Death in Ghaziabad c. 1978-81 AD

(an unfinished work)

Death could come to you easily in Ghaziabad. I first saw death when the bus came to a sudden jolt. With sudden rush the occupants of the left side came to the right. I had a clear view from my window. It was of a young man in pajamas lying curiously still on the road. He had evidently been hit and left for dead. A small crowd had gathered. Some stones had been put around the corpse - it was not that of a dog, after all. Our driver was pragmatic. He did not stop. I do not know who did the needful, and how. Something was surely done with the body, for it was not there when I returned to the site an hour later. What was striking about this incident was that it made not even the slightest change in the local surroundings. Things went on as if the accident had never happened.

No ambulances would ever rush with screeching sirens in Ghaziabad, for there were not any. There was no sign of any authority, not any that one could see. The traffic policeman would stand helplessly at the crossing in front of the Ghantaghar, or clock tower building. There were traffic lights at the crossing, and they even worked at times. But they could never regulate the traffic. There was a police outpost, on the road to the station. The policemen had no cars or telephones or guns, and it is doubtful if they even had paper. They had only sticks and bicycles.

Anarchy, then, was the normal state in Ghaziabad. My neighbours relished the telling of ghastly stories, and they apparently believed what they said and heard. Probably they were all highly exaggerated. Once the shop near the room I lived in was robbed. The little boy who worked there came running to me in fear. From what could be made out, there had been extensive murder and mayhem. I went to investigate. The miscreants had by that time decamped. No one had been hurt, but some money was taken. That was the only time the shop was robbed, in my three years of stay in Modeltown, Ghaziabad. It was the only noteworthy shop of its kind in the entire area.

Western ways did show themselves in Ghaziabad, most noticeably in the District Court near my lodging. Lawyers in black coats thronged like flies, over the ramshackle wooden furniture inside and outside the tents around the decaying Court buildings. They did not inspire respect upon first sight. Later on, I would come to know how thorough and professional they were at their work. As I now see it, they form the only chance of establishing order among the surrounding chaos.

What was I doing in Ghaziabad? That was a question which puzzled my friend, colleague and mentor Shordar Bigaru Singh. What was one of my kind doing in Ghaziabad? I should be studying in the United States, with the intention of bringing back technical knowledge to India, as indeed a few did.

I was dying in Ghaziabad. Much later would I know exactly how and what about me was dying there.

How was I dying? It is difficult to explain. I had no physical disease. My job as an antenna development engineer, which often entailed continuous 15 hour schedules and long field trips, was difficult and demanding. But I liked my work, even though I knew it would lead me nowhere.

I was in Ghaziabad because I wanted to understand certain things, such as exactly why we Indians were so, so, poor and others were so rich. Books and articles from learned people taught me nothing. I intuited that analyses from foreign writers were wrong or shallow. Indian writers of the kind one read in the English language merely parroted them. My own childhood and youth had been far too golden. I always had the best of everything, and so knew nothing at all. I had to find out the answers for myself, and for that, I had to live by myself among Indians of the kind not paid by the public. I knew I could never be contented otherwise.

Ghaziabad was killing me slowly. With every passing day, I knew I was becoming less and less of the person I was when I graduated. I was losing my academic skills and my chances of a career abroad or even in a lucrative private sector job in India. I should have at least been doing an MBA! From being the apple of everyones eye I had become a complete non-entity.

And what was I gaining? As far as I could see, nothing. I would walk alone on the dusty roads of Ghaziabad, seeking answers, but answers - they eluded me. The local people would look upon me with indifference, as if to say they had seen many such as I before. Only money talked in Ghaziabad, and then only if you showed it by huge high-walled houses, cars and servants. Anyone who think that Indians care about spirituality and intellect should live in Ghaziabad. There was no Hindu temple that I could find, nor a single book-shop that sold anything other than textbooks. There were, on the other hand, plenty of furniture shops and Angrezi liquor shops.

Death would come more quickly if I frequented the liquor shops. But I did not care for drink, unless it was lassi, the kind you got in just that one shop in that narrow street. When the overpowering heat seemed to dry your very blood, that was just what was needed to live, and continue your questioning.

