Bhagat Ram

Just now my little son bit my left pinky so hard I couldn’t help but scream with pain. Pissed, I slapped the little bastard a couple of times. The poor guy started to cry like a pup. These little creatures, I tell you dear reader, only look fragile, but their grip is so strong...and their little teeth, affectionately called “milk-teeth,” are sharper than a squirrel’s.

This innocent act of my son brought out a memory of my own childhood incident, which I’d thought of as nothing and had completely forgotten about. But, see dear reader, this subconscious is quite strange; it stores all kind of weird memories. On the surface, it was nothing other than that, as a kid, I also had once bitten the left thumb of a man named Bhagat Ram. However, instead of slapping me, he’d fed me apples and kiwis. Dear reader, think about the subconscious and the way sometimes it opens the floodgate of memories. That presumably ordinary incident had been buried like a sleeping serpent inside me. When I slapped my kid out of anger, that about twentyfive-year or so old sleeping serpent suddenly woke up and started to slither and sway around my mind’s four walls. I do need to get rid of it. So you might as well hear the story.

As I just told you, this happened when I was quite young. Back then we lived in a village called Rangpur. Rangpur was the main village of Jori District, that’s why the village was considered a small district in its own right. Rangpur had a small population, about two hundred fifty to three hundred houses. Most of them belonged to the Brahmin and the Kathria castes, about ten or twelve belonged to the Weavers and the Potters, five or six belonged to the Carpenters, and about that many to the Cobblers and the Washermen. The whole village had about ten Muslim houses, but those folks were in a sad state so there’s no point in talking about them.

The mayor of the village was Lala Kanshi Ram. Well, according to the traditional rule, the mayor should have been a Brahmin--and the majority of the village was Brahmin--but the Brotherhood had chosen Lala Kanshi Ram even though he was from the Kathria caste. He was the most literate one in the village, meaning he was educated all the way in the New City. He could read even those letters that the postman couldn’t. He knew every nook and crony of the legal system. That’s why everyone in the village sought his help, never mind the problem whose solution sought was his own creation. And Lalaji never refused help to anyone who had borrowed money from him. That’s why he was the mayor of Rangpur. He owned the village. Even those at far away places where he supplied wheat and flour admired him.

This noble and honorable Lalaji had a younger brother named Lala Banshi Ram, who helped his older brother in every way he could. But because he had given up his faith and had converted to Sikhism, the people in the village didn’t think much of him. Not only that, he had built a small Sikh temple in his house and had invited a morally upright and chaste Sikh preacher to preach Sikhism in Rangpur. Lala Banshi Ram’s conversion to Sikhism had also created the question of halal and not-halal meat. It was a religious matter for the Muslims and the Sikhs, but a matter of life and death for chickens, goats and lambs. But who listens to animals in a bell-hall of humans...

Bhagat Ram was Lala Banshi Ram’s younger brother. He’s the man whose left thumb I’d bitten as a kid. Why I did that I’ll tell you later, first let me tell you about this guy’s character. He was a loafer, a miscreant, a scoundrel, and overall a scumbag. His name was Bhagat Ram, but he was no worshipper of God but of the Devil himself. Words like arrogance, audacity, obstinacy and shameless existed in the village of Rangpur only because of him. The village was a beacon of moral uprightness and decency. Only very virtuous and honorable people lived in that village. Even the angels from heaven dreaded to tread there. Everyone in the village had this aura of purity and their faces radiated with divinity. There was never a fight. The money lent was always paid back in time, or the earth would quake. Lala Kanshi Ram would lend money and put the debtor right to work. The Muslims were very few in number and too weak to put up a fight. Those poor guys would just sit in their mosque and sadly stare at the minaret, for they were not allowed to climb up the minaret and loudly call other faithful to prayer. Other low castes and the Untouchables had no say whatsoever in any village matter. They didn’t even feel it. They figured this is how life is and that’s it. That’s how the Muslims felt, and so did the Kathrias, the Brahmins, and the Cobblers. They all had one thing in common, though; they all cursed the crap out of Bhagat Ram for he was up to no good.

