Vithal was lying on the camp cot, though it was well past ten-thirty in the morning,
and staring at the tiled roof. A big lizard clambered out of sight round a metal truss, its
tail curving out and back. Vithal peered down and saw a messy black and white
dropping just by the foot of his cot. What if the fellow had dropped it on to his mouth?
It was a revolting thought, and increased his ire against Sharmaji, who was the cause
of his being there, and also Christians Everywhere, who were paying him to evaluate
this stupid outfit. Why couldn't big fat Sharma have built at least two good guest
houses in his so-called Rural Centre, when his own `unit' was as well appointed as any
ministerial bungalow? Well, foreign donors wanted to have a feel of rural India, and
allowing them to rough it was actually part of the total tamasha, but Indians like
himself, Sharma knew very well, wanted at least a modicum of city safety, to spend a
night there without constantly worrying about being bitten by cobras, or stung by
scorpions.
Vithal morosely remembered the jocular, slighting attitude of Sharma's to his mission,
though after all he was the appointed evaluator, but then Sharma was long in the
tooth and leered openly as much as to say there was no way he could send off a bad
report without calling in question his previous support. Not that Christians
Everywhere would accept a reproving evaluation, they were up to their necks in this
development charade, just as he was himself, and everyone had to go on showering
praise on each other. Except that Sharma treated him as an unimportant tool, rather
than as a respected elder brother, and that rankled. Why was he not given the
Foreigners Guest Room instead of that vague development tourist chick from Canada
with the big boobs?
Vithal had refused to attend Sharma's morning `consultation' with the staff a bit of a
farce really for Sharma to hold forth ill-considered opinions on world affairs to his
bored inattentive subordinates, that is, to those who could not find excuses to dodge
the self-congratulatory ritual he had refused ostensibly to write his reports, and also
to show everyone, including Sharma, that he would do damn well as he pleased. In
fact, he was secretly hoping that the creative muse would at last descend on him and
fill the white sheets stuck in his portable typewriter with immortal fiction, rather than
the tiresome uninspirational development reports that earned him a modest income.
The rain lashed the outside of his room, sending in thin drifts through the window. He
lay obstinately on his cot, clammy and uncomfortable, but without the energy to get up
and start typing typing what, was the question? No creative ideas entered his head,
and he wondered vaguely why yogis made so much noise about achieving a
thoughtless mind. An intrusive fearful idea jerked him out of disgruntled lassitude. It
was during heavy rains that flooded termite mounds and rat holes that snakes, cobras,
slithered into rooms. He carefully bent down to survey the floor. The wet uneven
cement was clear of all life forms. He picked up his flashlight and shone a beam into
the recesses of his shoes. All clear. He got up and went carefully into the attached
bathroom. He had always had nightmares about cobras coiled round the commode.
There were no snakes there, but the drain hole was wide and gaping and anything
could crawl in, snakes, scorpions, centipedes. He covered it completely with a large
plastic bucket, and weighed it down with a soap dish, and to ensure that a powerful
snake would not sweep it aside, placed his shoes inside for good measure. He wasn't
being paranoid, just being careful. Ramu the driver, who had brought him down to this
hole, who was just as careless of respect due to a senior as was his master, had
cheerfully pointed out the large bush behind the guest room where he had seen two
cobras mating only a few days ago. And the previous night, coming back from the
dining room, his torch had caught in its uncertain light a large yellow centipede
crawling round the front steps. It was almost as large as a small snake, and yellow he
knew was Nature's signal for deadly poison.
The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun. He had to walk out into the morning,
smell the freshness of the morning, feel the wind, look at the trees, anything, to shake
off this depressing mood, otherwise the day would slip by lethargically without any
inspiration. This stupid trip would produce nothing but another unreadable and
unread development report, and that story which would establish his reputation as an
emerging Indo-Anglian writer of note would continue to remain unwritten.
He walked out of the compound on to the tarred road, and turned away from the
village towards the low hills. The nullah to his left was gushing with storm water, and
the vegetation all round, freshened by the rain, shone green and wet, and whistled in
the wind. He felt revived, and just happy to be walking down a road with the wet wind
in his face. A narrow dirt pathway crossed the road, and down it, sheltering
uncomfortably under the dripping trees, he saw a gaggle of foreign tourists outside
Ismail Sahib's studio, waiting in line for their autographed pots to emerge from the
kiln. On the spur of the moment he turned and walked towards the studio.
He saw Ismail Sahib come out onto the high narrow verandah cuddling two large pots
on either side of his square black beard. He wore his checked lungi and white full-
sleeved shirt as always, and was laughing in a guttural way as always, handing the
ugly pots to their owners, who received them with awe as if they were the holy grail.
