A strong wind was blowing on. Its intensity disrupted the otherwise not so busy life of this Malavadi town. The rain came, wave after wave carried by the southwest lies. This town was a coastal one. Up along the coast, trailing silver sheets were spread from Kerala of South India onward to Konkan. Nearly the Arabian sea was heaving and rocking in the wind.
The rain was so heavy that roads started clogged at some places, the rail lines were almost full with water canceling the train services bringing disastrous to regular traders and office goers. The rain was turning inward from the coast, colliding with the Western Ghats, then climbing up and over. The natural calamity was hovering around the city for hours together. Thereafter, everything was stand still and as usual there was quietness. Ultimately, it was instrumental to green the dry hill slopes grass, weeds, reeds, bushes, trees moss everywhere it was only green and green only.
It was also time for hunter gathers to harvest edible wild roots and shots from the shrinking jungles. It was also time for promises of survival.
I was sitting in the makeshift tea stall near Malavadi railway station which was closed to Lonavala, a famous hilly spot of Maharashtra. This small town was tucked into the foot hills of the Western Ghats. Again rain started but with slow drops only, as per the customary practice of the rainy season. I was continuously battered with the thump of rain fists beating on the very old rusty tin roof above me.
The tea stall owner placed a glass of streaming tea on the wooden table which was almost fighting against death because two of its legs were supported on bricks. I was in total panicky situation but to satiate my thrust, I preferred a cup of tea.
The tea vendor enquired, “Do you want Vada Pau?
I nodded.
I had taken the first bite of Vada Pau and followed it with a hot masala tea, very popular in this belt. I was enjoying the streaming tea when a swarm of flies descended from the ceiling. The half dead table top was totally under their control as if they want to share the Vada Pau. The flies were moving around me like a aeroplane before landing. Some batches of flies would take off, hover, harass, get swatted at, swerve and giving another lot the opportunity to go in for the attack.
The amazing display of aerial combat enlivened me while I munched on my well guarded morning snack.
“Do you require another cup of tea?” Shouted the tea vendor.
I inkled positive.
When he placed the cup in front of me, he said, “Take adequate care not to put any food near to you. There is a hole in gunny bag just behind and it shall get picked up.”
“What shall get picked up?” I enquired with a bit amusement.
“The food saheb,” he said.
“How?”
“A dog or a cat or a rat or even a beggar will take it, zook and it is gone. It is the practice they follow, if any of my customer unmindfully put some food. Other day, one of my customers was very hungry and ordered a plate of four vada paus. He just put the plate on the bench instead of table because of its poor condition. Then, he started talking with me and after sometime, when he was about to taste the snack, he did not find anything. He stared here and there and found a beggar in half naked condition was eating one vada pau standing opposite side of the small road. So, we went out and caught him. He handed back the half eaten piece. This is what they keep on doing. They never come in here and order tea or buy vada pau.” The tea vendor’s voice shrilled.
“Why are you so perturbed? They don’t have money to buy tea and snacks and so they steal. These people are poor. How they can spend money,” muttered another customer, an old monk of this small town, running the palm of his right hand over the ground of silver hair on his head.
“They don’t have money, but how they manage to buy country liquor and revel in the night,” said some other customer.
“In that case, they should live in the jungle and not to roam in the midst of civilians and behave like rowdy Junglees. If they don’t stop these heinous activities of stealing and looking, one day all the traders of this town will lynch them,” said the angry tea vendor.
Just then a ragged group of men and women walked past the tea shop. Pieces of jute sacking, plastics in the form of sheets and torn cloth draped around them. “There they go,” said the tea vendor looking at me. Those people were immediately staring at me and then the tea vendor.
Again the tea vendor shouted, “What are you looking bastards, if the owner of the area see you people roaming here, he will shout you all. Go to the jungle and hide immediately.”
“Who is the owner?” I enquired.
“Nasir Mia is the owner and he is a very strict fellow. He has also done many benevolent works for these lazarus junglee beggars. But, instead of doing work in the forest like cutting trees, collecting leaves and foliages and to stack the same, make the road clean, these lubbers will only pass away the time, drink and steal money and food. When someone is caught, Nasir Sir gives them a nice beating. But these are shameless people.”