Bhagat Ram was a total boor. He could neither walk nor talk straight. He was dirty, had huge hands and feet, big and crooked teeth, drooled all the time, and his gums displayed prominently when he laughed. Every man in the village had his head shaven, and every Hindu had a lock of hair on top of his head. But not Bhagat Ram. He had long hair that had lice residing in abundance, which he’d pick off his head sitting outside the mill. He’d drench his hair in mustard oil two three times a day, stylishly brush his long hair, part it in the middle, put a garland of flowers around his neck, and head to the pond. He was beaten up several times because of his offensive habits, but to no effect. He had a very thick skin. I don’t think he had a conscience. He was an unruly beast disguised as a human. Bhagat Ram was one hundred percent animal. That’s why all villagers, whether Hindus or Muslims, Brahmins or Kathrias, Jewelers or Cobblers, rich or poor, all hated him equally.

But because he was a younger brother of Lala Kanshi Ram and ostensibly a member of the most respected family in the village, people, their utter disliking for him notwithstanding, tolerated Bhagat Ram. When we moved to Rangpur we heard that Bhagat Ram’s older brother had just kicked him out of the house and had given him a mill to run, where Bhagat Ram was also to live and sleep. Because the mill was busy all day and night, someone was needed to guard it. People could have their wheat grinded at the mill any time they wanted to, that was the reason why Lala Kanshi Ram’s mill was so popular in the village. This was the big mill. There was another small mill in the village that was reserved for the Muslims, the Untouchables and other low castes. When the big mill stopped working for some reason, the small mill made good money. Otherwise, the big mill was always very crowded. The Muslims, the Untouchables and other low castes did not have the nerve to take their wheat to the big mill. Forget about the nerve, they couldn’t even imagine it.

When Bhagat Ram took control of the big mill, he also first operated it based on the established rules. But after a few days, given his diabolical nature, he figured why not make the big mill available to everyone. After all, it’s just food that even dogs eat. And besides, the small mill is in a bad condition anyway. The big mill will make more money and may even force the small mill to close down altogether, hence permanent more income for the big mill. Anyway, he plotted this devilish plan to have everyone, regardless of his caste or creed, to bring his wheat to the big mill; or, knowing his conniving nature, must have concocted something like that. So he invited the Untouchables and other low castes to bring their wheat to the big mill. First, those people were aghast to hear such blasphemy and adamantly refused it. “What are you talking about, Lala? How is that possible? You’re a prince and we’re mere commoners. How could we bring our wheat to the big mill. There’s no way. Ask us to do anything, but we can’t do this.” But Bhagat Ram was too clever for them and convinced them with his tricky arguments to bring their wheat to his big mill.

You figure this kind of activity couldn’t be hidden for too long. There’s a raucous in the village. People started to talk and Bhagat Ram started to get into fight every day. He was a strong man. He first tolerated all those attacks and abuse with laughter. But soon he reached his limit and beat up a few people in anger, and one day got beaten by others himself. Finally, this controversy reached Lala Kanshi Ram. He tried with affection to make his younger brother understand, tried to explain to him the religious and social rules and traditions. But Bhagat Ram was a mean and ignorant man. He couldn’t understand all those religious beliefs and traditions. In one ear, out the other. When he lived in his brother’s house, Bhagat Ram was sort of obligated to follow rules. But now that he was living at the mill, he could care less. There’s no stopping him now. He even started to do bhang, and started to visit a Muslim fakir who had wandered into the village and was living by the pond with his wife and his young daughter. He started to avoid work at the mill and would spend most of the day getting high on hash and ganja. His brother tried to make him understand, and other honorable Muslims cursed him, but Bhagat Ram was now high on a different kind of drug. Few days later people found out that he converted to Islam and married that Muslim fakir’s young daughter. All hell broke loose in the village when people saw him walking around wearing a red fez. The Muslim fakir was too scared to enter the village, and good thing he stayed away or Lala Kanshi Ram would’ve tried to avenge him. But the Lala couldn’t say anything to his brother who had now moved in the village with his wife and settled at his brother’s big mill.

