Where Gods Die

By P. Shankar.

It is the Land of Plenty where the events of the novel take place, but they are presented in such a way that they indicate worldly happenings. These events have the global phenomena of the so-called Modernity and Progress which left humanity far behind while itself proceeding miles and miles ahead.
The story of the novel contains the bunch of events that depict Man, Money and Market. Here money symbolizes the Power and Market the progress. Man is the Common Man who is openly harassed and exploited.
The events are mostly set on Satire, which is the backbone of the book. Satire makes the theme extraordinarily effective and appealing.
By nature Fantasy makes satire more pleasing and convincing. The novel for that matter pasteurizes the fantasy of various forms depicting different anomalies of the progressive world.
Besides Satire and Fantasy one more thing to mention. This novel has a touch of Philosophy. The Philosophy that would not bore but add a dimension to the readers thinking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491897942

P. Shankar.

P. Shankar. M.A. PhD. Aged 90 is a retired professor and established author of India in national language Hindi with more than 25 books on satire. Winner of several reputed and national awards. He has a special knack of looking and putting things in such a fashion that makes the reader laugh at it but at the same time feels a pinch of.

Book preview

1

Badriprasad (BP) was waiting for his son. In the city office of the airport. He had sent a message that he would come to fetch him. The plane reached late due to bad weather. BP thought may be his son wouldn’t come because of the delay. I must better take a taxi. In big places, time is usually thin and narrow. In the struggle between time and money, time is generally dogged—and this is the characteristic of development. With you, and with your society or nation, there is ample time—if certainty—that is a sign of backwardness. Development is a strange phenomenon where we spend money open-heartedly, though—the money on which we spend plentiful of time and feel a puerile prudence of its being meaningful; but this very time we never, in the least, find infused with life.

BP was an ordinary person—so much that he was an orderly in the district administration. Studied only up to eighth or may be ten standard. But keeping his eyes and mind open, he studied life or, say he amply tested lives at his tours to courts, bungalows or dak-bungalows. May be he never tasted meaningfulness, but he surely knew it, so close enough that he became a live cassette of its sweetness and bitterness—so live that it endorsed a comprehensive account of sentimental and ideological reactions.

Without waiting anymore for his son, BP hired a taxi, put his baggage in, and started towards home. He could have made a call to his son. But he didn’t want to bother him though he had come to this far off foreign land for the first time.

The taxi dashed on the broad, smooth and pleasant looking road. Such a pleasant looking way that was marvelous—or one can say magical, to the stranger. He gets lost in it and forgets everything about his own being. It is such a marvel of the human being that, in it, he himself, on his own, becomes nothing.

BP was looking both ways, eyeing everything with such marvel as if not directly looking at it. He was in a country that people covet to look at and consider their lives blessed merely at having seen it. But he considered development at par with TV. There is everything in TV and yet nothing. TV gives everything and yet, gives nothing. Everything is a shadow of the maya (illusion) or say maya of the shadow. Man is incomplete without it but by its very being, he is not complete too.

You are welcome in our country. The taxi man spoke after about half an hour.

Thanks! said BP.

How did you like our ‘Land of Plenty’?

Wow! Great! Well I am not some big shot to say something new.

Come on! A big shot does not say something new or true without any stake. He has to collect things in his bag from the market or collect favors from the office. And I think that the offices are nothing less than a market.

BP laughed and said, You are right, brother.

Well, in a way the whole country seems to be a market—wholesale market, share market, monopolized market. Along with all the things in the world, we have the skills to buy and sell the policies, ninety percent of which are our own creation. While selling, we just don’t sell but enforce. Whether the buyer needs it or not is none of our concern. Even if he becomes a broke in buying it.

Are you a communist? BP asked.

Oh No! Communism collapsed long ago. Even in the country in east, which called itself a great proponent of it. I am only a prattler. The communist who moved hands to fill his tummy, after the crackdown only moves his tongue.

BP found his speech convincing. He liked the term prattler. But he didn’t react to it. The taxi man also busied himself in overtaking through traffic.

Hardly after five to ten minutes the taxi man said, Where are you coming from? Land of Sight? Must be Land of Sight and not the Land of Hands.

Why? Why not from the Land of Hands?

Because you didn’t oppose my talking about the collapse of communism.

You are right. Said BP, I am from the Land of Sight. And I am not here with that typical bag. Nothing special. If you are something special you are prone to find yourself begging for alms. I am here to see my son.

Taxi man said nothing.

BP continued, You call yourself a prattler. And I understand that your prattlerism doesn’t come off communism. Am I right?

Taxi man laughed and spoke, I appreciate your sharp grip on the topic.

I too would like to use the word sharp, BP reacted, by calling yourself a prattler you have sharply attacked the intellectuals.

