Independence Day

Ramanand Tiwari got up early that morning – while a few, very few stars still twinkled.

He switched on the TV. A patriotic theme played on. Independence Day was almost here. Soon there would be special events. There would be color decorations, parades and marches by High School kids, and there would be speeches from the Headmaster and the mukhiyaji. There will be flags unfurled all over the place. But there will be few sounds other than the sound of the National Anthem and the speeches emanating from the TV.

They don’t have fireworks in the village.

Ramanand Tiwari slid the metal latch, opened the wooden door and peered outside. The stray cat was nowhere to be seen. He breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was the manhoos cat crossing his path first thing during brahma-vela. He gently shut the door behind him. There was some milk in a degchi in the kitchen and he did not want the cat getting to it.

He had to have his morning walk today, on this Independence Day morning, like every morning – like all mornings. But this morning seemed different. It felt a bit chillier than usual.

An inadvertent shudder passed through him. He felt his skin shriveling up – like it was injured.

The skin heals – though scars remain. Sometimes there are scars inside – sometime the scars were already there and events only make them easier to open up.

Ramanand Tiwari tried to think of something other than the cold – like the Devi temple about a mile away, for which he was the caretaker and the pujari rolled into one. The temple had been built with support from the village landlord and a few pravaasi Indians. A pravaasi couple had visited recently to offer prayers to the Devi, with a kid in tow.

“Pujariji, why does the Devi never smile?”

They don’t they have smiling idols in the village. The little kid was so innocent – it was rather unusual to be so innocent for little kids of his age anywhere.

The father shooed him down – “Don’t talk nonsense. It is just a moorat, made of stone. It cannot smile.” He had misunderstood the question. Grown-ups seldom understand why kids ask what kids ask.

“Then what good is it?” The kid persisted. Kids seldom know when to quit. That is a grown-up characteristic.

“It’s for good, for sure. It’s for what she means to us here – and all over.” The father seemed to be groping for words and concluded the way fathers often do when they have not the right words, “You are too young to understand, maybe someday when you are older…” He drifted off.

The child had looked less than convinced – but soon his attention wandered toward a little birdie in the temple corner. He ran toward it – as if trying to catch a new pet for a toy – except they don’t use little birds for pets in the village. Children are always drawn toward toys – and have an inexplicable ability to sense things which are toy-like – little aware that even little birdies, if cornered, can create beak marks on the skin – the outermost sensory organ – unless a kid has ESP and could see through eyes that kids don’t even have.

Ramanand Tiwari rounded the corner at a brisk pace – the achhoot well was now visible. He made a long peripheral detour around it. Nobody was there. But does it matter? Chances are somebody had been there and had touched the brick wall. Ramanand Tiwari wanted no part of that touch. In fact, he wanted no part of the air around the well which somebody was sure to have breathed. A solitary woman in a green sari was lifting a pitcher of water. The sari had perhaps been bright green once but years of neglect and misuse had turned it dirty and faded.

An acrid smell entered his nostrils. He wondered how anybody could drink that water. The idiots can never maintain any level of hygiene on their own well and are always sneaking to the Thakurbari well on the other side of the village – hoping that nobody watched. What they really ought to do is to go over to the eastern side where the Muslim well was located. Ramanand Tiwari chuckled to himself. These people have no problems ganging up with the Muslims in matters of politics but the liberalism does not extend to drinking from the same well. Ramanand Tiwari knew when to be firm. You show one little weakness and they will walk all over you! Maintaining what you believe in is hard work.

A man has to fight for his rights – or he would lose them in no time. This lesson is eternal! Life is not for the faint-hearted. Those who cannot muster the courage to stop having their women paraded naked have no claim to equal treatment. They ask for far more than they deserve!

He began muttering to himself – as if talking to the grass around the well. He felt angry now. He had seen too many of those creatures trying to sneak in and steal water from the Thakurbari well and had often been forced to chase the culprit.

“By what stretch of imagination do they expect to draw water from here? Weren’t they told again and again? And weren’t their parents and their parents’ parents told the same? Who built the well – to begin with?”

