me down!
Far away in the capital city, a wealthy
childless couple is preparing to attend the ceremonies to which they have been
personally and officially invited. They have tried every trick in the book. They
have visited the best gynecologists all over the world, and have gone through
numerous fertility rites, both technological and metaphysical! Surrogacy will be
a last option for them. The gorgeous lady has a yearning to conceive naturally,
to feel the little forming baby kick and heave against the walls of her uterus.
The visit to the temple may still allow that yearning to be gratified.
So, the night before was ominous. It shed
millions of water droplets that looked like tears. Red lines of lightning
zigzagged across the sky, splitting it up into many compartments. There was a
low wailing sound that accompanied each lightning strike, and half realised
puckered faces seemed to appear in illusory veils. But there was not even a
vestige left of this the next morning. The next morning was so dazzling that it
had wiped the slate clean.
The air is resounding with chants.
Everyone is waiting for the helicopter that will bring the elaborate idol to its
home. The press has been magnificently expansive in its coverage. All other news
items, including potentially disruptive ones, have been carefully shepherded
into tiny columns on the fourth, fifth or sixth pages of newspapers. Anchors on
popular TV channels are displaying whatever histrionic talents they are capable
of. WhatsApp messages are flooded with blessings and greetings. Twitter is perky
and alert. Facebook is full of saintly, beatific visages. One mega star looks
distinctly uncomfortable in the front row, but there is no way he could have
avoided the invitation. Recently married ‘non- political’ star couples bedecked
in festive yellow are smilingly aware of the cameras focused on them. And one
stridently ‘political’ star is screaming so loudly that dogs and cats are
startled out of their wits. The idol has arrived! Our darling precious lord has
arrived after centuries of waiting! A collective yell of bliss bounds across the
courtyard. Some are openly weeping and heaving with emotion. Our infertile
couple is in the first row, seated quietly and solemnly with folded hands and
bowed heads.
Meanwhile Birju has not been allowed
anywhere near the hullaballoo. He has tried to befriend various guards, cooks,
messengers. He has tried to ferret out secret information. He has looked for
chinks in the barricade through which he might slip in. He has hired smart
clothes, and produced a fake identity.Some of the guards are covertly
sympathetic towards him, but even they consider him to be insane.
Birju
sits disconsolately on open ground near the banks of the river. Near him a group
of birds are pecking at a heap of grains thrown on the steps by some passerby.
The birds look humble, domesticated. Their eyes are invisible, only the backs of
their scruffy necks can be seen, and their bedraggled tails. As he gazes at them
intensely, Birju feels a wave of disgust sweep over him. He does not even
understand himself. Why has he made this long journey? He has saved, or rather
is scraping up enough money to open a small sweet shop in the distant future. He
is ready for the long haul. He lives for the moment.
Each moment was always hard for him, and
crystal clear, and concentrated like the stare of the crow. The crows were no
longer scared of the superior humans. They would not be shooed away. They would
peck at the ground viciously. They would hold their necks stiffly to one side in
defiance. If the humans pushed them two steps backwards, they would move three
steps forwards threateningly. If a stone was thrown at them, they would fly off
and then return again and again. They could not soar in disdain like the eagle.
But they survived in ugly dignity. Birju sat by the river, watching its grey
waters flow by silently. He had defiled himself, perhaps, by coming here. He had
shown weakness. He had not even been aware of his own desperation to succeed. Of
his own capacity for servitude. His beggary, which he had thought was an
external mask, had become a part of his being. He had been beaten down perhaps.
The ceremonies are nearly over. The
wealthy lady suddenly sits ramrod straight in her seat, and seems to tremble
slightly. Her husband looks at her anxiously. Are you alright? Is anything
wrong? She whispers into her husband’s ear; it seems I have experienced an
epiphany. An epiphany! Of what kind? It seems to me as though the idol looked at
me with compassionate eyes and told me to be charitable towards the first beggar
I saw. But that is a clear message, the husband almost cried out aloud in
jubilation. God had spoken personally and intimately to his wife.
The ceremonies are now over. TV reporters
are rabidly watching the scene, waiting voraciously to pounce upon sound bites.
Various politicians and celebrities are being accosted for short interviews. So,
how does it feel to be here this morning? Oh! Nothing short of rapturous.
The lady is looking in vain for a beggar.
How can a beggar conveniently appear when the roads have been scrupulously
cleared of any signs of ugliness? The lady is despondent. She feels momentarily
strangulated, a most uncanny and rare sensation. She says unsteadily, can we
walk a little towards the river? Her husband is flabbergasted. Walk? We can ask
our chauffeur to drive us to the river. The banks are quite dirty and
unhygienic. No! Let us walk! Can’t we walk for once? She is almost on the verge
of hysteria. What do you mean? The husband returns coldly. We often walk, but
not in places such as these.
However, he is ultimately forced to humor
his wife. She has been extremely delicate of late. The couple starts to walk
away from the glamorous crowds towards the river, and the further they walk, the
more uncomfortable they begin to feel. The path is pebbly and coarse. Someone
has thrown a used sanitary pad by the side of the road. A vague, nauseating
smell emanates from it. They pass by quickly and turn their faces away from the
curious glances of neighbourhood goons. The woman nearly slips and falls.
The serendipitous sight of the river
ahead of them comes as a relief. It is the height of afternoon. Very few people
have ventured out to the banks in the blazing heat. The sun is a ball of fury
hanging in the middle of the sky. Sitting on a step almost opposite the sun,
cross legged in a position of meditation, Birju catches the lady’s eye. She
notices his spindly thin deformed legs, his faded clothes, and the beggar’s bowl
by his side.
