The Mud Elephant

By Venkat Rajan

Veeran, a ten-year-old boy, is caught in the vicious cycle of poverty and prejudice. He lives in Varambiam, an obscure village in southern Tamil Nadu, India, subjected to caste distinctions and tending to the everyday chores of the village Zamindar. The village chief however, has now lost all

his wealth and faded into oblivion. Bala, the ten-year-old grandson of the patriarch, visits the village house to escape the squalid ghetto and travails of daily living faced by his family in

the big city, Chennai. Bala finds a friend in Veeran, in Sevapan the family steer who is deaf, in

Tiger – the dog who is the stolid guardian of the family, and in Joseph – the railway gatekeeper with his utopian socialist leanings. Bala silently witnesses the consequences of his family’s hubristic past and the state of ignominy the village head is pushed into. The boys of Varambiam share important life lessons and make a secret wish. Bala, now a grown man, has moved to Mumbai with his wife. Will he ever meet with Veeran again? Will their secret wish come true?

“Venkat Rajan paints a colorful vignette in ‘The Mud Elephant’. A distinct Indian coloring at it. The tone is humorous, detached and ironic. Rajan as a raconteur, actually unfolds a Dickensian narrative, providing a social context and an amazing feel for his characters.”

Joy Augustine, Filmmaker

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9789384391409

Book preview

Venkat Rajan

Notion Press

5 Muthu Kalathy Street, Triplicane,

Chennai - 600 005

First Published by Notion Press 2014

Copyright © Venkat Rajan 2014

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-93-84391-40-9

This book has been published in good faith that the work of the author is original. All efforts have been taken to make the material error-free. However, the author and the publisher disclaim the responsibility.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For feedback : [e-mail]

Achievement has no color

–Abraham Lincoln

Acknowledgement

Dr. Chen Wei Seng of Malaysia agreed to share the picture of his sons, Ken and Bob, playing in the sand. I would like to extend my thanks to Dr Seng for making my vision come alive on the book cover.

Manoj Vijayan is the architect behind the illustration and cover design. My sincere thanks extend to Manoj who worked with me to help conceptualise the cover to reflect the ethos of the story.

My thanks to the Notion Press team, Surekha Thammannan, Yamini Shekhar, Publishing Consultant and Gracy Preeti Gomes, Project Manager, for understanding the subtleties in The Mud Elephant and agreeing to publish it.

Donna Reen supported me patiently with the editing and gave valuable inputs to structure the manuscript. I sincerely thank Donna for her unconditional support and guidance in giving shape to The Mud Elephant.

Contents

TITLE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

Bala’s heart was heavy. He peered through the window of the train, as life around the Mumbai Central station flashed past him. The dull and weather-beaten train dawdled through the squalid suburbs, in stark contrast to the bustling residents, ready to face the day.

Several families lived by the side of the tracks in small concrete sheds, polythene shacks and shanties, and in asbestos-sheeted rooms. Bala turned away at the sight of some people crouching and defecating on the defunct tracks. They carried with them aluminium paint cans filled with water to clean themselves after their ablutions. The last thirty minutes had given Bala a dismal introduction to Mumbai which was so different from a glorified Delhi.

Bala had nursed a desire to visit Mumbai for a long time. He had only heard about Mumbai and its friendly people. Now he would be meeting them, getting to know them and living with them. From that day on, Bala would try to become a Mumbaikar for life.

Bala, if you can make it in Mumbai, you can survive anywhere in the world. The city has life, it has energy. It means business. Mumbaikars don’t hide or pretend. They are what they are. Commitment and hard work has its rewards. Would these words from a friend ring true?

Bala was a friendly man. He smiled at the Guptas sitting opposite him. The Guptas were returning home after a two-year deputation in Delhi. Mrs Gupta was immersed in a conversation with Priya throughout the journey.

Priya looked out of the other window. She did not appear to be interested either in the new city or in Bala’s plans for his future there. The train rolled onto the platform. The porters in their distinctive red shirts, coolies as they are called, held onto the window rails, keeping pace with the train till it shuddered to a halt. One could not help notice the magnificent order in all the chaos.

Bala was thrilled. The energy of Mumbai invigorated him. He darted towards the stacked luggage and tapped on Priya’s shoulders. She appeared calm, a striking contrast to the over-effusive Bala.