Now married, Bhagat Ram was happy as a lark. Wearing a white shalwar kameez with a black vest, which had several hundred gold-plated buttons on it, he’d walk around proud in the village. He was such a scoundrel. When my mother got mad at me, she’d liken me to Bhagat Ram and I’d always cry hearing that, so offended and hurt I felt with the comparison. I hated that guy. First of all, that bastard gave up our faith. Not only that, soon he became a Muslim, he started to incite other Muslims in the village to get up on that minaret and do loud prayer calls. Good for the Muslims that they were too scared to heed his advice. That son of a bitch laughed at them, washed for wazu, climbed up on the minaret, and called for the prayer. His loud and piercing voice for the prayer from the top of that minaret spread through the village, into the valley, through the bushes of pears, all the way to the mountain peaks. Every Brahmin and Kathria was scared stiff. Hai Ram hai Ram, they said, some big trouble’s on the way. Lala Kanshi Ram immediately summoned a meeting of the Brotherhood, disowned Bhagat Ram, barred him from the Brotherhood, kicked him out of the will, ordered to have a brand new and modern mill constructed diverting the water from the old mill to the new one. His proclamations and orders were carried out immediately. The mill where Bhagat Ram and his wife lived lay in total shambles.

The customers for Bhagat Ram started to disappear. A few Muslims who initially helped him also pulled their hands back. Bhagat Ram had poked too many holes in the otherwise tranquil social setting of the village. No one liked him. They said his pregnant wife was pregnant before he married her, that the Muslim fakir, who had now disappeared, duped him. Everyone had an unflattering opinion. It was true, though, that Bhagat Ram loved his wife and treated her like a princess. He’d do anything for her. He was willing to work very hard for her, but no one would give him work. Who’d give this good-for-nothing loafer work in the village full of honorable people? I will never forget the night when Bhagat Ram’s wife was about to give birth. He came to our house pleading my midwife mother to help him out. He fell on his knees and put his forehead at her feet, “Please save my wife…if you came she’ll live.” But my mother, who delivered children in the noble houses of the Brahmins and the Kathrias, told Bhagat Ram to get lost.

In the dead of the night Bhagat Ram howled with emotional pain that night, seeking help for his wife. But not a door opened for him and everyone slept peacefully unmindful of his suffering. The next day people found out that both his wife and her unborn child died while she was giving birth. Bhagat Ram cried his eyes out. But they weren’t true tears. Not of a human, anyway. They were tears of an animal who was shedding tears for no big deal. You could tell that because he forgot about his fakirni within a few days and changed his name back to Bhagat Ram from Khuda Bakhsh. Good for the Hindus that they didn’t welcome him back and also to his brothers who could care less about him. Bhagat Ram was rejected by all.

Bhagat Ram left the village and disappeared somewhere. He showed up three or four months later with an assortment of animals: snakes, mongoose and rats among many other. He also had a beautiful mynah in a cage that sang delightfully. I loved that mynah and would sit by the cage next to it for hours to hear it sing. A whole bunch of other kids would also join me. Bhagat Ram had brought all these plants and roots that, he claimed, were a definite cure for a host of diseases. People started to get attracted to him, and Bhagat Ram began to generate good income. My mother, who was a well-sought-after midwife in the village, knew female diseases quite well. She didn’t like Bhagat Ram’s new act at all. She couldn’t, however, do anything about it. When confronted, she would tell him straight on his face what she thought of him. Hearing her, he would smile, scratch his head, let out a huge laughter and walk away. He was one mean son of a bitch.

Pretty soon Bhagat Ram’s plants and roots became a big hit in the village. Patients started to visit him regularly. He rented half a store from a cobbler to set up his medicine shop. In the other half of the store the cobbler, Molu Mochi, repaired shoes with his wife and his widowed sister, Ramdai, all day long. Sitting at his shop, Bhagat Ram would trap innocent and unsuspecting villagers and take their money with his scam of snakes and mongoose and his cure-for-all plants and roots. My mother would get mad seeing all that. But there was nothing we could do about it. People trusted him. He now had money. He even built himself a house by the river, where he had set up a little garden and would spend his free time tending it. I hated Bhagat Ram and would never go to his house. But I loved that mynah, whose little cage hung by Bhagat Ram’s door. At times I’d go near to his house just to check out the mynah. Good for him he never stopped me, or I had full intention of breaking his skull open by hitting him hard with a rock.