"Arre, Vithal Sahib, God is good to me today! It is too long since you visited my garib-
khana. Shaheena! Make a hot cup of tea for our good friend, Vithal Sahib Bahadur,"
said Ismail Sahib hospitably coming down the steps, and pumping his hand
vigorously. Vithal could feel reflected glory shining upon him from the eyes of the
foreigners as he was ushered into a dark, ornately furnished room with uncomfortable
chairs. At least Ismail Sahib knew what was due to him, and he in turn was equally
polite, never letting the Muslim feel he remembered a time when the potter squatted
outside his wretched hut in a dirty lungi twirling his wheel, and shooing away the
street dogs when his daughter brought him lunch. A mild stroke had crippled one
hand, the pots became skewed, and unsaleable, and Vithal five years ago had brought
down a bunch of foreign visitors in the hope that one of them might donate money for
treatment. A Swede had bought all the unsold pots, and apparently they had been a
sensation in a Third World Art Fair in Uppsala. Ismail Sahib never discussed prices
with his old friend, but the fact that buyers used credit cards to pay for his pots told
its own story.
Shaheena's tea when it came was hot and sweet, and Vithal sipped it with pleasure as
his host sat smiling contentedly in a dimly-lit corner, having left the sales to his
assistants in honour of his friend's visit.
"I was hoping, Vithal Sahib, that this time you would surely be bringing me a copy of
your novel. As you know, I don't read much, other than the Koran Shareef, my eyes are
getting old, and there is so much nonsense written in the papers, who wants to read
such vulgar stuff? But your novel! That is something I am looking forward to," said
Ismail Sahib comfortably.
Vithal would have suspected the motives behind such a remark coming from any of his
other friends, especially Sharma, but he knew that Ismail Sahib was a simple man, a
peasant potter really, and wanted his friends to be as successful as he had become,
with God's grace.
"Arre, Ismail Sahib, what can I say? Where is the time, you tell me? I have to go here,
there, everywhere, on development work. After all, society comes first, we are all of one
family, and how can I abandon my duty, for my own interests?"
Ismail Sahib looked earnestly across the dim room. "But Sahib, my good friend, when
you write, with your knowledge, your skill, your vision, you serve society for all time.
The scholar, the poet, is always to be respected, has this not been so clearly instructed
by the Prophet, Peace Be Upon His Name?"
After a few more similar exchanges of mutual respect, Vithal took leave of his host,
promising to return as soon as possible, Shaheena taking the liberty to insist that next
time he must eat biryani made by her hands, and Vithal apologizing for coming on an
emergency mission, otherwise he would surely have brought his niece a sari from
town.
The visit had done his self-esteem a lot of good and he walked back with a confident
step. This guy had been a poor, failed, crippled potter, and look what Fate had made
him into? Surely, once he was over his writer's block, surely that one story would
establish him as a writer, win him an entry into every study of English literature in
India? But how was he to get the psychic space to write that story if all his energies
were to be drained writing puffery to boost frauds like this Sharma? He must have grit,
he must persevere, ignoring that shelf at home, full of unopened rejections from
illiterate editors. He knew he was a writer, he needed no stupid commercial editor no,
no stupid commercial merchandiser of printed matter to recognize his own worth. He
stepped into the little room with a commanding air, he would almost have welcomed a
snake there, he would have written about it, and sat down in front of the typewriter,
and then, before hitting the keys, closed his eyes for a moment.
"Saar! Vithal Sir, I have brought you early lunch since you did not even come for
breakfast." He had dropped off sitting, the walk and the freshening air after the rains
making him drowsy for a minute. Ramulamma was standing at the door, carrying his
lunch thali, a large plantain leaf covering it to protect the food from the wet wind, and
her sari end pulled over her head with a corner held between her teeth to protect her
hair. He pushed aside the untouched typewriter to make room for the large metal
plate, and went into the bathroom to wash the sleep out of his heavy eyes.
When he came back drying his hands, the thali had been laid on the table, and a metal
tumbler with drinking water placed beside it. Ramulamma sat companionably on the
floor by the door, at a spot that was still dry.
The chapattis were still hot and crisp, and the potatoes in the tomato curry tender and
fresh. He started to eat with gusto. The redgram dal on the side was very lightly spiced
but he liked simple cooking, and this was one aspect of Sharma's parsimonious
hospitality he found no fault with.
"Pedda Saru, Sharma Sir, told me to ask whether you would be joining them for the
afternoon `briefing' session." Ramulamma was smiling. She knew too much about
everybody, but with the wisdom of someone who had brought several lives into the
world, she kept her own counsel, revealing nothing beyond a pleasant smile.
