“Yes, I am faithful to the Indian Constitution! I am a watchdog of the Constitution, ” Khadar mumbled and rolled on the bed, not sleeping a wink.
It was March. Across the starlit and cloudless sky on a new Moon night, the light was playing hide-and-seek.
Khadar lay lying under the open sky. Though the cool breeze tickled him, the pestering thoughts made him restless. The rickety cot creaked while Khadar tossed and turned. A bit weary, Khadar spoke aloud,’ Anytime this old cot might crack!’
A storm is brewing in his mind. ‘Why are these papers required now? From where should I bring the documents? There is no sliver of proof from which I can establish my identity. How can I think of bringing proof of my abba2 and dada3? Why is all this happening?’ Khadar’smind has clogged with unanswered riddles.
Khadar learnt a lot in the meeting a few days back. The anguish and commotion he saw among the participants put Khadar on edge.
“I asked my mother. Where was I born?” I am sixty. My mother is around eighty. She is losing her memory and barely hears. Did she hear the question I asked her? I am not sure. Even if she could hear, did she really understand what I said? “Why do you want all this at this late age?” she retorted. My mother is the only living proof of mine to establish my lineage. If she has no answer, what else can I do?”
Sridharan speech is rumbling in Khadar’s ears. On that cold night, his lecture, ever echoing in his ears and searing his mind, made Khadar sleepless. Sridhar is short but sturdy. His courageous words, delivered with deep knowledge and lofty conviction, had the knack of silent seduction. He relentlessly lambasted the government, which was determined to trample the Constitution, making the audience speechless. Who else can speak with such prowess in the prevailing atmosphere of stifle and suffocation?
It was a college ground filled up with Muslim women with veils, men with skull caps, students and people from various mass organisations.
Two days before the meeting, propaganda was conducted in the residential areas. “Dada, you don’t have much faith in God. You won’t come for prayers regularly. But you must attend this meeting without fail,” Iqbal said emphatically.
“Beta4, don’t think that I have less faith in Allah! Should we do Namaz so many times? That was only my concern.”
“Okay. Dada, the situation for Muslims is changing from bad to worse. We should unite and fight!”
It is not that Iqbal’s words influenced him instantly, but Khadar has been grappling with this issue from several sources—those attending Masjid regularly, newspapers, and TV channels. His son and daughter-in-law at home, too, were discussing these issues animatedly. All these added to his thoughts. Finally, he began to feel that in the coming days, it was going to be really tough for Muslims.
Khadar lives in the colony where the Masjid is. Most of the residents are Muslims. This bazaar leads to the Hanuman temple via the main road. A few yards away from the Masjid, there is a pial around a neem tree. All the elderly people gather there to chit-chat.
After Iqbal informed us about the meeting, Khadar was ruminating about the meeting and reached the Neem Tree Centre. I am not aware of the antecedents after the white men5 left the country. I remember how abbajaan reminisced about those incidents nostalgically. “In the north, post-partition, there was unprecedented bloodshed. However, such things have not happened here, my son!” So, we were not aware of those gory incidents. But we had hearsay knowledge. That is all! Moreover, we had a strong communist party in Andhra Pradesh. We were all in that Party. When Razakars raided the village, we hid Veerayya in this street in our homes. Hindus and Muslims had strong fraternity bonds.” Khadar’s father was fond of narrating the party matters.
“We had three acres of ancestral land. Your dada was angry with me as I was active in the Communist Party. Our relatives scared your dada that the police would confiscate the lands because of my communist activities. He was too innocent. He lost most of the lands. He could retain only one acre. Of course, I never left the party!”
Khadar remembered his father, Mira Saheb. He was lean and tall, with eyes revealing determination. His eyes and nose were unique. He always walked upright with confidence.
“Such bonhomie did not exist only during his period. Aren’t we genial in our generation too? Somehow, the present generation is unlike us. The difference appears conspicuously. Though they are not intermingling, there haven’t been any clashes or altercations.” Khadar is in soliloquy.
“Why, then, only Muslims have to prove their identity? How do I know my ancestors’ history for the past hundred years? Had the prior generations of the last century fallen from the skies? They, too, were born here.”
Suddenly, he thought, ‘Why these bombs and explosions? Who is behind them?’
Chandrayya reached there after watchingKhadar’s arrival. “Kya Khadar bhai5! You are in deep thinking and haven’t even observed that someone is before you!”