Death could come even more quickly if you dared to change the established state of affaris. Once boredom and curiosity took me to a late night movie show. I saw a strange sight. Outside the window for the cheapest seats, there was a queue of people cowering like so many dumb animals, each with both hands upon the shoulders of the man before him. Maintaining order was a person in a three-piece suit, marching up and down with a whip in his hand. I wanted to do something, but I did not know what to do. I had been warned by a well-wisher never to interfere in local matters. "If you wish to survive here, just mind your own business. When you have to deal with these people, put on your best behaviour, be very polite. Unused to such, they will be taken aback and that'll be your best chance of getting what you want." I once forgot this advice, and spoke my mind to a furniture shop-owner in Panchkuin Road, Delhi. The man assaulted me!

Yes, I was dying. Ghaziabad was killing me in every way. My ambitions and dreams were fading in the distance. All that could be seen, all that could be sensed, were callousness, selfishness and greed. The fruit sellers would sneer if you asked for just one kilo - you would not dare ask for half! Do kilo lay jao, ji!. The local shopkeeper, I saw, would swipe a slice or two of a loaf of sliced bread if he sold in halves. The merchants delighted in shaming you into buying more expensive stuff. If you had no money you were nothing. Your talents did not matter. Nor did your health, youth or appearance. What did matter was clothes, for they showed how much money you could spend. Tailoring shops abounded in Ghaziabad.

What did people do in Ghaziabad? There were no public libraries, no gymnasiums, no clubs. No one seemed to have hobbies of any kind. There were no animated roadside discussions, as I had seen and taken part in Ranchi and Calcutta. There were no signs of romance whatsoever - I never saw any boy with any girl; for that matter, hardly ever any married man alone in public with his wife. While there were plenty of liquor shops, there was just one ramshackle public house selling country liquor next to the fishmongers area. People did not play anything, nor did they seem to take any exercise. Girls did not play music, nor sing, nor paint. The boys - especially the well-dressed ones - seemed not to know what to do. They aimlessly roamed around in small groups on motorcycles and scooters, showing off the latest fashions favored by film heroes.

Waves of apathy rolled on all sides. Everything seemed so pointless, so meaningless. Life dragged on in slow reluctant ways. If people moved, they moved slowly. It seemed enough to live on for yet another day. Nothing would change. Attitudes were firmly fixed. Or so I thought, as the following Arjunas song from Tagores Chitrangada would play in my head with increasing frequency -

Disquiet profound haunts me today, o how my body burns!

Cruel arrows pierce the heart, drenched am I with pain.

Mirages dance before my eyes, fires blaze in my breast.

This garland of welcome is threaded with the thread of death.

Known horizons fade before the shadow lands of dreams

That vanish as vanish the coloured palasa leaves of autumn.

This journey is without purpose; I am given to losing my way.

In this strange new land I must now die!

My parents came for a visit. And suddenly things changed. Within a few days they managed to make friends with all the people around us. My father with the men, and my mother with the women. The Great Gango (of whose lordliness I wrote about some years ago) quite instantly became like someone I had known my whole life. Chachaji started looking genuinely more avuncular, and less like an avaricious landlord, as my father and he exchanged notes. Other younger men around, following his lead, became more considerate. The elderly lady next door said unpleasant things about her daughter-in-law, who had captured her doted son. She had had to dissimulate to her relatives in Punjab, to hear them say, Tu yea kali larki laanay itinee dure gayi thee! (Did you have to go so far to get this black girl?) The daughter-in-law did not endear herself to my mother, for she praised her husband in extravagant terms: He is almost as tall, and more handsome than your son. Chachiji however remained aloof, as became any self-respecting landlady with respect to mere tenants.

Everything started to appear in a different light. All of a sudden everyone around seemed to take an interest in me. Why did your son not ever talk to us? was the question heard from all sides. Why is he so aloof, so reserved? It appeared that they too wanted answers about myself, as eagerly as I did about them. My parents apologized; I was an only child, and so shy and never very talkative. I became an object of sympathy.