"Ramulamma, there is so much writing to be done! So many issues to be written
about," said Vithal fussily, between mouthfuls. "You are all such good people, it is my
responsibility to see that the funding comes through without delay."
"Ah, Pedda Saru, you are so good to us, what will we do without you?" Ramulamma
bent forward touched the floor in front of her and then put her fingers respectfully to
her eyes. "You care for us like a father! Who could do more? But with all this work for
others, you must also find time to be kind to yourself, Saru! We all know what a great
writer you are! You must write that book."
He looked at her suspiciously. He knew she had seen those rejected manuscripts all
piled on top of each other in his house. She had seen him lazy, she had seen him in
despair. But she was smiling her pleasant companionable smile. He started to speak
the line he had used with Ismail Sahib, but she knew him too well for such polite
dissembling. He smiled a little ruefully as he stuffed his face with a roll of chapatti and
potatoes.
"Ramulamma, I have tried my best to interest editors, but what can I do? I write the
way I write, but I can't even get them to read my stories. I am sure they haven't read
them, for when they do write back after months of forgetting I have to remind them
with several letters, you have seen me do so they say something that has no
connection to my story. What can I do? My life will just be writing development reports
that no one reads."
Ramulamma was silent for a bit as he washed down his mouthful with a drink of
water. She drew a watery circle on the floor with her forefinger. "You know so many
foreign sahibs, they are such good friends, they spend hours every evening drinking
with you." She continued hastily to interrupt any protestation he might make. "You
write in English, Saru, surely they can get your stories printed in England, Amrika?"
With unerring instinct she had touched the heart of his dream. He shook the dream
out of his head. " Books are another world, Ramulamma, controlled by people far
above the reach of any of us. My friends are like me, they belong to this development
business. They cannot help. Those are the great editors over there, really great, not like
these fools of ours. Unless I get something published in India, unless I get noticed
here, none of the great men there will even open my letters."
The injustice of it all silenced them both for a while. Ramulamma drew another design
on the floor with a droplet of water.
"What kind of stories do you write, Saru?" she asked reflectively. " When we share
stories round the campfire, you never join in, though we have asked so often. Why,
Saru? I am sure all of us would have liked your stories."
Vithal shook his head. "You people tell such fanciful stories about ghosts, demons,
animals that turn into people, and what Gods say.... My stories are very, very ordinary,
you want to know about what? My stories are about the people I meet, about you!"
Ramulamma's mouth hung open, and she covered it with her hand. " What is there to
say about me?" she wondered. " I am just an old dai, a humble village Dalit dai. There
is nothing to write about me, or any of us here. We are just ordinary people!"
Vithal did not know what to say. He opened his mouth a couple of times but nothing
came out. He swallowed some food for inspiration and tried another tack.
"Look, Ramulamma, I don't want to write about ghosts and demons, and fanciful stuff.
I want to be a real writer. I want to write about real people, how we live, why we live,
what goes on in our heads, and what fate or chance has in store for us, ordinary
humble people. You see, Ramulamma, the really great writers, like Shakespeare, have
written only about people, people they knew, not about ghosts or demons."
Ramulamma nodded. "What do I know, Saru, I am only a simple dai? I have only
brought boys and girls into life. Some have now grown up, with big moustaches,
driving jeeps like Sahibs. They don't even speak to me. I know nothing. Because we are
simple people, when we tell stories, we speak of ghosts and demons, and Gods, of
course about Gods also. But big people, who think all the time like you, you want to
write about simple things. Yes I understand. The young nurses in the district hospital
are contemptuous of us uneducated dais, but not the big doctors. Once Doctor
Kumaravelu Pedda Saru, you know the big brain surgeon, he was so attentive, so
many years ago..." She was lost in her own thoughts of long ago.
Vithal nodded absently, and continued eating. What was there to say after all? He
would continue to write stories that no one would read. They would all come back to
him like homing pigeons, but unlike birds they would gather dust on his shelves. And
then, one day he would be gone, and someone would clean out the room, and burn his
stories just as they had burned him the day before...
"Saru, we have to make you a fancy writer, that's what we have to do."
The words jolted him out of his reverie. He shook his head sadly, rose and went into
the bathroom to wash his hands. When he returned the plate had been removed, the
table wiped clean, and a small ceramic saucer with a gulab jamun and spoon placed in
the centre. He sat down to eat his dessert.
"Saru, our Ismail Sahib has become very famous, and makes a lot of money. He could
buy a Benz if he wanted, only he and Shaheena Begum do not drive, and he calls for a
taxi whenever he needs to go out."