“Ha, Chandrayya! Many things are happening around us. We all need to be concerned about them. Tomorrow, there is a meeting of Muslims. It seems we have to show papers that we and our ancestors are natives of this land. Iqbal asked to attend the meeting so that we would know the details”.
Chandrayya was surprised. He peeped into Khadar Wali’s face and asked, ” If you do not belong to this country, where do you belong, then?”
“Allah knows!”
Chandrayya and Khadar Wali have been buddies since childhood. Their agricultural fields are also side by side. They go to the fields together and help each other.
“Khadar, why are all these controversies popping up now? Muslims are significant numbers in this village. Never there is a complaint against Muslims here. There were no clashes or quarrels with them in the village. Who has problems with you? Why all this sudden hullaballoo? The Televisions are partly spoiling the present generation. Hindus and Muslims have good relations. We are attending each other’s festivals and marriages. We are dining toge…”- while saying this Chandrayya suddenly halted his words.
“Obviously, there is some oddity among the present youngsters. Yongsters were no growing beards. They were not wearing skull capseverytime. Of late, they have become quite conspicuous.” Chandrayya stood silent for a few minutes. He asked, ” Why is the current generation of both religions not hitting it off as we did?” Chandrayya remained silent after posing a worrying question.
Khadar, too, felt pressure on him as he couldn’t answer the question. With a heavy breath, he said: “Where was the time for all these religious rigmaroles, Chandrayya? Where was the time to do Namaz five times a day? We were all rushing to fields or jute mills. We were going to Mosque to do Namaz only on the festive days. That was all. Or confining to simple prayer calling ‘Ya Allah”. We were more worried about the sirens of the jute mill rather than the calls of azan6. Only after the BJP started gaining strength and the destruction of Babri Masjid, our people began feeling insecure. Till then, everyone was involved in their mundane problems!”
In those days, lower castes, too, had some agricultural lands. They were all marginal peasants. Overall, the village was backward and not financially sound. The majority of the people were dependent upon agriculture. As the town was quite nearby, there was some assurance for an otherwise hand-to-mouth existence.
“Khadar! How have the days changed so fast? See the escalation of auto-rickshaws and motorbikes? Have all these not brought a change in the thinking of the youth?” Chandrayya said as if revealing from the inner layers of his mind.
“Nowadays, people do not wake up even after six in the morning. In those days, the villagers used to get up in the wee hours and finish the daily chores. People would then take curd baskets and reach Guntur7 by dawn!”
“True, Khadar bhai! My wife, Acchalu, too, would rush in the morning. My mother would take care of the chores and the children. At home, there would be plenty of people in those days. Some went to the fields. Some went to the mill. Some others go to sell milk and curd. Some used to feed the cattle. By ten in the morning, the village would melt into the town, leaving only the elderly people who would keep an eye on cattle and chicken” Chandrayya fondly ruminates about those old days.
“True! People were struggling to make both ends meet. Where is the leisure for Namaz and Navami8 celebrations?”
“Now that with the increased incomes, people are mad about this wasteful stuff!”
Jonny arrived a few minutes ago.He quickly grasped what the conversation was all about. He intervened: “It is true, uncle! By vandalising the Mosque, did they not put pressure on us?” Turning to Chandrayya, he queried: “Is it not a fact that your people, too, changed a lot, uncle?”
“True it is. But time will never be the same, Jonny! Nothing is in our hands” Chandrayya remained silent for a few seconds.
Jonny fell into a deep reflection. After a long breath, he said: “Uncle, we had shifted from Betapudi to this village apparently for our children’s education. It was a pretext only. The changes that were happening hurt us. You know, we have been in that village for ages. Our community was significant in numbers, too. My father ran a petty shop. After him, our brothers and I continued to run. There is another shop in the village. People flocked to our shop because of the trust that we would never cheat. Even Hindus would love us. We would give them loans. Of course, they would pay back the money. Everything went normal for long. We never felt an iota of discrimination in the village”.