The woman stands staring at the beggar.
She has never observed such a man from such close quarters. When she passes by
slums in her car, she normally takes in the entire scene, the hovels, the
discoloured washing strung out to dry, toddlers running out into the streets
dangerously, uncared for. But she overlooks the details. The particular face of
the particular man goes unnoticed. The particular cracked utensil, the
particular accumulation of grime. She is kinder than many others. She feels a
distant pity. Sometimes, she feels numb. She is kinder than most.
Now, as she looks at Birju, she feels an
uncomfortable sensation. As though the door of a cage has opened temporarily.
She feels the burning heat on her skin. Her skin is singed by it. In his present
mood, Birju is full of resentment against the rich. Yet he is curious about this
wealthy woman who is looking at him as though he belongs to her status. Then it
strikes him that she is wanting something from him.
The woman suddenly sat down on the step
next to him to the husband’s and her own utter astonishment. She said, the idol
spoke to me today. You understand? If I can gift you all the jewellery I wear
today, perhaps I will receive the gift of a child! Will you accept it?
The woman suddenly sitting down, without
warning, without preparation, had an almost physical impact upon Birju! He
flinched and remained silent for a while. When he turned his head to look at
her, the dazzle of her gold darkened his vision. He was crouching internally
like an animal about to be attacked, suspicious, wary of traps, unbelieving. How
was this possible? Was he some kind of a lamb being led to the sacrifice? But
then when he had calmed himself down and brought his palpitating heart under
control, he saw in her face neither appeal nor desperation nor condescension nor
shrewdness. He saw it open and tender, as though she were no longer rich.
Birju has tied up all the ornaments in a
ragged shawl tightly. Her heavy gold bangles, the necklace almost reaching down
to her waist, and her danglers. He keeps touching them from time to time. It is
as though he is unable to move. It is as though the shawl is on fire. He cannot
understand its meaning. Why should God bless him with this treasure while his
friends would continue to rot in their destiny? Is it because he has been more
resourceful than the others? Or has he been greedier? What has he particularly
done to deserve this more than the others? He keeps sitting on the banks of the
river, until the sun loses its glare, and begins its slow descent. The sky is
smeared with merging colours, and a line of pure crimson is distinctly visible.
The dilapidated lamp posts standing nearby look like ghostly figures.
Birju is on his way to an inn. He keeps
the shawl carefully bundled underneath his arm. Four goons emerge from the
lengthening shadows and surround him. What’s in that bey! We saw that bitch
fawning over you in the afternoon. Where have you come from hey? You plan to
lick all the cream yourself?
Birju puts up all the fight he is capable
of. He hops around frantically on his crutches. He uses his crutches as weapons,
and even injures the eyes of one of his assailants leaving them bleeding. But he
does not stand a chance in a million. Enraged by his attack, they not only rob
him of the jewellery but almost beat him to pulp, leaving him lying on the cold
ground moaning in pain, while a lame dog tries to comfort him by sniffing around
him with its tail and ears down. The torn shawl with its threads hanging loose
is spread out, empty of all content. The tea stall owners who keep their shops
open nearly the whole night through take him to the hospital, but they are full
of contempt. The bastard thought he had got lucky.
Nine months later, the gorgeous lady is
cradling a cherubic baby in her arms. All her friends and relatives are heaping
her with praise, her spirituality, her capacity for charity. She is now the
mother of a son after passing through deserts of despair. The inauguration of
the temple was international in scale and universal in profundity, but for her,
it has manifested itself as personally significant.
Her husband threw an extravagant party
for his business colleagues, and distributed laddoos among his workers. That
morning a labourer from the unorganized sector had slipped and fallen while
working on his construction site. An entirely unnecessary nuisance. An unskilled
man posing as skilled. He had broken his bones badly. But he was not a permanent
employee of the company. Why would he be expected to foot the bills for the
man’s prolonged hospitalization? A lumpsome of money was enough. The union
leaders would haggle with him. Once the festivities were over, he would show
them the claws behind his velvet gloves.
In a faraway small town in Northern
India, Birju is celebrating his wedding. It is a small affair, all that he can
afford. He has put on a gilted pagdi for the occasion, and his friends are
cutting ribald verses on the dholak. His wounds are now nearly healed, and only
faint scars are visible on his face.
At night, he lies on his rickety bed in
his hovel. The bed is decorated with a few straggling flowers. His bride, a
fellow beggar, caresses him on the cheek. He says, I don’t want this scar to
ever fade completely. Whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I want it to
remind me that I have failed. I want it to remind me that God played a joke on
me. When I was in hospital,at some points, I could hear everyone around me
talking, but I could neither move, nor speak, and your voices were dim and low,
everywhere there was only murky fog. Who am I to God? Am I an overreacher? Am I
an imposter? A coward? A fool? Or just a selfish bastard?
Don’t bother your head about all this
Birju. At least, not tonight! Whatever happened, it is not for us to find our
way through this maze. Perhaps God was playing games with us! Perhaps it was a
gigantic cosmic joke.
Outside their window, a lonely crow is
sitting in the stark moonlight. Its cold, beady eyes are surveying the
landscape. A joke has been played by God it seems certain. But God perhaps plays
his jokes in accordance with and appropriate to the laws of destiny crafted by
man in a man made universe. This state of stagnant affairs may continue for
centuries, with the same outcome played out over endless situations. But the
crow is not ready to give up. The universe may shift in its course if the crow
continues its battle. And the cosmic joke may then be turned on its head.