Poems by Chandu Maheria

 

The Value of My Poetry

 

You would not be able to appreciate value of my poetry.
Let 'Navchetan' consider it without any vitality.
and let it be behind the screen for the world of poetry of 'Kumar',
Let friends who keep 'Kavita' alive by poetry
may consider it no-poetry.
A critic friend used to say,
' Your poetry bears innumerable black blots of style and language .'
Not only black blots, our sun itself is black.
We have set out with the black sun.
Your blind eyes will be unable not recognize its glow.
I don;t care if you are unable to appreciate value of my poetry.
I don't wish to be a poet.
I wish to be a rebel.
if a word of rebellion strikes
Thakur Vajesingh's deaf ears,
for me , my poetry is invaluable.

'Navchetan, 'Kumar', 'Kavita' are leading Gujarati literary journals.

Umesh Solanki: Poems

Translated by Gopika Jadeja
Indian Literature: November-December, 2016

Voghun

(Poet's note: Vonghu , in dialect of Sabarkantha, is a natural canal through which rain water makes its way to a lake or a river.When dry, it is a place , where the villagers go to relieve themselves.At times, hidden parts of the vonghu are also sometimes used as a space for intimate relations)

Bend after bend after bend
The thick of the untouched forest
Near the thor,
Struggling to seep through the babool
The rusted chamboo falls over.
Leaning on my elbow
A baby boar wanders from the bend,
I look into your eyes.
I glance away, and at a distance,
You take my face in your hnds
The voghun is
Nirikshak: 16 February, 2016

Eggs
Damned earth struck to the soles of my feet.
When do i go looking for life now?
Nirdhar, 16 May, 2016

Kothi
Half an hour of dawn
Rise.
The sounds of saru, dhuniya, buckets.

So many bends,

even a snake would tire.

One such bend of many bends.

On the bend a fence of thor

dripping milk.

Thorny.

dressed in the beauty

of Adivasi women.

at times thick,

at times thin

arching over the bend

a babool bush.

the afternoon sun

hangs from the bush as fruit.

Some sunlight pushes

through to the sand

losing its strength.

On the weal sunlight

you come and sit.

i sit touching you

Then you lay down

Yout foot turning 

the chamboo over.

Water longs for sand

in a gulp, it swallows the sand.

The sand contained a strange death,

water dies in an instant.

I wind a lock of your hair

around my finger.

Sweetly shy,

you turn your face away.

I say your lovely eyes,

only your face visible,

are a tigress sitting quiet

in a cave of the white mountains.

You break out laughing.

Your breaking into laughter

like water spilling onto the sand

from the chamboo.

i pick up a clod pf earth.

You quietly stay my hand,

the clod alips to the earth

the boar disappears

into the bend.

Looking I lose myself.

Suddenly, a deer runs through my eyes

in a long leap , it enters yours.

Turning your face  to the left

you close your eyes for a while.

see a little baby donkey.

"Such a dear little..."

A clod of earth hits the little donkey

its whole body shakes in fear.

i see that shiver take over your face

then a slow release of breath

which strikes against my eyes.

mixing a little smile

in your pain,you say:

"You are beautiful, like the little donkey."

My body shivers, turns to tears

and drops from the eyes.

The little donkey stands there.

a fistful of earth.

The small sky placed on my head weighs down.

The river sands rasp breathlessly , again and again.

Ponds, arrogant, cracked.

A pigeon has laid eggs at the bottom of the well.

that arrives each day of the week

Bent, on the knees

knees pressing to the stomach.

Bend.

Tire.

And yet

bend again.

Gathering with sounds, tiredness.

Nirdhar , May 2016 

Brahma Chamar: Poems

The Resolve

When they equated
my teardrop
to blood.
I understood that
Rivers of blood
have flown here.
The wounds inflicted by the words
and
the whip that lashed
have made me realize
after so many years
that
I too, have a body.,
Mine is the same
home
at the end.
I have now resolved
To frame
the blood that was shed
in the history.

My Baa: Pure atheist Rama Bhagat by Chandu Maheria

Translated by Dr.G.K.Vankar

13^th February, 1989 morning was the last when Baa (I don’t know why but we all siblings called my Father, ‘Baa’) talked to me. He had asked me to cleanse his mouth. Three days earlier he had blood in vomiting and the cancerous tumor had burst. Since then he was totally bed-ridden. There was slight bleeding from mouth off and on. I did not feel like going out of home but at the same time I could not witness the bodily anguish that he suffered. Hence I went to my office. At five in the evening I learnt: “Baa is now no more!”