“After the Mosque imbroglio, a few people held a procession celebrating the demolition and sent bricks for the construction of Ram Mandir. Muslims felt hurt by these developments. Slowly, people from the Hindu community stopped coming to our shop.” Jonny’s voice choked as if the flood of despair gushed out of Adam’s apple. We were going through a rough patch. We thought it was difficult for two families to depend on a petty shop. I left it to my elder brother and reached here with my younger brother. Of course, we have not lost anything after we shifted here. Children got an education. They got jobs and settled well. But when we recollect those events, it weighs us down. When we become pariahs in the very village we were born, it makes our hearts bleed”. Johnny’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“Absolutely! You faced it, Jonny! Though I am unaware of what happened in your village, such things haven’t happened here. As long as your grandmother was here, you frequently visited this village. There was conviviality among the two religions. Do you remember how we conducted the wedding of Khadar’s sister together?”Chandrayya said.
Picking up the conversation left by Chandrayya, Khadar said: “Indeed! At the time of my sister’s wedding, there was water scarcity in the village. Not only in this village, but the entire Guntur district was dependent upon wells for potable water. That year, there were no rains, and water scarcity was rampant. All the wells got dried up. Wells near the fields were the only source for the villagers. Chandrayya, Eerayya, and Hussain Rao took responsibility and brought water in wooden drums using carts. To add to the difficulties, Nakirekal9 people from the groom side came in large numbers- in two lorries! Thanks to the efforts from the friends, there was no water shortage for the guests!”
“In fact, any celebration in the village was owned by all the communities. If there was any delay in inviting, theywould intimately ask why there was still no invitation? Such was the warmth and support we had between the communities.”
“Veerayya fixed her daughter’s marriage in Tirupati. The bride was the eldest among her siblings, and Veerayya had no hands to support him. He asked me and Chandrayya to go with him to Tirupati. I had no second thoughts. We were there and took the entire responsibility of conducting the marriage. I never thought that I belonged to a different religion. We spent four full days there. In those days, there were a lot of difficulties in travelling and holding such functions. How could they be conducted without sufficient hands?” Khadar was eloquent in his narration. By then, five to six people had gathered on the pial. No one spoke anything.
Khadar added that Veerayya often spoke about the help we two rendered. “Because of your help, we could conduct the marriage at such a distant place.” “Such mutual help is never forgotten in those days, unlike in the present times”, Khadar stressed the later part, as if concluding the episode.
“Khadar, we are helpless. Times have changed.” Chandrayya wanted to wrap it up. He asked: Anyhow, at what time the meeting is planned?” “Aren’t your people coming?”.
“Yes, of course, they will.”, Khadar replied.
Chandrayya felt happy. He thought Khadar hadn’t changed a bit. ‘How old has our friendship been?’ he mused. “Okay, Chandrayya! Come to the pump centre at 5 in the evening. We will go from there. We can reach in time,” Khadar said a bit aloud. “I, too, will come for the meeting,” Jonny assured both of them.
*****
Khadar was sleepless in the whole night. Akthar’s face and voice have been haunting him.
“Ya Allah! How fearlessly he talked? How courageous Sridharanwas!” He was saying: “If we keep quiet, thinking that the bill is meant only for Muslims, tomorrow it affects everyone, and there would be none to rescue us. If authorities ask for the details and are not satisfied, or if they do not like us for some reason, they will add ‘D’ in the brackets against the name in the list. Then, we are finished. Suddenly, we will turn out to be some agent of a foreign country or will be labelled as a member of a traitor’s group. It will be a Herculean task to disprove those allegations and prove our real identity. If we can’t, detention centres, aka ‘quarantines’, are being built for you. The walls of quarantines are twenty-five feet high and taller than ordinary prison walls.” Sridharan words silently pierced the hearts of everyone and began to trouble them.
One sitting near Khadar bleated with a voice that only Khadar could hear. “Ya Allah! We thought that those days were bygone! But are we to undergo the same troubles and tribulations of the past?” Every word was pregnant with angst. Khadar was shaken in his heart. Khadar turned to him and spoke to relieve the pain apparent in his face: Bhayya, why do you worry? Whatever has to happen will happen! It all depends upon naseeb10. Let us be strong!”
“How can we stay calm, Bhai! Past always haunts us. During the partition, our family lost everything. The family got scattered. The agony is still raw in our hearts. Again, this Citizenship wrangle brings us a feeling that to be born as a Muslim is a crime in this country.” Khadar observed unequivocal despair in his tone.
Khadar couldn’t say anything immediately. After a few moments, he asked him hesitatingly: “Are you from some other state?”