I once again appreciate your sharp grip. The taxi man started to laugh in guffaws and BP too joined in his laughter too.

A huge and attractive hoarding drew BP’s attention. He instantly thought that the development is incomplete without publicity and advertisement. He had read somewhere that even publicity and advertisement is such a big development in itself. Two thirds of the development is hidden in the publicity and advertisement. They are the oxygen of the market and politics. For common person they are the soothing thugs. They certainly do fulfill our needs. But most of these needs are those that they only generate.

How much more time? asked BP.

Why, are you bored? Everything around is new to you. Yet, you got tired of them. Let me tell you one thing—you just play a child while watching all these things. You will enjoy like anything. All boredom will vanish in thin air.

Well, that is great! You want me to become a child.

They all become one, whether they are bureaucrats, politicians or scholars.

I am none of these, brother.

Listening to BP, the taxi man laughed. That means you are a human being.

Now it is my turn to laugh. And BP started laughing.

There came a scholar, the taxi man began telling, "Generally scholars do not come to our country, (BP laughed again.) Those who come are mostly false. Advertised-propagandas.

You are right.

By scholars I didn’t mean some scientist or technologist.

You mean scientists or technologist are fools interrupted BP.

"No, those who are at the top of their skills I dare not call them fools. They are a matter of pride in their fields, but there is a difference between the intellectual and the informed man. And the tragedy of our development is that we consider an informed man as an intellectual person, the scholar. What did this informed man develop—a lifeless wheel that cannot play the role of a living leg."

I am sorry to say that I agree with you. BP said with a grin.

So, I was talking about the scholar. The false scholar so to say. Just like you, I took him to my taxi and drove towards his home. His daughter was married here. Thank god he didn’t come here as a visiting professor in some university.

Was he a professor?

Don’t know. Even if he was one, there is no wonder. Whenever this gentleman saw something new he would jump like a child in his seat and say with a clap: Wow! Wow! That’s great! Wonderful! Marvelous! Wonderful building… marvelous hoarding… splendid coloring… . I understand children better enjoy our development. In this way, everything regarding development is a toy. It makes us childish instead of child-like. What do you think, am I wrong?"

Which university you studied in?

This university is not a campus but a person.

Not a campus but a person—what does it mean?

My university is a person and I feel grateful about it.

The taxi was running at a great speed. BP enjoyed this speed over a flyover. Here surely he loved to become a child. It was not that speed in which man stagnates where he is. From building to building, from play to play, from politics to politics, from market to market.

When BP didn’t speak for a while the taxi man said, Aren’t you listening?

Coming from serious thought to the lighter vein BP said, I am running fast and listening too.

"Dear Brother, when we cannot enjoy development we criticize it greatly. Yet, it is still better than those intellectuals who are lost in development forgetting their identity.’

"Would you tell me about the man you call your university?"

Sure. Sure. Talking about him is like remembering god to me.

Moving with such great speed and still talking about remembering god. It is different when you are in some difficulty.

Thanks to difficulties that god is still alive, the taxi man said with a grin.

This means that there is no God in heaven.

Not there but in the heaven on earth, said the taxi man with a slight guffaw.

He continued, The man I am talking about is called Henry Campbell. But he is known as a professor. He is a retired professor. There are professors in the university but here the university is in a professor.

Oh! Wonderful! Marvelous! Splendid!

You don’t seem to be a fake scholar, the taxi man said.

I am not the genuine one too, brother, not in the least. Well, I do revere a scholar and consider him miles apart from the big and high officers.

The taxi man seemed indifferent to what BP said. After a long pause he began again, Today I remember Sir talking about the tree, the book and the arrow.

Must have been something great.

With regard to development, modernism, opulence. Or to think that he said it with regard to our country.

Here he paused again. As if absorbed in the thoughts of his professor. BP didn’t disturb him. Although lost but his eyes were alert, hands in full control on the steering wheel. This preoccupation wasn’t grilled with petty passions. It was like he felt for salvation and got it.

Breaking the silence he said," Nobody can forget… no sane person can forget—such is the discourse of Sir… . laying bare the truth bitter and piercing… . (Pause) the tree, the book and the arrow. Sir wonders if there is any place of a tree in our development? Sir considers the tree as truth-like… the truth that reflects in the honesty of human nature.

"The tree is rooted to the earth, flutters in air, blows winds, offers free and cool breeze and restful shade. Generally, they are common things… but are these in our opulence? Sir says that haven’t we obtained our opulence by felling trees? Yes, we did plant trees but for the sake of ornamentation… and fruits.

"The tree is missing from the courtyard… in fact even the courtyard is missing too. A bit of sky. Separate from us, we have made an isolated place for the tree in a garden. Stand here mute as an ornament to the garden . . . . Beware; don’t try to enter our modernism. There is a man appointed to look after you.