Vithal nodded. The gulab jamum was a bit too sweet for his taste but that was the best
one could expect in the country.
"Saru, Ismail Sahib was very poor five years ago, and starving! Ayyo, how many times
I've taken a kilo of rice tied up in my sari paloo for him, how else were they to live? You
know that!"
Vithal nodded once again. Some people were just born lucky, and others... just
unlucky, to blush and waste their sweetness in the desert air.
"Saru, that illness was given to him by Allah!" persisted Ramulamma. " That withered
hand of his could no longer make pots that we can use. It made him a special potter,
special for white people only!"
Vithal laughed. "I suppose when I am palsied and unable to write, some one will read
my stories. I am afraid that won't do, Ramulamma. Art pottery is one thing, an
illiterate scribble will only be an illiterate scribble. It will not sell. Tell that cook, I know
he will not listen, but a gulab jamun should not be drowned in sugar syrup."
Ramulamma was not to be put off. "Think, Saru, think! You yourself just now told me
what big sahibs prefer. Like a special dish! To be served up in a special way!"
Vithal could make nothing of this. " What are you trying to say, Ramulamma?" he
asked sharply. "If you have something to say, say it out plainly so I understand."
Ramulamma lifted both her hands and gave her head a couple of resounding smacks.
"Ayyo, Saru, Ayyo! What I have to say cannot be said plainly. Then no one will hear!
We in the village lead such ordinary lives. We say and do ordinary things, buy ordinary
things. When Ismail Sahib was well we bought ordinary pots from him. When he fell ill,
we could not. But the big, big sahibs, from far away got interested in him, for now his
pots were special; not one could hold any water! And me, I am just an ordinary dai
who cares? Sharma Saru gives me some money, but he does not care for me, for I am
just an ordinary village dai. But do you know how many foreign Ph.D students come to
interview me? By now I must have got them over ten degrees!" She held up her palms
with fingers out stretched. " And this one now, this Michele Madam, from Kanada," she
added rolling her eyes mischievously towards the Foreigners Guest House, "you have
noticed her?"
Vithal flushed and looked at the tips of his fingers.
"As I was saying, who cannot notice this big young madam," continued Ramulamma
unconcerned. "Well, she has been interviewing me all day about child birth, maternity
care, public health, sanitation. This will get her a Ph.D. but will any compounder in
our hospital talk to me? No!"
Vithal knew he was on the edge of a discovery, but he could not put a name to it. The
effort made him tired. "Ramulamma, you are a good friend, and you are trying to help
me, I know. But if my writing is about simple things, my thinking is even simpler. You
have to tell me in simple words what you say I should do."
"Ayyo! It is as Krishna Bhagavan wishes," said Ramulamma, getting up, and collecting
the used plate and tumbler. " He has made one mystery within another. Here in the
village, we blow our nose with our fingers, and throw the snot on the ground. The rich
man uses a soft expensive handkerchief and puts it all into his pocket! I have to go
now for `briefing.'"
Vithal was quite angry. " Stop! You are not going out till you tell me plainly what you
think. I am ordering you to tell me!"
Ramulamma turned back to face him, her eyes round with innocent concern. " Haven't
I told you what all I know? What else is there to say, Saru? You are the wise one, who
am I, nobody. No one cares here. But the big, big sahibs from abroad care, they care
for stupid people like me, since they are tired of caring for our big people."
Vithal nodded with dawning comprehension. " Yes, yes, that is why I write about
ordinary events, ordinary people, and yet, no one reads..."
"Saru, they do not want to read you, but they will read me. You understand, Saru,
what you must do?" Ramulamma stood tall by the door, the metal thali balanced
gracefully on one hand held at shoulder level, while with the other she pulled her sari
tight round her figure.
Vithal got up and took a couple of agitated turns round the table. " Yes, maybe I can
say the stories are written by us both, no, by you, by you, as told to me... if they get
published, we shall share in whatever they send me, us?"
Ramulamma bent to place the thali on the floor and rose with hands joined in a
namasthe. "Saru, if this helps you at all, that is enough for me. Don't you remember
that monsoon night eight years ago, when you gave me and my sister a lift to the city?
Remember, she was very ill? She got ill after delivery, and I knew unless I got her to
the city in time, she would be dead. You saved her life, Saru. You saved my sister's life.
Who else do I have in this world, but my sister? So, Saru, you are elder brother to this
poor Dalit dai, in my heart, and it is my duty to serve my elder brother. May the years
left to me be yours." She clicked her knuckles to her forehead to drive away evil spirits,
and left with the plate. Vithal watched her graceful form recede till a sudden curtain of
rain shrouded her from view.