“No, bhai, my grandfather was from Bihar. When Pakistan was formed, our uncle’s family went to East Pakistan, hoping they would do well there. If the partition tragedystopped there, it would have been good. But again, Bangladesh was formed. Biharis were asked to leave. In the riots, one of my uncles died. Another uncle somehow escaped and returned to India. They also had problems with the documents. My uncle was born in Bihar and studied there but became a foreigner. We struggled to save him and his family for a couple of months. If neighbours come to know that they came from Pakistan, they will be deported. And how can they go to Pakistan even without papers? Then we were children, but I vividly remember the agony of my dadima11. She died because of the worry that embroiled our family.” His eyes welled up with tears. His beardless face, splashing glowing light, suddenly turned pale. He was tall and staunch, and in his younger days, he must have had a good physique. He introduced himself as Akthar.
It was difficult for Khadar to find words to console him. At last, he mustered the courage to speak out: “Bhai, we are helpless. Allah kimeherbani!”
“In fact, my uncle had agricultural lands here itself. But how much they had to struggle to find six feet of space.”
Past flashed before his eyes.
“Eat something. How long will you cry?” Dadima was too unstoppable in weeping but trying to console the inconsolable souls.
“Ma, we will die here only. We will not go anywhere. How do we not have an inch of land in this country? Ma, we were born to you. Why should we spend life like thieves? Our aunt was unstoppable in her anguish and despair”. Those appalling moments still haunt Akthar.
Pondering the past was too heavy for Akhtar. He heaved a deep sigh and said: “When they realised that the country no longer belonged to them, they left for Pakistan with heavy hearts. When they left for Pakistan, our kitchens fell silent. The cries of women folk are still fresh before my eyes.” Akthar’s voice went hoarse. “After my uncle left for Pakistan, my dadima died. My father became completely silent. He never stepped out from home. They were all grown under him. We all lived as one family. He could not bear the separation. We felt as if the ground under us was removed”.
“As our uncles were not locals, they could not settle in any work. During the Bangladesh war, they lost everything, and they had to leave for Pakistan with fake visas. They left for Pakistan with bear belongings. They had vast lands and lived like jagirdars, but finally, they had no roof of their own in Pakistan. With perennial grief, my uncle died in Pakistan, and my father in India”.
Was it real life or a story? Khadar felt a tsunami of anguish in his heart. Akthar said: “We could not stay there, and came to Nizam state. Here our grandson is the Deputy collector in the Central Excise”. Chandrayya was keenly listening to the entire conversation. “Let bygones be bygones. At least your family is settled well. All is well that ends well”, Chandrayya said with a reassuring tone.
“True. We left our business there, sold our lands cheaply, and educated our children. Now we are far better. But the present brouhaha about documents again shakes us to the bones.” Old memories are still haunting Akhtar.
“This party came to power, and people’s lives were pushed into turmoil!” Khadar spoke aloud. Chandrayya was not aware of the row over documents for proof of birth until now. ‘How atrocious all these things are,’ he thought to himself.
Khadar was recollecting Sridhar’s words. “At least Brahmins performing the annual ceremonies for the departed will read the lineage for seven generations. Hence, they will know some of their ancestors’ names. How else could others know their ancestor’s names?” “Sridhar was right,” Khadar thought, “In the Mosque, we have our father’s name only. Even then, how can we bring documents for proof? Had we got lands, at least there would be names in the Patta book. Now, there is no land. We sold it to the colony”, Khadar was conversing with himself.
****
Khadar remembered his grandfather, NagulMeera. He used to narrate his experiences as tales. “There was a Zamindar, Appayya in Mandadam village. He would roam around our villages on horseback during our childhood. He had more than one thousand acres of land. My father was running a brick kiln. All our family members were involved in that work. Appayya’s family would take bricks from us only for every construction they undertook. Ayyappa’s son-Venkatappayya- was penny-pincher. But Ayyappa was an altruist. Once, he said to me: “Meera, since your father’s time, you have been working for us loyally. I want to help you in one way or another”. Ayyappa said affectionately: “On the west side, the land near TummalaCheruvu is lying waste. Bring it under cultivation, and I will register it in your name.” By that time, Ayyappa was too old.
Khadar asked his grandfather. “Dada, do we still hold that land?” Khadar, from his childhood, had always dreamt of owning land.
“Why did we leave that village had we had that land? Why did your abbajaan trudged so much if we owned that land? I was a simpleton. Did I accept his offer? No. I said, ‘What do we do with land, saab?12 Shall we grow crops or nurture orchards? Just give us some land to construct a mosque in this village.”