Brother, don’t you think our religious places have come to become such gardens? . . . Birds come to trees, perch, chirp and fly away. Is there any significance of their perching and chirping?

The taxi man had a bottle of water. He gulped down twice or thrice before putting it back wherefrom he had taken it and continued his narrative, Brother, I consider a tree a breath of relief. Truth too is a breath of relief which we don’t conceive as such in our development.

BP was listening with great curiosity. Though there is no novelty in things related to the values of life and they are talked about everywhere, yet they fascinate us. Take for example a tree—what is novel about it, but it enchants us provided we look at it—that is look at it intently. Filled with curiosity, BP was thinking about such things for quite some time.

Sir says, the taxi man continued to recount, we have put a mask of religion on truth… on truth, on Shiva (the good) and on beauty. A tree contains all these three. With its breeze, shade and fruits it is the Shiva (the good)—the benevolent; and with its greenery, it is beautiful. Sir says that by its very being the tree is beautiful. It is great to be beautiful just by the very being, but grossly negligible in opulence. Courtyard and courtyard—all the trees in every courtyard are alike. But by concealing their truth with religion, they don’t stay in harmony. They become big and small, ok, but they become rivals too, to each other. Just so that fruits and flowers for our courtyard and twigs and thorns for others’.

Coming finally to a normal mood the taxi man said, As my taximeter moves, the thermometer of the passenger also shoots up.

Thermometer my dear, said BP, shoots up too while listening to things related to truth, morality and the verities of life. And that is the tragedy of our modern life.

The tragedy of development, of modernism.

A theater outside drew BP’s attention. He read the name of the movie on the hoarding The Love That Speaks Not! He didn’t embroil in the faces on the poster. He ran an eye on the faces in the crowd behind. He said to himself, ‘I will not see ‘The Love on the faces of the hoarding in this country, rather listen to the faces of the spectators of The Woe That Speaks Not."

At that time the taxi man spoke, Your residence has almost come close now.

Right close he was. The taxi halted at the address told to him within next fifteen-twenty minutes.

The taxi man didn’t leave the belongings out on the road, instead he carried them up to the flat and bade goodbye as if he was taking leave from his own father.

BP felt overjoyed.

And the taxi man had finished his rest of the talk by the time he reached his destination.

2

When BP reached his destination his son Kishor was not at home. He was a journalist; he had to leave suddenly on an assignment. That is why he couldn’t go to receive his father. BP’s daughter-in-law Janki welcomed him. She could have gone to fetch him, but her son Anil was running a slight fever since last night and so did not go. The grandson bloomed at the sight of his grandfather and wouldn’t stay in bed. Just six or seven years old, until last year, he used to play in the lap of his grandfather. He embraced him. His hot body worried BP but Janki assured him that there was nothing to bother. Medicines were administered and he would be going to school in a day or two.

The child asked about his grandmother. Why she didn’t come. She was busy looking after her daughter who was due soon and so she didn’t come. As it is, she is least interested in traveling. Had no fascination for a foreign visit even.

Anil started going to school after two days and even BP was mixed up with his new environment within two days. His son had left home about one and a half years ago and had properly established himself here. BP didn’t want his son to work in a foreign land though a son working out in a foreign country makes his father feel extraordinary pride for his achievement to be told to anyone anytime, even if son is sweeping floors there. BP had pardoned his son; he had no way out and to show him that he was not angry, at son’s first letter saying ‘Babuji come here for some days’ he made his trip this way.

Except for the things or comforts in a more or less manner, there is no difference between native and foreign land within the four walls of a house. Not even when we are in a desert, jungle or mountains, or on sea. BP had seen that the district administrator, whether in a dak bungalow of a village or at his headquarters finds no difference in his luxuries. The whole paraphernalia of the ruler is such that to make available bread to someone, nine others are deprived of their breads. He too had been one of the party along with others, who enjoyed this share of nine breads. He had fully enjoyed the meaningfulness of life with a twist of the moustache. He had thought that his son may earn money in a foreign land, ample of it but he will never be able to live that meaningfulness of life.

BP had a separate room in the flat. His daughter-in-law would look after him with great devotion. She didn’t do a job. This way she was still in her own country… in her own country means the village of her country. To say that she was ‘in her own country’ would be demeaning to the foreign-labeled cities of his own country. Their modernism would be blotted. The nation that lives in the cities would be thrashed back to the eighteenth century.

At the night of the day BP reached here when laid down on his bed, he remembered the things told him by the taxi man. Like an episode of the television serial, the whole scene flashed before his eyes.

He talked about tree, book and arrow in relation to development… . modernism… . and opulence.

Coming from the tree to the book the taxi man said, Sir says that like the tree, there is no place for the book in our development, in our opulence. How strange it is that there is place in our setup for book keeping—with all its grandeur, but no place for book reading, not even by mistake.