Priya arranged the suitcases in order of their weight and then looked at Bala. Her eyes reflected a certain kind of anxiety. Bala did not notice this. He was too busy trying to manoeuvre the luggage through the corridor teeming with passengers. An entire contingent from Gupta’s family was at the station.

There has to be something special about this bulky fellow Gupta, thought Bala. He resembled Mr Gupta, except for his toned muscles that contoured the tight tee-shirt he was wearing. This could be Gupta’s brother, an aspiring model, Bala imagined.

The coolies swarmed the train without much ado. They did not sell their services. Bala reassured himself, "Mumbai is a city that buys, not sells. This is one less hassle for me. If I am good at what I do, I will be noticed. I will make myself worthy of being bought."

With aspirations mingled with fear and excitement, Bala dragged three suitcases onto the platform. Priya stepped down gingerly, careful not to let her precious sandals slip onto the tracks. She did not want a repeat of what happened when she landed in New Delhi for the very first time, barely six months ago.

Just a few metres away, the Guptas hugged and embraced each other as if they were welcoming long-lost friends.

Priya looked at Bala exasperatedly and asked, Where is Gajanan?

Gajanan, the driver of Bala’s new boss from Australia, had been instructed to receive Bala and Priya at the station. Bala had had a telephonic conversation with Gajanan before leaving Delhi.

"Gajanan, sahab must have told you. I will be joining your Mumbai office soon. My wife and I will be arriving by the Rajdhani Express from Delhi. Our coach number is S6."

"Tell me sir, what else?" This short terse reply from Gajanan was new to Bala, a departure from Delhi’s conversations filled with sub-texts.

Bala lost his patience and snapped, Why don’t you look around for him?

This outburst challenged Priya’s intelligence. Wait here. Keep a watch over these, she said pointing at the suitcases. She jostled her way through the crowd and reached the public telephone booth on the adjacent platform. Just then, a man walked out. He held an insignificant piece of paper in one hand, the size of a post-it. In the other hand, he held a passport-sized photograph. Priya immediately recognised it as Bala’s. This was one of the many photographs she had couriered to the human resources executive of the Australian company in Mumbai before Bala had been confirmed.

Gajanan? she called, tapping the man gently on his shoulder. He turned to face her. Yes madam.

I am Bala’s wife. Come with me.

Gajanan smiled. Priya was amused by his uncanny resemblance to Rajnikanth, the popular South Indian film star. A well-fed heroine, a foreign location, and dark shades were the only things missing.

The car was an old four-seater converted into a six-seater. Bala got his first lesson in Mumbai: Learn to make the most of the space you have.

Bala took the front seat to get a good view of Mumbai, while Priya sat at the back in a painful angular position so that she could keep an eye on the suitcases loosely tied in the boot. She was particularly worried about the slim suitcase containing her education certificates and wedding album. Both were equally important to her, but their priority kept shifting places depending on the arguments she had with Bala from time to time.

Bala looked through the rear view mirror and murmured, Calm down. It will not fall off.

Mr Gajanan, are you interested in films? Priya asked.

Gajanan nodded his head, not shifting his gaze from the traffic that whizzed past him, holding on to the steering wheel as if he was holding a thief.

If you go to Chennai, you can try your luck in films, said Priya. Yes, come to think of it, you do resemble Rajnikanth, Bala added. The traffic snarled.

Gajanan…, Priya said. Madam, you can call me Gajji. Gajji.

Yes, madam?

How far is the office from our residence?

Madam, I will drop off sir whenever I come this side on work. It is indeed very far.

Priya smiled. She continued, Is there a direct bus to the office? Chartered bus. Point-to-point available, said Gajji.

The car stopped by an apartment in a western suburb of Mumbai. Priya rolled the window down and put her head out like an anxious child who had just reached an amusement park.

Krishna. She read the name of the building out loud.

What happened? Bala said. Why are you remembering him now? I am the one taking care of your problems. Not Krishna.

A frail looking codger from Krishna building who doubled up as the watchman and presswala (laundry service provider) assisted the Balas with their luggage up two floors. The shirtless man ironed clothes for the residents of Krishna building and the neighbourhood residents.

Gajji said signing off, Sir, many famous Bollywood personalities have lived here in this building during their struggle to make a mark in films.