“Even now, there is a mosque in Mandadam village that we built. People will forever remember that the mosque was built by NagulMeera”. Khadar recollected his grandfather’s voice and visage. “Who did care about lands and properties in those days? Women folk never came out to work in the fields. In those times, families were extensive and had more children. Women had no time left for other work except child rearing and domestic chores. Large families naturally incurred huge food expenditures. Very often we required cash. So, we were inclined to carry on some or other business.”
“Your father was the fifth child. By then, I could not carry on the brick kiln work. I had to see that everyone was settled. Girls should be married off. As it was difficult to get on with meagre income in that village, we migrated here, as this village is nearby to the town and it is easier to get work. So when your father reached adolescence, we all came to this village. The brick kiln was handed over to your taya13.”
Dada is deeply attached to Mandadam. “Mandadam is not hot at all. The village is on the banks of Krishna River. The fields are always verdant with maize crops and banana orchards. The blunder we made was to keep ourselves away from agriculture”, dada said. Khadar felt that Dada spoke hard facts. Had we been in agriculture, the relations between the communities would not have become too weak; Khadar gave some reason for the present hiatus.
‘Chandrayya is still cordial with him because they work closely together in the agricultural works. The togetherness in the work, in fact, cemented camaraderie in sharing thoughts and caring for each other’, Khadar thought to himself.
Decades flew by unnoticed. What befalls on us in the future is unpredictable. Muslims are attacked first for all muddles. There is no scope for cooperating with each other like in earlier times. The atmosphere swelled with mistrust. Khadar was besieged with troubling thoughts throughout the night, making him despair. He was in anguish with how the present generation, his grandkids, would pull on their future.
After long deliberation, perhaps too tired of mental turmoil, Khadar caught some sleep in the late hours.
****
Khadar woke up feeling heaviness, as he had barely slept that night. He folded the blanket, lifted the cot, pulled it over, and leaned the cot against the wall. He reached the water tub, took a neem stick, and went into the bazaar while brushing his teeth. Basha, his son, was filling up water cans from the public tap.
Basha does electrical work. He owns a shop, which he opens at 8 am daily. Customers come to the shop in the mornings. Everyone at home will be on tenterhooks until Basha leaves for his job. Khadar will be out of the house during that time. Khadar felt that after his son took up electrical work in apartments, he was able to earn pretty well.
While sipping tea, Basha called his father, “Abba, aao! Chaytayyar hogaya!14Basha did wudu15, changed his clothes, and rushed to the Mosque.
Khadar said to himself, “I have never been particular about going to the Mosque for prayers. How did he develop the devotion to attend the Mosque twice a day? If it is Ramzan’s month, he would do Namaz five times daily.”
“In the mornings, there will be a flurry of chores for daughter-in-law, like preparing breakfast for the children and Basha. By 9 am, they all would be off. Reshma, his daughter-in-law, alone had to do all the work and would be under strain daily. Had ‘she’ been there, both would have shared work. ‘She’ was doing well, but suddenly, departed. Allah had not shown kindness”. While remembering his wife- Khasim Bi, Khadar’s heart quivered like a leaf in the wind.
Basha returned from the Mosque. He invited his father for the breakfast. Khadar said: “Nai, beta! TuKhao, tumhe time hogaya”16. Basha hastily gulped the breakfast. Basha’s eldest son sat on the Luna’s pillion. Basha drove the vehicle, rushing to his shop. Reshma is preparing the other children for the school. Khadar saw his grandkids going to school. “Unlike the old generations, Basha is not rigid with traditions. His son has chosen to limit his offspring to three. Otherwise, in the present situation, having too many children is an unbearable burden on the low-income people”. Khadar silently appreciated his son’s conscious choice.
Interrupting Khadar’s cascade of thoughts, Reshma called him for breakfast.
Khadar washed his hands and legs leisurely, went inside the house, performed dua, finished breakfast, and left for his son’s shop.
When Khadar comes to the shop, Basha leaves his son with his father and goes out to do electrical work. That day, too, he was waiting for his father.
“Today I have to finish work in a house. The work might take longer time. I will be taking him along with me”, Basha said to Khadar, referring to his son.
“It is okay. I have no other work. I will be in the shop until you come back”, Khadar replied.