How true Sir has been in his analysis? BP said.

"Sir says the paper like the land is divided into four parts. They are… the book, the file, the ledger, and the newspaper. Book for the educated, file for the bureaucrat, ledger for the businessperson and the newspaper is the sole possession of the politician. The whole land is divided in between these four. The place of the educated among them is negligible and the common man is nowhere to be found who is the most talked about in the newspaper.

How remarkably true Sir has been. About the land, about the paper. Even the newspaper doesn’t belong to the have-nots; it has become the loudspeaker of the haves.

Whose development is it—truly that of the ledger. Such a growth of the ledger that the file and the newspaper dance round it. Like being a sun, that has its own solar system.

The solar system of the lightless said BP.

"Great suns… the suns of the land pay their homage to it… means fill it with light and this ledger is worshipped as the great suns of the earth… becomes a source of magnificent energy."

"How delicately he has treated the sun. To tell the truth, he has thrown light on the darkness."

"Sir always treat the bare truth with this very poignancy. About the book he says—the book is a palace of the paper which has no correlation with the paper of the palace."

Not with ledger neither. BP said, That is why, like the palace, there is no place for the book in the market of the ledger. The book, even if reaches the palace-market somehow, is doomed. It begins to talk about the palace-market. Even in my own small world I have seen this… tiny pieces of the palace in the world of the district office.

Palace and the market—both look after the man, but at the cost of humanity,

"Yes, I read somewhere about the market—it is such a slaughterhouse where the customer gets butchered in order to survive."

Isn’t it the same for the palace too said the taxi man, by just replacing people at customer. Palace and market are brethren in the context of the development. Market being the big Brother.

I would even call market the father of the palace.

Laughing vigorously at BP’s comment the taxi man said, You are right brother. I accept my mistake. And after a pause he said, Our development is the development of these father-son, and hence there is no place for a book in it.

How can there be when the book is not ready to care about them. They both don’t like the light of the book in their dark four walls—there is a folk tale about it. Shall I tell you?

Why do you ask? I would love that the taxi man beamed.

And then BP narrated this story.

There were three friends. One of them was an officer, the other was a scholar and the third one a businessperson. The officer and the businessperson both used to boast about themselves. The scholar would listen silently. Getting too bored by their pride the scholar one day told them that though he accepted that they both were protector and the nourisher of the man, and that they had made the world fearless and beautiful, yet I am the one who give it a direction. I give people eyes. I tell them what is truth, what is Shiva (the good). What a man is in himself. He is power, though ordinary he is extraordinary in power. Yet exploited. Exploited by those who have the power and money. The scholar added that he is addressing the people at a maidan (ground) in the city nowadays. Come and see what a great crowd is there and how attentively people listen to me.

The officer and the businessperson did not like listening to the scholar talk like this. They thought as if the scholar was challenging them. If he changes the mentality of the people they thought as if they will be reduced to cipher and he will rise a big figure.

They both planned to degrade the image of the scholar.

The address of the scholar begins at night after the dinnertime.

One day a person was locking his house to go to the maidan to attend the address of the scholar when two strangers came to him and said ‘we want water to drink.’ These strangers were none other than the officer and the businessperson disguised as common folk. The person tried to evade them. He said I am in a hurry. I will miss my lecture. You go elsewhere for the water. But the strangers didn’t buzz and the person was made to provide them water. Because he was in a hurry, he threw the glasses in and locking the house, he ran towards the maidan.

It was a miracle. The next morning he saw that the glasses he used to offer water to the strangers turned from brass to gold. Who these people were? Must have been gods coming from the skies. He muttered and decided that he will not go anywhere at night. They may come again for water.

He kept the glass thing a secret but not for long. May be the strangers themselves spread the word. They would arrive suddenly at any house. The result was that the greed for gold made people ignore the scholar and stay at home. Thus, the power and commerce defeated the scholarship. Defeated the vision of life itself.

At the end, BP said that this golden-glass in the modern context could be a position in the office, a designation, licenses, and plots of land. And these too do not come to the share of the common people but to those who lead them. And these leaders, barring themselves, consider the remaining common masses not the men but just a crowd. Negligible crowd.

After listening to the story the taxi man came to discuss the third dimension of the professor’s talk—the arrow.

Now let me talk about the arrow. The arrow is a weapon—the primitive weapon, so the question is that why should it get a place in the present development.

The taxi man paused. Paused to assimilate a reply to his own question. After an added pause he suddenly spoke, The arrow though a weapon of war, is also a weapon of peace. It gives direction during peacetime. Is there any weapon that shows us direction other than the arrow? How ridiculous it would be to replace the arrow by a gun as a direction-signal… it would be wild rather than ridiculous. You are listening, no?