I learnt to talk to my fellow men, instead of trying to divine their ways by mere observation. This approach made me see things in an entirely different light. For the first time in my life, I could sense the mighty struggles involved in mere survival, and beyond that, the necessity for one-upmanship, to show that one has indeed made it, and put others in their place. Everyone wanted to live, and live with head held high, showing off as much as possible. You needed to buy things. Good clothes for a start, then the refrigerator, the TV, the scooter… For all that, you needed money and more money. And money depended upon muscle - who you knew, and - it was widely proclaimed - how unscrupulous you could be. Nobody thought that it was possible to lead richer lives by concentrating on making each other happy. Quality of service was an unknown concept.

This materialism was forcefully emphasized through urgent innuendoes by the fairer sex. It acted against the more pervasive inertia of the males, who were quite content to laze and curse in a fatalistic manner. Inertia was pitched against the desire for a better life. Yet there was a deep underlying sentiment against the fate that made things so. Why did things have to be this way? What will happen in the future? What do we really want? Such were the questions that seemed to naturally arise after every meeting. The answers were never there - a great deal of discontent would ultimately focus upon some trivial issue. Every day just passed into another.

And I started to enjoy myself, as I realized that I was not the only one with unanswered questions. I learnt to cook, and my family today is grateful for that. I often ate out in dhabas and restaurants such as the Pahalwan which boasted the custom of none less than the great Dara Singh. I drank glasses of lassi, ate Dasseri mangoes and most importantly watched Hindi movies. They were the sole recreation and culture of the people of Ghaziabad. Seeing the latest movie on the first night of release was the most socially in-thing to do!

I had a low opinion of run-of-the-mill Hindi films, formed by seeing bad plots, doll actresses and fool actors. Only the music and songs were superlative, as they were accepted as a part of ones life with joy. The first few Hindi movies I watched with disgust. Really, was here nothing better for me to do in my life? Must I be condemned for ever to watch such stupidity in the company of my good friends the paanwaalas and truck drivers?

And then I saw Rekha.

That was in the movie Muqaddar ka Sikandar, in the company of Pal-da and the Great Gango who characteristically took us late to the cinema hall. I was stunned, elated.

The next morning I tried to communicate my thoughts and feelings to Sardar Bigaru Singh, holding court with his jolly friends. I had mentally labeled them as the behn***d group, as that expression, uttered in various interesting ways , was an integral part of every sentence from their mouths. He sister-referenced me affectionately, and then advanced his reason for my excitement:

"O behn***d, she is a sexy woman."

His companions looked at me peculiarly, as if to ask which planet I had come from. I left the company of those simplistic clods, not bothering to hide my disgust.

The sexiness of Rekha was by no means lost upon me, but that was not the only reason for my exhilaration. At last I had seen an Indian whose performance was far superior to any Westerner. Even Sophia Loren did not come close. I had, thanks to the Indian-English writers and journalists, who exalt everything Western and deride everything Indian, been brought up to have the lowest possible opinion of India and Indians. Those scoundrels, willing to do anything for a little crust of attention from foreign columnists, and over-ready to serve the interests of their Indian-hating masters, always took great care to give as little positive publicity as possible to genuine Indians and their efforts. To really cripple them, they would put our best people grudgingly below second or third rate Westerners.

Rekha shattered such bonds. She liberated me. She showed that one did not have to grow up to be a second-rate, disdained or patronized, pseudo-Western, perennially whining loser.

A great desire for self-improvement came upon me. I did not wish to live in a fog any longer. I wanted to know what I was doing, at least in my professional work, to begin with. There had to be some better methods than those tinkering ones of my mentor Sardar Bigaru Singh. Effective and in fact indispensable though they often were, they were of no use in the development of complicated systems such as phased array radar antennas.

To understand anything, one must know everything. I embarked upon a solitary voyage of discovery. My engineering books and notes arrived at last, and I studied them diligently. I made many trips to Nai Sarak in Delhi, to buy university-level course books on all subjects that interested me. I took them with me on my daily trips from Ghaziabad to Sohna, reading as I jerked along in the crowded four wheel drive. I read them while not clambering up and down the huge Scientific Atlanta antenna positioner, connecting this, or adjusting that. While returning, it was usually dark, so there was nothing else to do except think of Rekha, and wonder if I could make it for the late night show.