Yes, there are many kind people who will let you have things your way – even in matters of well-water. But don’t take it for granted. Don’t mistake that generosity as a sign of weakness.

He passed the local tea-stall – deserted at this hour except for the stray dog asleep outside. Outside, somebody had put up a movie poster – a movie playing in the nearby town. He let his gaze fall on that smooth face and briefly glanced at the generous curves. He was unimpressed. Probably just another “love” story – story of young love thwarted by stone-hearted elders! Nobody asks moviemakers why an upper caste parent should have any less of a say in choosing their in-laws than the lower caste folks? The movies fill all sorts of wrong ideas in young heads. The hero and his girl end up happy and singing – but that’s not how real life plays out.

They say our scriptures are rigid – forgetting that even in the Angrezi Bible they say the same thing – to each his own!

Ramanand Tiwari had heard a bit of Bible preaching from missionaries who once descended on the village. Many had converted and he thought he knew why. They convert because they get promised all kinds of things. It’s like the politicians. But does anything really happen? Ramanand Tiwari chuckled softly. Far from it! The caste differences stood unbroken no matter how many converted – the caste travels with you.

They should save that equality stuff for political rallies and the movies – not here! They don’t do anything but plain talk in the village. Things stay the same because those of privilege are not interested in diluting their hold. Are Dalit Christians treated the same way as the rest of the Christians? Ramanand Tiwari did not think so.

Ramanand Tiwari was now passing the village High School. The kids had stayed extra time last evening to put up the decorations. His heart filled with pride. It was hard work done by many –– like those multiple-hued decorations on the wall – all coexisting in harmony.

Then he thought of the Naxalites who had lately infested the village – his village, and he was angry again. They don’t go on a killing spree in the village. At least they did not – until the children of the Mao showed up.

Why do they just fight with everyone? And among themselves, too! Everybody knows that a people who always fight shall never amount to anything. And that is God’s truth – God’s ways will always happen – like it or not. Everybody knows that! Everybody but the achhoots who gang up and have processions and raise their slogans and raise their flexed muscles and in the darkness of the night, sneak in and shoot with those Made in China firearms.

All for what?! To waste energy, and resources, and efforts!

Ramanand Tiwari was now seething with anger.

They always sound rather loud! Kambakhat empty vessels!!

How stupid! Now, when the whole world is finally learning to appreciate India and to admire how it thrives as a society with individual freedoms – these apavittars send the exact opposite message. When the whole world runs on free enterprise and the virtues of individual choice get recognized even by the Russians and the Chinese – these folks turn to Communism – that outdated thought process discredited everywhere!

And hey, if you are bonded – the bond is life-long. The day to day trivialities do not affect what is eternal. It is old time maryada – maintained for thousands of years. The young bucks can pretend that it does not even exist but it sure does and one janam is nothing in its wake. As their leaders will find out, it is one thing to get elected – but quite another to be considered an equal. So no, you are not allowed to sit next to us – and we still remain your superiors. Better maintain that respectful distance – because what else is there to life when respect is lost? No matter what one touches – one’s sense of self respect must not be touched!

They know it and you know it and you better not pretend to not know it for you do so at your own peril.

Ramanand Tiwari was by now positively enraged.

Some people never learn! They deserve all the humiliation that they receive. Don’t their children get lunch at schools? So what if the dishes are marked –what is wrong with respecting the sentiments of those who want theirs separated? And what is wrong with giving an occasional jhaapad to an errant kid – why do they always have to complain that they are being singled out?

If we had a bit more discipline in schools we would all be better off.

And yes, the schools need cleaning – so what’s wrong with asking a bhangi to help out? Isn’t that what they have done for ages? So who can do a better job? Why call it discrimination – it’s simply about what’s most practical. In any case, half of those kids don’t even show up for classes – would they cut classes if they had any respect for studies? Theek hai – you may be a good student but somebody has to sweep the classrooms, too. Are all fingers of the hand the same size? Then why assume so for common people?

As he walked more, his thoughts picked up intensity and his legs moved faster. He was almost near the temple now.

