Gregory David Roberts - Shantaram

When all the men had taken tea, Qasim Ali ordered them to wake Joseph. They began to prod and poke him roughly, shouting at him to wake up. He stirred, and grumbled resentfully, waking very slowly. He opened his eyes and shook his groggy head, calling petulantly for water.

"Pani nahin," Qasim said. No water.

They forced the second bottle on him, roughly insistent, but cajoling him with jokes and pats on the back. Another chillum was produced, and the young men smoked with him. He growled repeatedly for water. Every time, he found the strong alcohol thrust into his mouth instead. Before a third of the bottle was finished, he fainted again, collapsing to the side with his head lolling at an awkward angle. His face was bare to the climbing sun. No-one made any attempt to shade him.

Qasim Ali allowed him a mere five minutes to doze before ordering that he be woken. Joseph's grumbling was angry as he woke, and he began to snarl and curse. He tried to raise himself to his knees, and crawl back to his hut. Qasim Ali took the bloodied bamboo stick, and handed it to Johnny Cigar. He spoke one word of command. Begin!

Johnny raised the stick, and brought it down on Joseph's back with a resounding smack. Joseph howled, and tried to crawl away, but the circle of young men pushed him back to the centre of their group. Johnny struck him with the stick again. Joseph screamed angrily, but the young men slapped at him and shouted for silence. Johnny raised the stick, and Joseph cowered, trying to focus his bleary eyes.

"Do you know what you have done?" Johnny demanded harshly. He brought the stick down with a whack on Joseph's shoulder. "Speak, you drunken dog! Do you know what a terrible thing you have done?"

"Stop hitting me!" Joseph snarled. "Why are you doing this?"

"Do you know what you have done?" Johnny repeated. The stick struck again.

"Ow-ah!" Joseph shrieked. "What? What have I done? I've done nothing!"

Veejay took the stick, and beat Joseph on the upper arm.

"You beat your wife, you drunken pig! You beat her, and maybe she will die!"

He passed the stick to Jeetendra, who used it to smack Joseph on the thigh.

"She's dying! You are a murderer! You murdered your own wife."

Joseph tried to shield himself with his arms, casting his eyes about feverishly for some escape. Jeetendra lifted the stick again.

"You beat your wife all morning, and threw her naked from the hut. Take that, you drunkard! And that! Just as you beat her. How do you like it, you murderer?"

The slow creep of a foggy comprehension stiffened Joseph's face into a terrified anguish. Jeetendra passed the stick to Prabaker, and the next blow brought tears.

"Oh, no!" he sobbed. "It's not true! I haven't done anything! Oh, what will happen to me? I didn't mean to kill her! God in heaven, what will happen to me? Give me water. I need water!"

"No water," Qasim Ali said.

The stick came down again and again. It was in Andhkaara's hand.

"Worrying about yourself, dog? What about your poor wife? You didn't worry when you beat her. This is not the first time you took this stick to her, is it? Now it is finished. You killed her. You can never beat her again, not her or anyone. You will die in the jail."

Johnny Cigar took the stick again.

"Such a big, strong fellow you are! So brave to beat your wife, who is half your size. Come on and beat me, hero! Come on, take this stick of yours, and beat a man with it, you cheap goonda."

"Water..." Joseph blubbered, collapsing to the ground in tears of self-pity.

"No water," Qasim Ali said, and Joseph drifted into unconsciousness once more.

When they woke him the next time, Joseph had been in the sun for almost two hours, and his distress was great. He shouted for water, but they offered him only the daru bottle. I could see that he wanted to refuse it, but his thirst was becoming desperate. He accepted the bottle with trembling hands. Just as the first drops touched his parched tongue, the stick came down again. Daru spilled over his stubbled chin, and ran from his gaping mouth. He dropped the bottle. Johnny picked it up and poured the remaining alcohol over his head. Joseph shrieked and tried to scramble away on his hands and knees, but the circle of men wrestled him back to the centre. Jeetendra wielded the stick, smacking it onto his buttocks and legs. Joseph whined and wept and moaned.

Qasim Ali was sitting to one side, in the shaded doorway of a hut. He called Prabaker to him, and gave orders that a number of Joseph's friends and relatives should be sent for, as well as relatives of Maria, Joseph's wife. As the people arrived, they took the places of the young men in the circle, and Joseph's torment continued. For several hours, his friends and relatives and neighbours took turns to vilify and accuse him, beating him with the stick he'd used to assault his wife so savagely. The blows were sharp, and they hurt him, but they weren't severe enough to break the skin.

It was a measured punishment that was painful, but never vicious.

I left the scene, and returned a few times during the afternoon.

Many of the slum-dwellers who were passing that way stopped to watch. People joined the circle around Joseph, or left it, as they wished. Qasim Ali sat in the doorway of the hut, his back straight and his expression grave, never taking his eyes from the circle. He directed the punishment with a quiet word or a subtle gesture, keeping a relentless pressure on the man, but preventing any excesses.

Joseph passed out twice more before he finally broke down. When the end came, he was crushed. All the spite and defiance in him were defeated. He sobbed the name of his wife over and over again. Maria, Maria, Maria...

Qasim Ali stood, and approached the circle. It was the moment he'd waited for, and he nodded to Veejay, who brought a dish of warm water, soap, and two towels from a nearby hut. The same men who'd been beating Joseph cradled him in their arms, then, and washed his face, neck, hands, and feet. They gave him water. They combed his hair. They soothed him with hugs and the first kind words he'd heard since the beginning of his chastisement. They told him that if he were genuinely sorry he would be forgiven, and given help. Many people were brought forward, myself included, and Joseph was made to touch our feet. They dressed him in a clean shirt, and propped him up, their arms and shoulders supporting him tenderly. Qasim Ali squatted close to him, and stared into his bloodshot eyes.

"Your wife, Maria, is not dead," Qasim Ali said softly.

"Not... not dead?" he mumbled.

"No, Joseph, she is not dead. She is very badly injured, but she is alive."

"Thank God, thank God."

"The women of your family, and Maria's family, have decided what is to be done," Qasim said slowly, firmly. "Are you sorry-do you know what you have done to your wife, and are you sorry for it?"

"Yes, Qasimbhai," Joseph wept. "I'm so sorry, so sorry."

"The women have decided that you must not see Maria for two months. She is very ill. You almost killed her, and she must take two months to recover. In this time, you will work every day. You will work long hours and hard. You will save your money. You will not drink even one drop of daru or beer or anything but water. Do you understand? No chai or milk or anything but water. You must observe this fast, as part of your punishment."

Joseph wagged his head feebly.

"Yes, yes. I will."

"Maria may decide not to take you back. You must know this also.

She may want to divorce you, even after the two months-and if she does, I will help her in this. But at the end of two months, if she wants to accept you again, you will use the money you have saved by this extra hard work, and you will take her on a holiday to the cool mountains. During retreat in that place, with your wife, you will face this ugliness in yourself, and you will try to overcome it. Inshallah, you will make a happy and virtuous future, for your wife and yourself. This is the decision. Go now.