Thus things went on. Gradually, as a result of my hard work and the grace of my dear Mother Kali, the mists cleared. I made bold and drastic changes in the established designs, with strikingly positive results. From first principles, I made analytical models based upon the specifications, then run computer simulations to find the best parameter values and also the tolerances. Project after project made it from my drawing board to the prototype and production shops. I worked in the hot sun on the roof, tuning the heavy corrugated horn antennas the Bigaru way, month after month. I chased after parts in the prototype shop, learning all the nitty-gritty details. I dealt with the military clients, and attended field trials where jet planes thundered at treetop height in the plains near Ambala. What an experience! How wonderful it is to ultimately see all the hard work bear fruit - produce the perfect radiation patterns with first the computer design and then the prototype antennas in our 5 Km long test site, finally going on to pass the stringent inspection tests with flying colours! Such joy was my only reward.

There were rare times when I enjoyed elite society. After our radar trials passed successfully, we were invited for cocktails in the Air Force Mess in Ambala. What a magnificent place! Polished wooden floors, huge graceful rooms with long heavy curtains, elegant furniture of the like I had never seen before, a bar with muted lighting and such stately atmosphere! Khansamahs in starched white uniforms and gold braid glided about like stately goldfish, bearing crystal glasses containing gin and whisky along with many interesting edible tidbits. It was an environment for James Bonds, and indeed there they were all right. I mean the pilots who had flown the sorties, who were the most remarkable people I ever met. They did not seem to belong to this world, those men who dated Mrityu, the gentle but deaf and blind goddess of death, every sunrise. Their courage, frankness, physical excellence and detachment made the rest of us feel pretty inadequate. Their charming ladies fluttered around in colourful organdies. The total effect was intoxicating. After the shabbiness of my living quarters it was indeed heaven. I felt glad to think that my work would help to bring back these heroes safely back from enemy territory, instead of getting shot down by our own people.

My greatest recognition came unexpectedly. I was outside the house of an insurance agent, who was also a junior staff member of my company. I did not like the man very much. He had the pretentious upstart quality, so common among those of Ghaziabad, who had newly learnt to differentiate themselves from the rest by bastard mannerisms. He was inviting me to have tea in his home, and I was trying to excuse myself. All of a sudden, his mask slipped off and he humbly said that it would be an honour for him if a man like myself would partake of his hospitality. I immediately accepted, and did not forget to show my regard for his aged mother in our traditional manner.

I was developing into an Indian! I delighted in gossip. I had started to enjoy Hindi films. I could even do fairly well in the radio quizzes! Hindi film songs soothed my soul. They were the expression of the sad and battered soul of the masses, the only living legacy of a great past now found pure and unscathed only in its music and ancient literature. I even followed the latest fashion, and once wore a tailored bi-colour zipped jacket to my work! Ustaad, kiska pocket maarooN? (Boss, whose pockets to be picked?) queried Sardar Bigaru Singh.

Hindi film plots were never unpredictable. It is ironical that a drama of such intensity and character as I never found on the screen would become, for a while, a part of my life.

*****

(may be continued)

*****
(contd.)

In this period of my anguish and searching, an incident occurred under the roof of our common dwelling that is well worth recording. It was a death, the first I experienced at close hand. Even now a coldness comes upon me as I think about it. First I shall give some details of the place, and the people.

The house was partitioned among three brothers, who had inherited it from their late father, a goods clerk in the railways. Let us not ask how he managed to build such a big house with a clerks wages. Maybe he had an inheritance, or maybe the Goddess Lakshmi had placed a bag of gold under his mattress. In any case I was grateful for his enterprise - it was not easy to get rooms for rent in that part of Ghaziabad which boasted no less than three cinema halls within walking distance. I was further lucky in that they allowed me to cook non-vegetarian food in the house.

The son of the eldest was my landlord. He was known to be too fond of drink, and so, by popular agreement, a bad lot. As a matter of fact, he was an amiable chap, very polite. I did not see much of him. He lived with his parents in Delhi. All he wanted was that my rent should reach him regularly. When I once delayed, his cousin came to remind me, with two gentlemen of ruffianly aspect.