Basha took this shop recently. Previously, he ran an improvised shop and repaired electrical goods. His eldest son grew up. The electrical works in the newly constructed apartments provide enough work for Basha. He is taking up some small electrical contracts and electrical repairs at residences.
Khadar is happy that his son’s economic situation has improved. His main concern is the education of his grandkids. Khadar is well aware of the ups and downs of any business. He was not particular that his grandchildren should study only to get jobs. He thinks that educated people have a fair chance of improving in life. ‘They understand the world better,’ he thinks. He compares children among his relatives and in his neighbourhood. He feels that his family is still lagging behind in education.
Moreover, the speeches in the meeting made a strong imprint on his mind. He felt, “Sans education, how can we progress?” Khadar was ignited by the newly sprung thoughts about education.
Mastan entered the shop and woke up Khadar from contemplation. “Chacha, it seems you are in deep thinking.”
“Nothing, Mastan!” Khadar asked Mastan: “Why are you not sending your children to schools?”
Mastan was bit surprised by this unexpected question: “How can they survive if they won’t learn to work? Will this education get us any jobs? Can they solve our bread-and-butter issues? No way, chacha! Our children have to learn some or other trade work,”
“Mastan, it is not that getting an education is entirely for securing jobs. Children will learn worldly affairs.”
“True. But can we afford a good education for our children? Who will help us economically to bear the expenses? We send them to Madarsas. They will teach Urdu and Arabic. What would they learn there? Can we get any jobs studying merely Urdu and Arabic? The lessons they teach will only help them become Maulvis. Anyway, at last we have to run autos or repair cycles.” Mastan thought they were bitter truths of life that could not be changed.
“I agree. The education taught in Madarsas is not of much use. Our children should get an education in normal schools,or in Urdu schools run by the government.”
“Are these Madarsas helping us in any way? If you question, our community people accuse me as if I wouldn’t care about Allah. They only teach that we should pray in Mosque but never care to explain what exactly was written in the Quran.”
“Mastan! Whenever I go to Mandadam, I feel happy. Everyone is educated there. Even small farmers get their children educated by taking loans or selling their properties. But… we…?Your father bequeathed a flower basket to you. You handed over cycle shops to your offspring”.
“No, chacha18! If the children from rich families study, they can get jobs. They have money and get recommendations to climb ladders. What do we have? Who will help us?” Mastan’s dejected tone was too evident to Khadar.
Mastan’s house is in the backside street of the Basha shop. He is a relative of Khadar and is close to him. He occasionally sits in the shop. He buys flowers from peasants and sells them to small shops in the market. He brings the remaining flowers home and gives them to several neighbouring women to make flower strings. In the evening, he will sell those flower strings on the cycle.
Mastan’s father, too, was a flower merchant. Mastan is known as the son of a flower vendor in the village.
Mastan continued the conversation: “Chacha, in our families, we have more children and no family assets. How to feed all of them becomes a paramount concern, and we always think about how the children could earn something and support the family financially.”
“Undeniably true, Mastan! But we need to break the double bind. Otherwise, we will be in this mire forever. We can never come out.” Khadar felt that his words were coming from a deep well. “Yesterday, you attended the meeting. Could you follow the speeches?”
“Since last night, I have been pondering it. That is why I came here to see you. You brought up the issue of lack of education among our children. What is this new headache of showing papers? Why all these? What documents do we have? Why all these harassments against us?”
“That is exactly what I have been insisting. The communal forces are propagating that our children are roaming without proper education, our youth are neck deep in religious fanaticism, and the jobs they do for a living, like the works of the mechanics, make them boorish. Hence, the communal forces spread disinformation that our youth will always be at the forefront to stir up disturbances anytime. So we need to change. Our children need a good education. We must follow whatever the good that the Quran preaches. Will our religious teachers tell us what exactly was written in the Quran? Will they let us know in the first place? The Quran has many good things, such as that all religions should be respected, all people should live on a righteous path, a portion of everyone’s earnings should be kept apart for charity, and no one should engage in money lending. Everyone understands allthese when they get educated.” Khadar’s despair is coming out relentlessly.
Meanwhile, Basha arrived. The conversation between Mastan and Khadar came to an end. Both left the shop and began to walk towards their respective homes.
Every evening after the Namaz was over, some elders sat on the steps of the Mosque, and there would be discussions on several matters. That day, many people were seen on the steps talking among themselves.