Yes, I am listening and accept that a gun in place of the arrow would be something wild.

And is not the gun now our pointer in the development? In the development of the relations between one country and another, whether they are political, economic or cultural, isn’t there a gun or fascism always present? With regard to these relations, don’t the powerful nations behave like armed dacoits in the territories of the small nations? On the political scene, is there any act, big or small, of the powerful nations that is not endorsed with gun power.

Fascism in the gun, not in the arrow? BP expressed his doubts.

No, because the gun is a machine. If we take arrow a dog then the gun is a tiger. A dog is a controlled weapon while a tiger is such that it will turn to its master when opportunity calls it. Taking the one on our shoulder that is to be hunted, whose hunt we are aiming at? Of man—the frail man.

You are perfectly right.

Sir says that all that is controlled and aimed to the target finds no place in the development. With its patience and devoutness—the arrow remained ancient—or say remained human and so finds no place in development. It is just as out of place as is a thinker.

Thinker! BP exclaimed.

Yes, the thinker is like an arrow. In war… in a war against evils, he is like a sharp and committed arrow. In peace… like an arrow—silent and desireless torchbearer in a campaign against evil. Endowed with such traits, there is no place for the thinker or the arrow in our development, Sir says, spoke the taxi man finally, Had there been some place for a thinker in the development, the nails of the man would not have become atom bombs.

At night, while lying in bed, BP pondered what a thinker the professor is in his own… how great thinker. He must not have been sold like a dog to be tied at the door in the hands of the development… that is why like an arrow—both sharp as well as the torchbearer.

The book for the educated, the file for the ruler reminded him of the beginning of his life. He was educated up to eighth standard. His family circumstances wouldn’t let him continue his studies. So, he thought that he would learn while he earns. It was possible only with a job at a school. Because he had secured good marks, he was almost sure of joining a school as a teacher. He was especially interested in English. Had secured more than seventy-five marks. Was able to read English newspaper at that tender age. Fluently talked in English. By fluency, it was implied that he talked without taking any note of grammar or anything concerned with correct English. That is why his interview was a surprise to the headmaster. While the headmaster asked questions in the native tongue, he would answer in the crackling English instead of a simple native dialect.

But he didn’t get that job. There were more than twenty-five candidates. Ganeshilal was the one selected for the job. Ganeshilal was his classmate. The last bencher. But he had a strong recommendation, and hence he made even a candidate like him bite dust.

To get a teachership, BP faced disappointment more than once and hence, finally picked up the position of a peon in a government office. He kept abusing shouting insults at his own life and ultimately made a truce with it. Later it turned out so that he used to appreciate his destiny. Working in the revenue department, he had all the opportunities of earning onmoney and that too openly. His life became full of joy when he was promoted to the position of an orderly to the district administrator. He became an influential person. Even the best of the men coming to see the administrator was made to mind his business.

Salute him, ask his well being or else hang on for the sahib for hours.

He observed that even the top notch of the area finds himself at a loss before an ordinary orderly at the lowest step of the administrative hierarchy.

BP used to read and as age grew, he read books related to the practical wisdom too, but never considered educational studies seriously. It seemed that the disappointment that was thrust deep in his subconscious used to tell him—studies worshipped—but in the practical life, it always cuts a sorry figure.

The doltish Ganeshilal tried to sharpen his wits after he joined the job and raised himself up by passing each examination that came his way. He obtained a first class in MA on his own and so too a professorship in a university.

BP sometimes would remember the wretchedness of this worth worshipping professorship. Ganeshilal kept in touch with him. If he happens to meet somewhere, he would greet him and talk to him. One day he called that his son was not able to get admitted in the St. Mary Hospital. No way anywhere else. Please, you must do something. BP’s phone call did the needful

Just like that the phone rang again another day, the landlord was threatening to beat him if he did not evacuate the house. Rod is the logic of fools. And that logic you alone can make them understand. BP warned him on the phone—beware, if you ever dare touch the professor.

The red tape of an office file is nothing less than a hangman’s rope. But BP really pitied this system. A professor and so wretched.

Between dread and reputation, the former is a lioness while the latter a goat. Even in a democracy.

BP would see these images quite often come alive before his eyes.

A is standing in the market holding a file… of a fowl smelling sewage and close to him is B standing holding a book… about a sweet smelling garden.

And the people are bent upon saluting A, while they don’t even look at B.