Isn’t it bad enough that they want to be served prasaad like everybody else – now they want to be allowed inside, too! And they want to plunk in their money into the daan-peti, just like the old-timer bhagats.

Aren’t they supposedly dirt poor? So where would they get the money for the daan-peti? How can any self-respecting Brahmin live off the crumbs of the achhoot? What will they want next – getting kriya-karam like the rest of us?

Ramanand Tiwari suddenly stopped. Something was not right. The temple door was ajar. He was afraid to look in – afraid of what he may find inside. He wished he had ESP so he could see inside. But he already knew it. A pair of well-worn slippers lay on the entrance waiting for the owner. The slippers waited at the outer periphery of the no-crossing zone – left by the owner who ought to have respected his own no-crossing zone.

They make sure you respect your zones in the village.

Raghu, the local bhungee, had no ESP. He had a muscular build. It was difficult to guess his age. He had no wrinkles but the skin was weather-beaten – tight like a brown warm water bottle made of rubber. They don’t have warm water bottles in the village. You learn to bear the pain in its most basic form.

Ramanand Tiwari held the walking stick hard.

“Saala, how dare you – and in the Devi’s temple, too!”

A crowd of early morning visitors began to gather at the temple.

The skin senses what the outside world sends to it. The skin needs to be presentable – but sometimes the brown skin cannot hide strands of white scars running all across it. Sometimes the scars heal and the skin feels okay until when it no more feels okay and one feels pain all over again and one knows that it never really healed.

It shows.

They don’t use concealers in the village.

It was difficult to guess Raghu’s age. Guys like him never age. They are just born and then they die. His skin was weather-beaten and the lathi would leave sharp red marks which would turn brown then dark blue then become white scars over time. They beat up folks seriously in the village. It is nothing personal. It just is.

Calamities leave scars and so does nature and sometimes so do random events. Time is the real healer and time the healer is imperfect. Time puts no stitches and the scars look ugly – dark skin criss-crossed by glimpses of dead white flesh underneath.

Like white lightning in a dark sky – the scars announce to the whole world what lies underneath – even for a flashing second. What lies underneath is well below the superficial and is the real thing. It connects to the tissues underneath. Tissues are alive until it is their time and they are alive no more.

Ramanand Tiwari remembered the time they had thrown the halkhorni into the muddy pond. She had a hard time fighting them off with one hand while the other clutched the young baby. They don’t spare babies in the village.

There had been a bit of murmur of protest – especially from the so-called enlightened folks. However, there had not been much talk. People were not so concerned with what had taken place and whether it was the right thing – they were more concerned with how it reflected on them – and on the village if word got out. Most conversation had been characteristically cryptic. They don’t make trivial talk in the village.

The temple activities would resume. Ramanand Tiwari would restart the bhoag after the necessary purification. The Devi would remain the same quiet Devi as before. Devis do not speak – only people do and people are imperfect. Only Devis are divine and that is because they are quiet and what is divine never diminishes and it is not human. It merely is.

They will probably make a big deal of this prasaad affair, too – neglecting all the complexities of the situation. Everyone knows that you are not supposed to offer prasaad where you are not supposed to – and if you do so, you do so at your own risk. So, if you want to do pooja – well, do pooja but don’t assume anything special. Be ready for your separate tumblers – after all, what’s more important, the pooja or the tumbler?! Whatever happened to the freedom of choice? A bit of humility goes a long way in creating a tranquil society.

Shared glory is everybody’s personal glory. Shared pride is everyone’s personal pride. But shared blame is nobody’s to blame. Like an abandoned baby, it cries itself to sleep.

They don’t waste tears in the village.

Ramanand Tiwari left his slippers on the verandah and stumbled inside.

The sun was almost up. Soon there will be light everywhere. His day was just beginning – but he felt rather tired!

He switched on the TV. The patriotic theme still played on. Independence Day was already here. There will soon be flags unfurled all over the place. But there will be few sounds other than the sounds of the National Anthem and the sounds of the speeches over the TV. But can one ever become truly independent as long as one lives?

A thin stream of white near the kitchen entrance caught his eye. The degchi lay on the floor – upturned. The cat had gotten in, after all.