The second son - Chachaji to all - was what one may call a pillar of the local community. He knew all the local news. He was fond of gardening, and even more of outward show. Jovial and cordial though he was, there was something about him which made one suspect he was not entirely trustworthy. Perhaps this feeling came because he was of the opposing landlord class. He had a reputation for being too clever, holding down one job in Delhi and, it was said, many small dhandas. He lived with his wife - Chachiji - and his two young sons who ran the shop. The sons were very good. That is, they heard everything you said, agreed with everything you said, and said that whatever you wanted would be done. But they would never do anything for you. Just give you the polite run-around. They were expert in making money through the sly, small, means typical of their class. Chachiji was very reserved. She and her married daughter were plump, large-eyed, docile and fair. They amply met the highest standards of beauty in upper-caste North India.

The third son is not important. He was completely dominated by his wife, a large, uncouth, bossy woman. I heard her boast how she threw out her tenants, using goondas. Their belongings had been thrown out into the street. They had not agreed to pay more rent. How could that be tolerated? Next doors were tenants who had been paying fifteen rupees a month for the last forty years!

My quarters, now. I had two rooms, and a kitchen. They were enough to contain my worldly possessions: a steel trunk for my clothes, books, a hold-all with a thin mattress, a kerosene stove and some cooking utensils. There was a door from the kitchen to an enclosed verandah which opened through another door to a largish cemented courtyard. There were two rooms beyond the verandah on the other side of the courtyard. There were high walls (one exterior, the other interior, partitioning us from Chachaji) on the other two parallel sides of the courtyard.

Two great friends lived in those two rooms. Their friendship was known far and wide. They were both young, in their late twenties, I would say.

One of them was really handsome. In a god-like way. His eyes were far-seeing, visionary. He walked as if always in a dream. He was a supporter of the politician Hemvati Nandan Bahuguna. Possibly he had a political career in front of him, as he was a lawyer, and had been involved in student-level politics. He once talked to me admiringly about the bravery of Cubans: such a small country, yet so defiant of the Americans! He was the only man in Ghaziabad for whom I had genuine regard. Unfortunately he had a throat problem - he had to gargle for hours.

The other was quite the opposite. He was completely nondescript. You could not find him on a crowded railway platform. He was a truck driver, hoping to buy a new truck for himself. He had an ingratiating manner, as if to compensate for his limitations. Jyoti-da had given him the name DaNt-kala. He had been living in my quarters before, so knew all the parties quite well. I think he had been kicked out when in a drunken binge he and his associates had voiced far too much appreciation of Chachajis daughter.

"Oi DaNt-kala" (O one who shows his teeth out of foolishness) he would say, with a smile.

The man was not very bright. He thought that Jyoti-da was being friendly. Unsure, wanting to reciprocate, but not quite understanding what was required from him, he would stand and grin, exposing his teeth.

"Aaro kalao" (Show more) Jyoti-da would add, with a bigger smile. DaNt-kala would do just that, to Jyoti-das immense satisfaction.

I shall now describe some other people around who milled about when the tragedy happened.

Rajju, the small boy. Given proper education, he would have become something, for he was quite bright. He had no relatives, and simple hung around the place, doing all the odd jobs in the shop and the house. What I remember most about him was his shirt. It was made up of many different pieces of fabric, cast-offs from the tailoring shops, carefully stitched together. With that shirt he had managed to climb to the lowest rung of the social ladder in Ghaziabad. He was not so old to be as sly as his young masters, so, quite often, I found him useful.

Guriya was the daughter-in-law I had written earlier. She was Chachajis tenant. As a mere tenant

***

Author's note: I am sorry that I cannot seem to find time to complete this story. I hope I can do it someday. However I have completed the last lines and they are as follows:

***

It was not my fate to lie cold and stiff besides the banks of the Hindon. My death, so far as the dusty streets of Ghaziabad were concerned, was to be altogether more pleasant. Within several months I would marry a matchless lady, in every noble respect, perfect. And I would never, just for myself, from this world ask anything more.