The Balas settled in their new abode. Priya peered through her new kitchen window grill, as Gajji drove the office car away.

Bala’s eyes fell on the antique Swiss clock that Mrs Arora, the previous owner, had left behind. His decision to join the company on a Friday was a good idea. The weekend break gave him a chance to get acquainted with his new home and sort out any small teething problems before starting his new job. He learnt his second lesson: Time is important in Mumbai.

The previous night Priya could not contain her excitement as she listened to Bala’s narration of his maiden journey to office. The next morning, Bala burrowed deeper into his pillow, reluctant to get up.

Priya was furious. Can’t you see? It is already 10 a.m.

Bala had been briefed by many people in Delhi that speed is everything in Mumbai. He had promised Priya, on their long train journey to Mumbai, that he would wake-up at 6 a.m. every day. Weekends, of course, were an excuse to take it easy. But Bala decided to reverse that soon. He jumped out of bed and joined Priya in the balcony, a 10 square feet area, in his checked lungi and white vest revealing his collar bone. The balcony is a luxury in Mumbai. He sipped tea and flipped through The Times of India.

After an hour or so, browsing through everything the newspaper had to offer, Bala looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 11.00 a.m. Priya took the tea cup into the kitchen murmuring.

CHAPTER TWO

B

ala’s travel to the city office in a local Mumbai train was, as expected, very eventful. He dangled on the threshold of the train as it started moving.

No one knows where he would have landed, if it were not for the kind soul who pulled him onto the platform. And then, much to Bala’s amazement, the kind man who had pulled him smiled and jumped back into the moving train with the ease of a trapeze artist. It was a chilling experience.

The train journey itself had been eventful with bodies and shoulders so close that they seemed to rub each other all the time. It was like a thousand free-flying mosquitoes were trapped in a matchbox. Throughout the journey, Bala had balanced himself on one leg like a yogi in the Himalayas; one hand holding on to the overhanging strap while the other on someone’s shoulder. His head was stuck between the neck of a pot-bellied man and the sweaty chest of a lanky man. The sweat-drenched burly man and the lad who rested his neck on Bala’s shoulder were busy discussing the stock market volatility as well as the new bhelpuri outlet near Churchgate station. This was the first and the last day that Bala embraced the brethren of Mumbai.

A chartered bus service was available from Bala’s residence to the city office. Priya figured out the details and ensured that Bala travelled comfortably even if it meant spending a gruelling time in the dust and traffic along the western express highway.

Bala returned home by the chartered bus. The journey seemed never-ending, though it lasted only two hours. It was sheer torture for the new

Mumbaikar but it seemed a better option than the local train. Back home, Bala went into the washroom with a clear plan in his mind. Turn on the shower. Sit under it like a monk under a banyan tree, shut his eyes and take in deep breaths, away from any human contact.

He turned on the tap. Not a drop of water! Exasperated, he opened the bathroom door, put his head out, and called out to Priya.

Tell me, what should I do? There is no running water.

She hurried into the kitchen and returned with a bucket, partially filled with water. Holding it with both hands, she dawdled like a penguin, careful not to trip or spill the water. Wrapped in a towel, Bala dragged the plastic bucket into the bathroom.

He fumed as he finished and walked out of the bathroom staring at Priya.

"Don’t look at my kurta like that. This is one of those cheap ones you picked for me in Delhi." Priya stared at him.

Bala pulled out a red-checked lungi and wrapped it around his waist.

"Why are you wearing your sick lungi now? Can’t you see that I am ready to go out?" Priya asked angrily.

Bala felt like a reluctant kid, not keen on getting on with his homework. He combed his hair, without a response.

What’s for dinner tonight? Bala asked politely, eager to get across his point that he was not interested in venturing out.

You are no king and I am no slave. If you need anything, you can make it yourself, Priya shot back unintelligibly, as tears welled in her eyes.

What do you mean - make it on your own? Do you think I am going to cook too, now? Bala flung the comb in the air.

Priya’s moist eyes gave way to a flow of tears.

Bala reluctantly pulled out a pair of jeans out of the cupboard. He slipped them up his wiry legs.

He walked out, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and tucking in his shirt. Priya ran into the bedroom, wiping her tears. She grabbed a polythene bag and handed it to Bala.