“When youngsters were trying to raise these issues, we, the elders could not comprehend the depth of the problem. We merely thought some documents needed to be shown. Only after we heard the speeches in yesterday’s meeting could we understand the gravity of the issue. Since the morning, though all are busy with their mundane work, everyone is disturbed”.
“We were never involved in creating troubles. We were carrying out our professions peacefully. What did we do to invite such wrath?
Someone said sorrowfully, “This cauldron was started by the British. How we wish our country was not divided at all! “
“Gandhi was killed accusing him for the partition. What could he have done? Moreover, that was all history now. Kingdoms evaporated. British Empire vanished. Parliament and elections came. Why should we unearth the past? Those who were buried became ones with soil. Could they come out? Why then dig out the gone decades?”
“True. Why cry over the spilt milk? The point is, what should we do now?”
“As the professor said, it is nigh impossible to show the documents. They will find some crannies and drive us round the bend even if thedocuments are shown. Or we may have to grease the officials’ palms. That is beyond our capacity. There is only one solution. We will say-“Hum nahi dikhayenge”19 We will not show, come what may!”
“Ya Allah! Where do all these problems lead to? We got independence. Those who wanted to leave, left the country. Those who wanted to remain in the country, stayed course despite facing troubles and tribulations, bearing the brunt of insults and insolences, and suffering pain in silence. We continued to stay in the country we loved. We persevered with patience,” Jabavali said, his tone turned raspy.
“Whenever the BJP becomes powerful, they bedevil us. One gentleman led the destruction of Babri Masjid, and he became prominent. He dreamt of becoming a PM. Now, his disciple is a bigger devil than him. The disciple massacred thousands of Muslims in Gujarat, outclassed his guru and became the hero of his party.”
“Alright! They destroyed the Mosque. They achieved their object. What else do they want?”
“Simple. They want all of us to leave the country”.
“How is that possible, bhayya? We have lived in this land for ages. We were born here, and we will die here. Leave the past. Can we forget that five generations passed away before our eyes since the partition?
“The actual motive behind all this was to put India’s wealth and resources on a platter to megabucks like Adani, and diverting the real issues facing the country by spreading hatred and antagonism towards us, and causing harm to our business and properties by portraying that we are enemies of this country. This is their strategy” Iqbal placed the essence of that meeting before everybody.
“True, bhayya! They don’t want to expel us en masse. If we were not here, they would not have any new enemy to show to the people. What pretext do they have to divert the people’s attention from the ongoing super-exploitation and myriad issues people face?” Jonny added some explanation to Iqbal’s synthesis.
The discussion reached an emotional crescendo. Meanwhile, Chandrayya and Hussain Rao came to meet Khadar. Khadar offered them a place to sit.
The room fell silent for a while.
“Have you been discussing something? Why does it seem like everyone is on an emotional rollercoaster?”. Looking at Khadar, Chandrayya said, perhaps with a feeling that he might have disturbed their conversation: “When you are not found in the centre, I thought you would be here, and I came”.
“Nothing new, Chandrayya! Discussing the things that were heard in the meeting only.”
“Khadar, I am, too, thinking about the same. So far, you thought the new brawl would harass your community only. I realized that it would light the fire on all of us! My son Ramudu, too, attended the meeting. He also said in the morning that the impending bill harms all of us.”
“Chandrayya, it perplexes me. When and how did we get separated? When did the division between “us and them” begin? “How did the divisions surreptitiously creep into our lives?” Khadar was brimming with emotion.
“Khadar, this happened very quickly. Do you know why I was given my name, Hussain Rao? My mother told me that two siblings died before me. She vowed on the day of Moharram, and I survived. And hence, I was christened Hussain Rao”.
“Hussain, the new generation has not observed the Moharram festival in the village for ten to fifteen years. But we all did the celebrations in our childhood, though it belonged to Muslims.” Chandrayya was remembering the days of harmony among the communities. “On the day of Moharram, the aroma of delicious pulav20and biryani21 would waft the whole village. Would there be any house where they did not cook chicken or mutton? For all the festivals, we used to make either pulav or kheer22. Would there be any difference between our and your festivals?”
“Of course, during Moharram, we do mourning, but on the tenth day, when peers23 are put to fire pits, both communities come together. From the very wee hours, the village would be full of hustle and bustle. Children from both communities wear new clothes. Girls and women keep flower stings in their plaits and decorate hands and legs with henna. Where were the caste differences during the festival? Dalits and all Sudras would also celebrate the festival. We can see everyone in the Moharram procession. In fact, two peers belonged to Hassein and Hussein of Madigas.”
