Dipika Rai - Someone Else’s Garden

‘Okay, okay. But only for five minutes. What a time that was . . .’ Lata Bai’s eyes glass over. The children come closer to her, not to miss a word. They’ve heard this story many times before, but it is always slightly different, always exciting. ‘The surprise of the bandit raid was more traumatic than the bloodiness of it.

‘I remember it was evening. Earthy clouds heralded their arrival minutes before the rhythmic hoofbeats. They looked magnificent with their turban tails flowing behind them and their oiled moustaches gleaming in the sun . . .’ The romanticism of the gang’s appearance was shattered all too soon. Not one bandit had to dismount from his horse. Gopalpur simply capitulated, offered herself up spread-eagled, naked, defenceless, to the plunderer for his taking. All night the moans of the dead and dying glided through the fields. It wasn’t a night for heroism. People hid in the hay, in ditches and in sugarcane fields. In the morning they walked out to greet a pitiless sun that showed up the destruction in its unaccountable manifestations.

‘Of course they spared the landlords, the Singh family ensconced in the Big House. Some said the Big House paid the bandits to stay away . . .’

‘But Prem says that isn’t true. He says Singh Sahib is a man of honour, and his honour wouldn’t have allowed it. He says Singh Sahib hates his son because of this surrender and if he wasn’t so sick, Singh Sahib would gladly hunt down Daku Manmohan . . . right this minute,’ interjects Mamta, filling in for her absent favourite brother.

‘Maybe, maybe. But what do we know of Singh Sahib, the zamindar of Gopalpur living in his Big House, out of our sight? We only know how much he charges for his loans and that damned son of his, Ram Singh, is like a vulture, usurping lands left, right and centre, just like Daku Manmohan. One son adds to the bandit numbers, while the other tries to cull them . . .

‘Those damned gangs. They came sweeping in from the direction of the dusty Gopalpur wind where the famines were so awful that it was said that people had begun to eat cow meat and sometimes even human flesh. At first, they took whatever their horses could carry, mostly sacks of wheat and washing left to dry unguarded on clothes lines. But we weren’t under any illusions. We knew that once the bandits attacked, they returned.

‘Each night, we had to find a different place to sleep. Under the ridge, by the riverbank, or hidden in the roots of the banyan trees . . .’ (never at the Red Ruins or the dry well, that’s where the bandits raped the girls) ‘. . . in the mornings we dragged ourselves back to our huts. As the gangs became stronger, they became bolder, and started looting everything . . . including children. That’s when my brother went missing. Others lost family too. Shyam Lal lost a son and Moti a son and a daughter. Nutan Bai thought the bandits had taken her daughter Kanno, but she found her hiding in a haystack, her leg poked through with the point of one of their knives.’

‘Even now, after all this time, Kanno doesn’t speak. We used to think her tongue was cut off, but she stuck it out at me just last week. I wonder why she doesn’t speak.’ Sneha is most concerned for the fate of dumb Kanno.

Lata Bai continues: ‘Gope’s teashop also vanished with the bandits. Gope’s tea was famous. He could pour the liquid from a great height, pulling it into brown rainbows a metre long. Each time the bandits came, they stopped at Gope’s for a cup of tea, tossing him not one rupee coins, but five rupee notes for his frothy drinks.

‘Of course, it couldn’t last. Gope was making money off the bandits, while Gopalpur was paying in sacks of grain. So the farmers managed to convince Gope to lace his tea with rat poison.

‘The bandits burned down his teashop, killed his son, and, and . . . they had their way with Gope’s daughter-in-law.’

‘Amma means raped,’ says Mamta.

‘. . . and left her to die.’

‘But you know what I heard from Sunita only yesterday? She said that Daku Manmohan is a hero to the girls in the village. She said he saved her sister from rape by that, that, that . . . Babulal. And Prem says he’s only surrendering because Lokend Bhai asked him to.’

‘I don’t know about the rape, all I know is that he never shied from killing. I remember them systematically burning everything in the village and cutting off the hands of those who dared to fight back. They left the handless and Gope alive as a lesson to others who might think of defying them. These creatures hang around by the Lakshmi temple begging for scraps . . .’

The last raid took place almost two years ago. Since then Gopalpur has managed to pull itself together. People are prosperous enough to get in debt again. And now the bandits, offered government amnesty, are surrendering all over India, and with Lokend’s persuasion in Gopalpur as well. All those years of looting didn’t earn Gopalpur a mention in the city papers, but news of the surrender has. From now on, Gopalpur’s fate will be to teeter on the edge of infamy, written up far too often in the daily papers.

Evening has come to Gopalpur and with it some lone cowherd’s flute cries out to them. Its lilting voice melts into their pores, stirring up a sympathetic pathos. Such is the nature of this trained wind, to bring equal parts sorrow and joy to the listener.

Chapter 2

RAM SINGH ENJOYS THE CRISP FEEL of the razor blade against his cheek. He needn’t bother shaving for the wedding, but he does. He shoos off the flies dancing around his face with his free hand.

‘Looks respectful,’ he says to Babulal his overseer who comes over with steaming tea. ‘When they see me all shaved and dressed up, they will know I care about them. You can’t let slaves know they are slaves, they might become discontent. All you need to do is throw these people a bone or two and like starving dogs they will stop barking and lick your hand.’ His words are carefully chosen for maximum effect. ‘You’ve put Seeta Ram down in the book, haven’t you?’ Babulal nods, taking a warming sip of tea. ‘My father always made the time to attend both weddings and funerals in the lands, and I will be damned if I’m the one to break with tradition.’

‘Ram Bhaia, Ram Bhaia!’ Lokend comes running to his elder brother, grinning from ear to ear. His teeth, big like shelled peanuts, burst out of his face. ‘Ram Bhaia, I believe Seeta Ram’s daughter is getting married. Take this box of sweets to her, will you. I would take it myself, but those damn policewalas have made a hash of Daku Manmohan’s case and now he says he won’t surrender unless I am there to guarantee the safety of his family. As if I could guarantee anyone’s safety. They only listen to me because I am Singh Sahib’s son. Anyway, if Bapu’s position can be used to help someone, then why not.’

Ram Singh arranges his stance for a fight. ‘What should I tell you? What could I tell you that you don’t already know? The evidence is before you. You know what the villagers say? They say they will find peace only in their graves. They say that once again the bandits will rule this land, and do you know why? Because of your ridiculous surrender scheme. Every four years a politician passes through this place with a stack of promises, a bunch of gundas and a pack of chaiwalas. All standard issue from Delhi, but they have done nothing for our village. We shouldn’t let those bandits surrender; we should hunt them down like rabbits.’

‘Bhaia, guns will bring more guns. You hit a man with a rock, he’ll come back at you with a stick. You hit a man with a stick, he’ll come back at you with a sword. You attack him with a sword, he’ll retaliate with a gun. Surrender is the only answer. Non-violence is the only lasting weapon. To that there can be no retaliation.’ It’s easy to mistake the younger for the elder.