Wait. Don’t make a face like a grumpy old pig. Smile, said Priya, joy bursting inside her.

Go ahead. I will close the door and join you.

A car zipped by and stopped just in front of them near the gate of the building. A person in the rear seat rolled down the glass and stretched out his hand to Bala. Bala shook his hand and pulled it back to avoid the rapidly closing window. The man alighted and ordered the driver to park the vehicle.

So, how are you?

Bala smiled. I am fine. In fact, we are fine. This is my wife, Priya. I am Bala.

I am Manoj, Manoj Arora.

Bala was awfully tired. However, he maintained his cordial smile. I work for an Australian trading company here, he said. We arrived in Mumbai only last week.

Bala knew who Manoj was. However, he waited for Manoj to complete his introduction.

Welcome to our society. Please let me know if you need any help, said Manoj.

Bala recognised Manoj as the famous TV anchor and an actor of national repute. However, Bala wanted Manoj to introduce himself. So, you too work here in Mumbai? enquired Bala.

Manoj was taken aback by the fact that there was someone who did not recognise him. Are you an avid television viewer? he asked. Bala did not want to give in so easily. No. Not really. I am of the opinion that most TV programmes are just a waste of time. The same old story, the same old cast…

Priya was visibly uncomfortable with Bala’s attitude. She knew that Bala was aware of who Manoj was. He had even complimented Manoj’s sense of humour on many occasions while watching his programme. To cover up her embarrassment, Priya said, I do watch your programme. It’s great. Even my family loves it. She darted a glance at Bala.

Oh, so you are a TV artist? Great. I would love to chat with you sometime. Hope to meet you again soon, said Bala.

To reach Manoj’s status was a distant dream for Bala, who was known to only his friends. He was no celebrity. Bala turned to Priya. Where do you want to go to eat?

I think some five-star hotel, Priya pondered. But she added quickly, Stupid. I don’t want you to take me out today. Let’s just shop for vegetables and return home. It’s such a torture to be cooped up in the house for ten hours. I just wanted to get out for a while.

Priya held his hand and they both walked towards the vegetable market at the far end of the colony.

CHAPTER THREE

Bala waited outside the phone booth and watched Priya. Priya’s animated discussions never seemed to end. He lit a cigarette and looked around.

The road at the corner of the colony appeared quiet. Bala looked at the garbage bin. An old man jumped over the open gutter and emptied his garbage bag into the already overflowing bin. It seemed like an extra topping of Baskin & Robbins. Bala turned to the phone booth again.

Priya noticed Bala getting restless. She gestured that she just needed a few minutes to finish.

Bala noticed a soiled picture of the Bollywood heroine Sridevi glued haphazardly on the glass door of the phone booth, her eyes as usual seductive and smiling. A visually challenged man with dark glasses was manning the booth. He sat erect as if he were posing for a portrait.

The auto drivers sipped tea at a nearby stall. Some of them relaxed inside their vehicles, while others flipped through some local newspapers.

Bala looked at them and then at the make-shift tea shop. A boy, barely 15 years of age, was washing the tea glasses with water from a broken plastic bucket, multi-coloured by design and age. After washing the glasses, he dunked the whole lot into the water and pulled them out together in one quick swoop, like a dip in the holy Ganges. The colour of the water was no different from that of the water in the gutter by the side of the stall.

The boy emptied the water from the bucket into the gutter and crossed the road. Bala’s eyes followed him. The boy ran into the milk vendor’s shop and came back with a bucket full of water. He placed it by the side of one of the rickshaws and started washing it. The multi-tasking survival skills of the boy in a place like Mumbai impressed Bala.

After finishing her calls, Priya stood aside and watched Bala keenly. She knew that her ever-observant husband sought learning from anything and anywhere.

Catching her gaze, Bala held out his wallet to her. With the money you spend on phone calls, you could have gone to Chennai and come back. I will have to open an account with the World Bank to pay for your phone bills.

But it is nothing compared to the amount you spend talking to your parents, she retorted.

Why can’t you just listen and not argue for a change?

She grabbed the wallet and paid the man with the dark glasses. The stiff-necked straight-faced man counted the money. He carefully placed the money in a wooden drawer.

Bala looked up at the blue sky and thanked god for the gift of sight. He told Priya that you value what you have, when you realise that others do not have it.