3

It was evening. BP was sitting on a bench in a park. The park belonged to the colony and it covered a huge area. Beautifully maintained. Attractive and disciplined—so much that a person can sit in peace. But a person doesn’t go to a park for peace, nor even to a religious place. He goes to a bar for peace. Parks and religious places are meant only for old fellows or for those who are idle and free. You will find two ends in a park. One for the children and the other for the aged. The children’s end is twittering like birds and the old men’s is silent like the sand. Like culture and art the park is a thing marginalized. Religious places more than the parks. BP thought that there is no conflict between the park and the religious place, but the park turns out to be the highest place for the atheist. In a park, the mind moves free like walking on the seashore or at a riverbank, on the other hand its wings are cut to size at a religious place. There is no democracy in a religious place as one finds in a park. That is why trees don’t strive with each other, as do religions.

BP wouldn’t come to the park for the hunger for peace. He was at peace in his house. His son would go to work but his daughter-in-law looks after him well. He comes to the park for a change. Or to say that he comes to digest the peace. To give a sport to his eyes and mind that remained shut through the day with books or TV. If he finds someone to talk, this sport doubly multiplies.

He found a book when he came to the park the other day. It was lying on the bench. Not something bulky, about hundred or hundred-fifty pages. Picking up the book, he said somebody has forgotten it.

He looked around to ask someone if the book belongs to him.

There was no one. Children were playing on the green ground. Busy with their horses and elephants. Some elderly people were there, but they too were lost in the pranks of the children. The book didn’t fit anywhere in their activities. Yes, theirs were bookless activities.

BP opened the book. May be it carries some name or some address. There was none.

The title of the book surprised him. It was—I AM UNTOUCHABLE.

Oh! So, it is a dalit (downtrodden) book. Of screams, of rage, of rebellion.

UNTOUCHABLE—so who would take it? Leave it where he finds it. It is not a wallet that people will say it is mine—it is mine. Even if we take it for a wallet, it is an empty wallet; not just empty but also torn and tattered. Though beggar-like, it is not a beggar. It doesn’t say pity me, it says I won’t pity. This is a shadow of the radiance, bright radiance—dark and dense shadow.

BP turned the page. The first leaf carried the foreword.

The very first sentence of the foreword ran like—’It will be great gratitude if you read the book, nothing new if you throw it after reading.’ Further, it was stated that throwing the book after reading shows how true the book is and that it makes bare the truth of the reader, or to put it in the plainest terms, the nakedness of the reader.

The writer of this book is not a litterateur but an ordinary person. And to tell you frankly the people who read about the common man are not readers, but common man. So if you are a reader, just a reader then don’t read it—to be true, you will not be able to read it and as said earlier you will throw it.

That so-called elite just don’t read, and reading about common man is out of question. By the way if he reads at all, then instead of throwing the man out they would tear him, burn him out.

This is what the development gives us, nothing else.

It was time to go home, so BP got up.

He didn’t take the book with him thinking that the person who owns the book might come searching for it.

But to his chagrin, the book was there the next day too. May be it was another copy. Lots of ways and means of publicity. The truth is generally not stolen, covers do.

BP started reading the book.

Let me tell you at the very onset that I am a pickpocket, a thief.

Sometimes I would go for the job with my daughter. She was seven or eight years old.

One day while walking with my daughter for a long time, I felt tired and went to a garden. I was thirsty so I drank some water. Watching the garden, my daughter said, What a beautiful garden! Creepers, flowers, tress, water fountains, everything so lovely. How delightful those roses are dangling there. Papa, I want some flowers, rose flowers.

I knew that flowers in a garden are meant for adornment and are not permitted to be plucked, but just about sometime ago there had come a boy who had plucked some flowers and went out unobserved. So, I stood up and moved to the flowers. But as soon as I approached to pluck the flower, the gardener who was working around the rows rebuked me. Listening to that raised my eyebrows because he didn’t rebuke that boy. May be he spared the children so I said, My kid wants it.

The kid wants it. Are you a big shot or something? Don’t touch the flowers. Get away from them.

I felt so angry I wanted to teach him a lesson but I restrained that feeling keeping in mind my own humble status; coming to the distressed child I said, Flowers are there my dear, yet they are not.

I wanted to say that flowers are there for ‘haves’ and are not there for ‘haves not’. But the little girl wouldn’t understand that stuff so I again said, Flowers are for those who keep us hungry, and they are not for us who are hunger stricken.

I had studied in a school. My father would drag me perforce. Couldn’t study for long—just seventh or eight standards. And what to say, my studies proved handicap in my carrier of beggary and theft.

It was a few days after leaving the school and becoming a pickpocket that I followed a man with the intention of wiping out his pocket. But I couldn’t do so. He was accompanied by a child with whom he was talking. I began to listen to him. After listening I felt that this man is one of us.

Filled with sympathy for the common man, however he was not a common man. People knew him by the name of a Professor, well respected him and listened to his speeches with a great fervor. Later I too heard him many times. Whatever little wit I have is due to him.

Sir was talking to the child accompanying him. It seemed the child belonged to some guests come from a small place. Some of the things he said seemed like said to himself.