The procession of elders and children, in which all happily marched and shouted ‘Hassein, Hussein, Ya Ali dula’, unfolded vividly before Chandrayya.
Noisy acts by children and the commotion in the procession are still alive and vibrant in Chandrayya’s memories. The peers held aloft, and rhythmic beats of drums boomed the surroundings, and the shehnais resounding music at times appearing sonorous and mostly mellifluous; the marching people clad in different attires, the procession would proceed to Madiga colony and reach the houses of Hassein and Hussein and their peers joining the procession. Then, the peers would move via Vepuri and Kapu houses and, at last, come via West Street, where the fire pit had been dug a day before. The entire scene is clearly imprinted on Chandrayya’s mind.
“Chandrayya, do you remember where the fire pit was prepared?”
“It is under the Poleramma24tree that belonged to the Puli Nagayya’sverandah.”
“See, were there any religious China Walls? Peers belonged to the Dalits, and peers were laid to rest near the Poleramma tree. The festival was a true assembly of all castes and religions. All this happened during our lifetime only. But I am unable to understand how they could separate us so viciously.” Khadar’s tone sounded helpless.
“Khadar bhai, it is not planned by someone. Times have changed”, Hussain Rao said in a consoling manner.
Iqbal was agitated. “How have the times changed, and why?” Everyone was surprised at Iqbal’s sudden rise in passion.
Khadar answered instantly, “It is not that times have changed, Hussain Rao! The politicians are stoking passions and spreading hatred between the communities to harvest votes consciously. They now want to bring turmoil in society and destroy the fabric of harmony by bringing the bill. Let us see, what would happen?” Khadar’s desperation was conspicuous.
Controlling his emotions, Iqbal said, “Dada, don’t feel dejected. Nothing will happen. It is not that easy. People are wise. For ages, many religions and ethnic groups have coexisted. Some people can be fooled for some time. But they cannot play their games ever.” His words were brimming with optimism.
Iqbal continued, “We need not face the denouement to prove our identity with documents. Our life and death are in this land only. This is our land of birth. No one can dare to deny it. Let us face anything to protect our place in this land.”
{Originally published in Telugu in Kolimi (2021), a Telugu web magazine.}
Footnotes
1. Nazis, after Hitler assumed power, began identifying Jews with in Germany and later in the Germany occupied territories by checking documents. It became one of the methods to identify the Jews to dismiss them from government posts, arrest, kill and sending them to concentration camps.
Later, such acts of harassments of the citizens by the police states, were expressed with the trope- Papers, Please!. The phrase- Papers, Please! was popularized in the 1942 movie Casablanca. The film opens with a scene of police officers searching a hotel for refugees fleeing from Nazi controlled territory.
Thus, Papers, pleasehas become an expression of a cultural metaphor for life in a police state, wherein the demanding of identification papers from citizens during random stops or check points becomes routine. In US and Europe any such harassments of citizens are despised as Papers, Please measures. The title of this story- Hey, Show Me Your Papers could be a variant trope in India in the context of CAA and prospective All Indian NRC.
2. father in Urdu.
3. grandfather in Urdu
4. means son in Urdu
5. brother in Urdu
6 . call for prayer from mosque
7 . A prominent town in the state of Andhra Pradesh
8 . Sri Ram Navami festival celebrates the birth of God Ram on the 9th day of the first month of the Hindu calendar, that usually comes during March-April.
9 . A town in Nalgonda Dsitrict, Telangana State
10. Means fate or destiny in Urdu
11. Paternal grandmother
12. Slang for Saheb( sir)
13. Father’s elder brother
14. “Dad, tea is ready!”
15. A cleansing ritual before prayer for Muslims
16. No, son! You eat and get ready, you have to rush!
17. An invocation of Allah. A prayer.
18. Means uncle, a respectable address to elders.
19 . “We will not show!”
20. A hot spicy rice dish with lot of vegetables or with meat pieces.
21. Dish with rice and meat or chicken
22. A dessert with rice, milk and sugar.
23. Peers are replicas of martyrs which are taken in a procession celebrating the martryrdom at Karbala by Hussein (grandson of Prophet Mohammed) and his family members on the tenth day in the month of Moharram.
24. Poleramma, a village goddess, whose figurine is palced under a tree.