When he was narrating this to me, ragged people started taunting him “hoi hoi.”
The tea vendor got very upset. “See, what is their standard?”
“A Jackal will be a Jackal,” said the one with a silver lawn on his head, “You cannot expect it to be a tiger.”
I paid the bill and walked ignoring the rain and then passed for a moment. I crossed the road to follow the ragged group just out of curiosity. One of them stopped and looked over his shoulder, saw me waving, then nudged the others to stop. When I was almost at a touching distance stood abruptly wondering what to say except to smile. The boy who was in front also smiled leaving the others only to simper at equal interval.
Suddenly they all started laughing loudly. One of them made the sound of a goat “bae bae bae.” The others followed him. As a gesture of goodwill, I supported with a “bae” sound. We all again crossed the road and when passed the teashop, the vendor called out, “Hoi, rascals, do you know who he is? He is a journalist and wants to cover our town with many news. He will put your life story in the paper and you junglees will be known to everyone.”
“Are you a journalist?” One of the ragged enquired.
“No, I write books,” I replied with a lovable face.
“And what do you do with the books you write? Probably you stack them as we do the foliages in the forest,” he persisted.
“Please read them, if possible.”
“So, if you write about us, people will read our story,” he went on.
I nodded.
“Hut Saala,” he said with joy to himself.
Then he enquired, “Do you give these books free or people have to pay to buy and read them?”
“People pay money for them,” I replied.
“Hut Saala,” everyone said in unison.
Then the questioning boy went on, “Imagine, people pay to read our story. Everyone does business with our lives and we survive on their mercy, hut Saala.” And they all laughed loudly.
We all walked in silence for a while. The railway tracks had already been crossed and we ambled down along a slushy road, crossed a newly constructed state highway and headed on. The tea shop was far behind. The intensity of the rain was lessened except the drizzling which was kissing like a honeybee taste the honey and flee away. Not far away, on the other side of the state highway, the land climbed slowly up into a craggy hill, densely wooded in some patches and velvety green with grass and weeds and shrubs in others. The clouds were hovering our head, colliding with the rock faces, stopping, merging, dissolving and growing again. Huge black smokes emitting from unseen huts pushed their way up among the trees, lazily floating along till they were embraced by the gauzy clouds above.
“And where is your house?”
“It is there in that field.”
“How can you stay in the field? There must be some hut.”
There was some thatched huts seen from the road on one side of the field.
“Is that your land?” I enquired.
The boy who was questioning much was Gunjan who laughed and slapped me on the back. Then laughed again. I joined him slapping him on the back.
“My land? Hah Haa! My land, my land, my land, that is my land,” They repeated over and over again.
Gunjan’s appearance was little different from others and his dresses were not so ragged though dull and sombre. He could talk in English. Then, I noticed that he was staring at me for a while which I could not understand except to exchange a laugh and looked sideway. Suddenly, I got a blow and fisticuff in my stomach which was painful.
“Saala, for the past ten minutes, I hear your prattle. Bugger, you publish our indigent lives, increase the sale of your newspapers, earn fabulously and enjoy lavishly. Are we so much blockheads? Give us all your belongings and money immediately otherwise we will finish you with this trowel and knife,” Gunjan literally threatened me.
By the time, I was relieved of the pain from the blow and with mild tone I said, “ Please, don’t behave unruly. We are friends and I will try my best to recommend a decent style of living for all of you.”
“Hat Saala, now give everything without much talks.”
He took the knife almost to my face and I was bit scared and suddenly developed my courage and started running, but Kishan his accomplice, threw the trowel which hit me on my left leg to bleed. I stopped and handed over my wallet, gold chain and watched him. In the meantime, tea vendor came; perhaps he got the inkling. Upon scrutiny, I found that the trowel cuts my flesh and bleeding was continued. The tea vendor slapped Gunjan two-three times and he fled away with his groups. He then took me to a local doctor for the treatment.
“Sir, even if you do some charitable and yeomen services for these ruffians, they will not change. Their breed is of lower class. These jackals will be jackals only.”
“It is not like that, we only brand them. This is the norm of our society. Once you are branded, you will be treated in the same fashion only difference lies it may be good or evil,” I said with painful countenance.