"Well, everything here is high—high ways, buildings are high. We feel proud that we live in a place that has big broad ways, but when we walk on these ways, we soon realize that there are ways—but no ways. Proud too that there are towering buildings but immediately after stepping in them, it dawns upon us that there are buildings, yet no buildings.

"Cities—what are these metros? A web of ways and towering buildings. We call buildings a jungle of concrete and the big and broad ways the huge pythons. The man has not lost in the jungle and he sure has, the python has not swallowed the man, and it sure has.

"Pride for us in the cities is only to show off, not to live with.

Here, we have all the facilities of education, of medical care and of the market about which we swagger around the world and boast of the development. They are there, yet not there

Uncle, said the boy, your Land of Plenty is such that even the gods of heaven feel jealous after looking at it. It is said that man has gone too far. They say that to make their heaven beautiful like the earth, the gods have sent their ambassadors to earth to study this.

Might have sent, must have sent, said sir, Because the people who make this earth heaven do not reach there! Instead they step in hell.

That was well said, uncle, the boy said laughing.

The saying goes like this too, my son, said Sir, "that looking at earth, even the Yama (the god of death) feels jealous. Man has gone so far. He too has made a bigger and bigger hell on earth. And to copy an up-to-date sample of the earth’s hell… he has sent his ambassadors to be trained to make his own hell filled with all the great ways and means of torture of the earth."

Why did Yama send his ambassadors to earth Uncle when people who make this earth a hell also go to hell after death?

The people who make this earth hell are so powerful that they run away from hell and are born again on earth. That is why their number on earth never decreases.

What a strange place earth is where heaven and hell both exist, said the boy.

"Yes, here the hell made the earth heaven and heaven made hell. What shall I tell you my son, up in the heaven there is no hell, so there is no court, hospital, theater, advertisement, beauty parlour, five-star status, parliament etc. nothing."

Not even the parliament, wondered the boy.

And they are all here on earth, and yet they are not here. Sir said and lost in himself saying, There is law—yet it is not there. The exception has swallowed the law, swallowed the justice. Swallowed equality, or say humanity. George Orwell rightly said some people are more equal. I think the developed are more equal. Those people—those big countries have a right to inflict injustice, violence and exploitation. Big means more money. And money swallows everything—equality, freedom, law—everything. Even the newspaper—the watchdog of all these.

That day I reached my hut like fully intoxicated.

Feeling insulted in the garden by the keeper I remembered Sir. He had seeped into my persona. Later I heard his speeches. There I swept some pockets too. Felt ashamed. But what else could I do. And when Sir would make me realize bitter realities of civilized exploiting of upper state, I felt I am only an ordinary pickpocket from lower class that is doomed to do so.

I was about to get up in the garden when my daughter said, Papa, she is plucking flowers, a girl is plucking flowers. I will also pluck one. And she ran towards the flowers.

I ran behind her to stop her. That girl was freely plucking the flowers and the gardener didn’t stop her.

When my daughter started to do so, the gardener shouted, Hey you, get away. Don’t pluck the flower.

I will. This girl is plucking too.

Hey you dirty girl, get off from here. That girl also bullied my daughter.

When my daughter didn’t buzz, that girl slapped her on the cheek. She was four to five years elder to her and her clothes and manners spoke of a high profile.

When my daughter tried to charge back her slap, she pushed her down. The little girl fell on her back in such a whirl that she bumped her head with the water-tap. With the palm-high of the pipe.

The kid went unconscious and died there and then in her unconsciousness. Seeing her fall, the culprit girl felt frightened and ran away.

BP found that the rest of the pages were missing. Could the man who destroyed them not dare read any further?

The father of the kid, watching the girl flee, must have followed her. Must have beat her. The gardener must have saved her.

Why just the gardener, even the judicial procedures must have protected her. BP thought.

The money of the people with more equal swallows everything—even justice.

BP remembered Surey of his town. Surey… he was blind. In the courtyard of the law court, sitting under the vast bo tree, on a round shaped earthen structure, he would gossip with people and beg alms. On the white circle of this round framework he had made it writ that—Justice is granted to those only who have the ability to inflict injustice. He used to say—big and mighty inflict brutality, injustice, shed blood too. Law is there to save you. If not, they will be made. What is the use of the lawyers? To kill the law and save a murderer is a child’s play for these lawyers… these black dacoits. He used to say—

My brother tells that Socrates has become a very big person. So big that the government gave him a bowl of poison to drink, because in the strife between law and truth, he favored not law but truth.

BP recalled Surey saying—there are holes in law… deliberately provided which are called exceptions. These are very strange holes through which though the elephants pass easily but the ants find it difficult.

What to talk of big and mighty. They make laws that justify two and two make five.

Now quoting law, they tell people to accept two and two which make not four but five… .

People are flabbergasted—what to do?