Bhagat Ram’s business was growing, but he again did something that drove people away from him. What happened was that Lala Banshi Ram got Ramdai, Molu Mochi’s widowed sister, pregnant. So Lala Banshi Ram asked his brother Bhagat Ram to give Ramdai a medicine to abort. But Bhagat Ram was one mean miscreant. He wasn’t going to help a noble and honorable man. He flatly refused. Not only that, he told this to everyone. Poor Lala Banshi Ram had to flee the village to the New City, and Ramdai was so embarrassed she couldn’t show her face to anyone. This story became so well known in the village that, when Lala Kanshi Ram asked my midwife mother to help Ramdai abort, my mother refused. As a result, Ramdai went around with a huge belly and wound up giving birth to a bastard child. Her Brotherhood, of course, barred her, and Molu Mochi and his wife kicked Ramdai out of the house. That woman went around the village hungry for several days but no one took pity on her. Even her breasts dried out to feed her bastard child. With nowhere to go, she knocked on Bhagat Ram’s door. That miscreant were as if just waiting for this moment. He immediately invited her in. They started to live together very happily, without getting married and in sin. Nothing like that ever happened before in the village of Rangpur. That blatant shamelessness. People would close their eyes, so ashamed they felt seeing them. Bhagat Ram’s medicine shop was shut down and he was told that if he ever set foot in the village, he’d lose his life.

Bhagat Ram now lived in his house by the river and grew his own food on the land he had purchased next to it. He grew sufficient amount to feed himself, Ramdai and her bastard child. Some people thought that he was living a miserable life. That wasn’t true at all. Just as water has no effect on a hardened pot of clay, all those events in his life had no effect on Bhagat Ram. He had not changed a bit. It never occurred to him that he had committed any sin or had done any wrong. He showed no remorse and had no regret or shame that he had dishonored and disgraced his parents, his family, and his village. He was living merrily as if nothing had happened, as if he were still living in his brother’s beautiful house.

One day when I was near his house, I saw him lying in the cot kissing Ramdai. I had never seen a man kiss a woman before. I was stunned to see such obscenity and my mother’s words echoed in my ears: “Don’t ever make a mistake of going to Bhagat Rams house; he’s a repulsive and a disgraceful man.” My mother was so right. Noble and honorable people didn’t do things like that. Sorrow and anger brought tears to my eyes. I turned to leave, but the myna saw me and sang “Come here little boy, I’ve sweets for you.” Hearing the mynah sing, Bhagat Ram got up from his cot and walked towards me. Maybe he wanted to catch me. You bastard, I thought to myself, you can’t catch me. Crying, I ran away from him but Bhagat Ram came after me. “Listen son, stop, wait, listen to me son,” he kept saying that. I was no fool. I kept running. But he caught on to me and tried to stop me by grabbing my neck. I turned around and bit his left thumb as hard as I could. He howled with pain. But he didn’t slap me, or let me go.

Holding me by my neck, that bastard took me to inside his house. Pointing to Ramdai he said, “She is your aunt. Say Ram Ram to her.”

“Maybe your aunt, not mine. I won’t say Ram Ram to her.”

He laughed. “See that little baby. He’s your little brother. Play with him.”

“I won’t play with him. My mother says this child is a bastard. He’s a bast--“

Ramdai at once picked up the baby and held him tight close to her chest as if she were very hurt hearing that.

Bhagat Ram laughed again and his big, ugly yellow teeth came out of his mouth, displaying his disgusting gums. “You like apples? Kiwis? HAHAHA”

I shook my head no.

He forced a few apples and kiwis in my pockets. “You like this mynah? Take it then. It’s yours,” he smiled, handing me the cage with the mynah in it.

“I won’t even spit on this mynah of yours. My mother says you are an animal not a human, that you are worse than a cobbler. Let me go. I don’t want you mynah wynah.”