On their way home, Priya reminded Bala. Gajji, his wife, and some of your other friends are coming over this afternoon. Don’t go home and sleep. You will have to help me clean the house.

Bala was thinking of his parents. He had not spoken to them for almost a month, contrary to Priya’s log.

The overnight rain had filled the holes and ditches in the bylanes. A double-decked bus with a few passengers that cavorted by splashed ample water on Bala’s pants.

Bala had promised Priya that he would take her around Mumbai in the upper deck of such a bus. She had shared her desire with Bala to sit in the first seat of the upper deck and gaze at the miniscule rickshaws scurrying past like bumblebees on Mumbai’s roads. Her other wish was to gorge on the roadside pav bhaji, though she knew Bala would never ever allow her to do so.

CHAPTER FOUR

Bala settled down next to Gajji in th e front seat of the car. The rain came down in sheets as Gajji manoeuvred towards the northern part of Mumbai. The wiper made an unbearable creaky noise. Priya and some of Bala’s colleagues were seated in the front. Gajji’s wife sat at the rear. One of the ladies warned Priya, You should never wear diamonds when you visit theme parks. You might lose them.

Priya smiled. She was not pleased that her imitation diamonds had been noticed.

Bala had to interrupt. He knew the topic was veering toward a dangerous zone. Priya appeared upset. He was sure that he would not get dinner on returning home. He looked over his shoulder at his colleague’s wife.

According to our astrologer, Priya should not wear diamonds. Turning to Priya, he smiled, Anyway, she compensates for that with a heart of gold.

His colleague looked at Bala. Bala, try something new.

Gajji intervened, Sir, for my own madam, I bought certified diamonds last year. It was very expensive. I paid 30,000 rupees.

Bala looked at Gajji and smiled.

Lady Gajji interjected, much to the dislike of Bala.

"Madam, I told sahab. This is beyond our limits. But he insisted. He wanted to present me with something very special on our tenth anniversary."

Bala decided the safest thing for him would be to change the topic. Gajji, have you thought about starting a travel agency?

Sir, for the last four years I have been trying to become a BEST driver.

You are already a very good driver, Priya said, exposing her lack of Mumbai vocabulary, not knowing that BEST was the name of the state bus service.

Gajji, Priya is not aware that public transport in Mumbai is managed by BEST. By the way, why do you want to do a boring bus driver’s job?

Gajji smiled evading the question. Later, the ever-inquisitive Bala found out that Gajji had sold his small farm in his native town for a sum of a hundred thousand rupees in order to pay a local politician for a job in BEST.

CHAPTER FIVE

The office elevator appeared like a remnant of the British Raj. Kiran Kadam, the man who operated the lift, too appeared like a British legacy. He was called Kadam by people who knew him. He was the only one who could manage the antique machine that chose to stop at will between floors. The building also appeared to belong to the same era with cracks down its sides unable to withstand the breeze from the Arabian Sea.

The first time Bala met Kadam. He was seated on a small wooden stool which appeared to have been designed to fit the size of the elevator. Kadam clutched the base of the stool with one hand while the other pushed the barely distinguishable buttons on the lift. It was like he had a sixth sense with them.

Which floor? the man in control asked Bala. I know you have joined as a manager in Raghu’s company, Kadam added.

"Where are you from? Are you a Madrasi?" he continued. His security cap, torn and soiled, covered his bald pate.

No... Delhi. How about you?

I am Kadam. I have been operating this lift for the last 25 years. Bala’s jaws dropped. 25 years? The same lift? Day in and day out?

Look here… Kadam showed off the gold metal star pinned to his khaki shirt.

I got this last week from the building association. Kadam smiled, baring his teeth and achievement. A few teeth were missing, and the few that were still stuck there had paan stains all over them.

Bala tried to understand Kadam’s motivation in life. All Kadam had acquired for 25 years of faithful service was a worn-out security uniform and a cap, not to forget the tiny metal star polished in gold.

A dabbawala delivered Bala home-cooked food and vanished in the same speed that he had come in with. Bala switched off his computer and walked towards the washroom.

Raghu came out of the washroom and enquired, Sir, did you bring lunch?

"The dabbawala delivers my food." Just then the dabbawala appeared with another lot