Somebody said—hey man you too ask the biggies, the government to take your two and two for five.

But the biggies and the government—both are clever. On taking, they ask bring the total of two and two while returning they hand over the two twos telling go and get done with the total.

The common man never overcame either. Surey says.

BP thought Surey had anger. He was like a statue of the common man’s aggression—a blind statue. It had no path, no direction, no light.

He said the affluent and the government are birds of the same feather flocking together.

He used to say, O you demons, we don’t want your throne, we don’t want your bag of money.

No no, the throne and the bag of money is too high a thing. We don’t want even your down to earth things—those comforts, fame and name for which you forgot to breath yourself a relief. You have eyes but no vision—wide vision. You have mind, but no thinking—high thinking.

No no, neither your bread, nor your bungalows we want.

Listen with your ears attentive what we want.

We want your lie. No no, don’t be frightened. We want your lie and not the whole of it. We only want five percent of that with which we can make both ends meet. We want your thuggery, your tortures… both in such sufficient quantity that allows us a yard of cloth to cover the body and a thatch roof for the shelter.

To raise our heads we don’t want your guns, only penknives, very smaller ones.

BP rose up in the garden. Returning home he recalled the situation—things are there, things are not there.

Neither Surey nor the Professor is there in this world of ‘being there—not being there’ dilemma, yet they are there.

4

BP learnt about the Professor through the taxi man and the father of the girl child. This made him anxious to see him. He could be either seen in a public meeting making a speech or at his residence. At the residence, it is not seeing but meeting. And for meeting, one needs ability, some purpose. Meeting a scholar is not like meeting a sports-star, a film actor or some singer whom we generally don’t meet, only see.

BP had talked to his son about his desire to see the Professor. Because he was working with a newspaper, he knew him well. Had interviewed him and published articles on him. He had told that someday I would take you to Sir. He is a man of very gentle nature. Between seventy-seventy five. Meets affectionately. Talks about everyday life. There is no swaggering of sermons or ideology in his talks.

One day Kishor took him to a ceremony.

It was a benediction ceremony. Good wishes on completion of ninety years.

No celebrity had completed his ninety years. Nor even a bureaucrat or industrialist. It was most ordinary of the ordinary man—a hut dweller.

This program was organized by the disciples of the Professor. The Professor was presiding over it.

The hall in which it was held was very simple. Nonetheless, it was a hall. The locality to which it belonged was also simple. No gorgeous decorations, yet there was gracefulness in itself.

When BP reached there with his son, he saw that the hall packed to capacity. About two thousand people were there. The chief organizer, the person to be greeted and the Professor were seated on the stage.

Kishor didn’t arrive with his ‘Press’ privilege. There was no place reserved for the press.

The newspaper doesn’t cater to truth—the bare truth, it should be beautiful too for its own Shiva (The Good). The newspaper catches beautifully even the scenes of flood, famine or accident.

Ordinary beauty swallows even the most extraordinary truth. When it comes to commerce, truth remains a poor fellow. When it comes to selling, the truth needs to be made up. It is asked to visit a beauty parlor.

Kishor managed to get two seats in the third row.

BP made a silent and inward show of reverence when he saw the Professor. His head made an automatic bow in this inward veneration. What a lean and thin man, his features too, ordinary. But his influence was such that he filled the hall with his radiance. The clothes worn were not in keeping with the camera image as it goes with the celebrities.

The program started at the right time. It began with a song sung by a little girl of about ten-twelve. The song was not accompanied by any musical instrument that would have deprived the words of their beauty just like a high profile address mars the personality of a man.

The theme of the song was—O man, you are worth worshiping, you are a monk—the skeleton of bones that never cared for the flesh and blood. You let the millipedes suck your blood and let the vultures tear your flesh. It was your weakness born of inevitability. But your weakness has made powerful the society of race-class-ancestry—the whole nation. Isn’t it admirable that our civilization has not grown so fast as to allow the tearing of bones like flesh.

The old man was really a skeleton of bones. It seemed like he was so sure about his age with poverty that he had granted full liberty to the corrosion of blood and flesh.

The audience consisted of hut dwellers mainly. The rest, not to say the least, were those that were indifferently concerned.

After the recitation of the song, the old fellow whose name was Mathew Cook, was introduced to the audience.

What can be special about Mathew except that he had been alive for the long age of ninety years since birth? It was something commendable for Mathew that despite the worst of deficiencies and neglect he achieved that age of life which most of the people in this world with all their comforts and privileges couldn’t think of attaining. Mathew’s life was such an example, which nobody ever considered exemplary. Nobody ever thumped his back, and yes, he was smacked on the back whenever he moved even a bit away from the ideal norms. One thing is really good always in this world. One can snatch away everything from a humble person, but not his age. Else, the palaces would never have