“Okay, then, run along,” he smiled loosening his grip on me.

I ran so hard from that miscreant that I stopped only when I got home. I told my mother the whole story. First she got mad at me then cursed the hell out of Bhagat Ram. She threw all those apples and kiwis out in the back alley. I never went to Bhagat Ram’s house after that incident.

When Lala Bunshi Ram returned to the village after a few months hiding in the New City, he got Molu Mochi to sue Bhagat Ram based on Bhagat Ram’s debased and dishonored character. Bhagat Ram went to jail for seven months on those charges. When he got out, he appeared very weak and in bad health. People said that his face wasn’t as bright as it used to be. He didn’t walk straight and proud anymore and slouched a lot. However, that lasted only a few days. His crassness and shamelessness was back sooner than later. He again started to sell his plants and roots. But noble and honorable people won’t talk to him and avoided even his shadow. Hindus, Muslims, people of every caste and creed thought of him as a curse. He had become an example to learn from. Our mothers, when teaching us manners and decency, would say to us, “If you do bad things, you would also wind up just like Bhagat Ram.”

Just as without any meaning or purpose was his life, so was his death.

I didn’t see him die, but those who did still laugh at his stupid death. They say that, all jolly, he was standing at the edge of the river with Ramdai, and was enjoying the raging river that was overflowing due to the heavy rain the other day. He suddenly saw three or four little lambs in the river, flowing scared and meekly calling out “ba ba ba ba.” Without giving it a second thought, Bhagat Ram jumped in that raging river to save the little lambs, and gave up his life in that attempt. Next day, when river had slowed down, they found his dead body hugging a half-drowned tree-trunk. What an ignorant, brainless and stupid death it was. Beastly life, beastly death. A death devoid of any beauty, dignity, and nobility. But his brothers were good to him in the end. They forgave him. Although they had barred him from the Brotherhood, and he was not a Hindu, a Muslim, or an Untouchable, they took his dead body home, gave it a bath, and burnt it on a funeral pyre according to their tradition. I was there for the rite.

This happened in 1920. It is now 1944. Today my little son bit my left pinky and I slapped him in anger. Hiding his face, the poor kid is crying in the sofa, and I’m thinking, “Hey, Bhagat Ram, you were a first rate scoundrel. You had no religion. You were a boor and a liar. You sold plants and roots as medicine, fooled innocent people and took their money, you married a Muslim fakirni, you lived in sin with an Untouchable, you went to jail, you were a loafer and a miscreant, people hated you and they still do, not only in Rangpur but all over the place, but, today, I feel people may have misunderstood you. Maybe you are better than all those noble and honorable people who build mills but let others starve, build high-rises but make others become homeless; they take advantage of hapless women, rape them and build whore houses for them and orphanages for their bastard children, and then they curse them sitting in the sacred temples of honorable society. Yes, Bhagat Ram, you are better than all those people who admire and seek tractors, airplanes, machine guns, theatres, cinemas, banks accounts, universities, kingdoms, empires, philosophies and literature, but leave fellow humans wandering in a dark universe. You are better than all those noble and honorable people, Bhagat Ram. You are a true poet. You are a poet who is born every year, in every century, in every village, everywhere. But people, good people, refuse to acknowledge you and your goodness. You are that poet, friend. Shake my hand!”

But Bhagat Ram wasn’t there anymore to shake my hand. He is dead. He died in 1920 trying to save a few unfortunate lambs. By the edge of that river, the flames of Bhagat Ram’s funeral pyre were reaching to the sky. Those flames were making the pyre crackle and big sparks made it look as if flowers were blossoming. But no one had tears in his eyes. Not even the nature was sad. The sky was bright and blue, the sunlight clean and crisp. Pieces of white clouds were moving joyfully, the river’s water was flowing next to the pyre as if singing, the red flowers nearby were as if on fire. The entire universe was celebrating. God was happy. The poet was happy himself because he now had turned into fire. And all those flowers that were in your heart, Bhagat Ram, are everywhere. They are inside you and are inside me. That day the universe, the poet and the man had become one. Not many are that fortunate to have a death like yours, Bhagat Ram.