At 10 pm we went to the crematorium. Short, stout, dark body was on pyre and soon the persona called Rama Harkha who was past seven decades turned into ashes. There was full stop on life of a sincere and strong personality- what remains is these memories.

Once I asked Baa: “what inspired you to educate us?”

He said, “One day myself and Kuberiyo (his paternal uncle’s son, Kuber Sava) while playing went to village chora. Mukhi happened to come there. He saw us playing there, he drove us away muttering ‘bloody dhed’s children came upto chora’  . I was young but these words struck my heart.   I never went to chora thereafter. I decided if not I, my children will sit on  chora.”. And Baa realized this pledge, he made us worthy of sitting not only at the village chora but  in Gandhinagar Secretariate that is equivalent to chora of whole of Gujarat.

He left his native place at a very young age, He came to Ahmedabad and began working in a textile mills. It was the time when Members and Mukadams of Majur Mahajan were very high headed. He described several times their tyranny and compared it to bullying by the present day unions. His first marriage failed, thereafter he had vairagya. He gathered several kinds of Gods and Goddesses. He kept himself so busy in worship rituals that people began calling him Rama Bhagat ( later on he was to turn  strict  atheist compared to me but his identity as Bhagat nonetheless continued till last). He made one bava, ‘Guru’. He would come and stay with Baa  for long periods. The guru used to ask for several household articles from Baa. Once he asked for a wall clock that Baa was fond of. Of course, Baa gave away the wall clock but he lost his  faith. He used to call worshipping rituals a hoax, his vairagya didn’t continue FOR long. He remarried with maa and his householder life began again.

 Baa hardly studied upto standard three but he had good knowledge of this world. Politics, economics, religion, literature, history, geography, astronomy- nothing was unknown to him. He could participate in discussion on any subject and he used to contribute something new to the discussions. He would spare no pains trying to explain his point. ‘Listen to me!’ and ‘understood?’ were his two takiyakalams! Once my elder sister’s father-in-law, a school Head Master visited our house. After dinner, family gathered and discussions began. Baa’s speech and ‘listen to me!’ continued for long. Those were the days when there were worldwide discussions on skylab of U.S. Our theme of discussion also became skylab. Baa began talking about geography of US. He suddenly asked our vevai,”where is America?”  Poor vevai uttered, “near our Godhra..”And father shouted, “O good man, who made you a teacher? Do you teach your pupils like this?’ Poor Vevai was stunned.

With abject poverty and wants we lived. We were a large family of five brothers and two sisters and our parents.  Baa had meager salary. Maa would run the family much economically but it was difficult to meet the ends.  The electricity had reached nooks and corners of Gujarat villages but not until my   three older sibs had completed graduation in our Metro home, in Rajpur chawl ,  Ahmedabad. Discharging so many social responsibilities my parents gave us education. They tried to fulfill our needs by suffering pain, by taking loans on interest, leasing or selling maa’s ornaments. The elder brother decided to join Agricultural College in Anand after completing high school. With all the preparation he went to Anand to seek admission. Sports were compulsory. ‘The sons of Pateliya  would  kill my son by kicking while playing kabaddi.’, saying Baa did not allow him to get admission. Then elder brother got admission in Science College. Within two months he was forced to quit Science College and he entered Arts College. Baa never uttered a word. He wished his children to take decisions about their future   fearlessly, not with the sole consideration of the finances.

Breaking the traditions and reformist thoughts were in his veins. Fifty- fifty five years back from now, he had opposed his father’s barma. “Give me money..”He had begged his mother but he could not win the conservative  people. That barma buried him under the mountain of debt which did not leave him alone till his retirement. Manibhai, my elder brother  and Kamalaben, my elder  sister were married off when they were young children against Baa’s wishes. When Kamalaben’s husband failed in S.S.C. they were in haste of aana. Sister had passed S.S.C. at that juncture. She asked Baa:  “Baa, only because I am a girl you wish to send me off to my in-laws and not allow me to study further?” It touched Baa. He got sister divorced and got her to study further. She became one of the rare women graduates in our paragana. When her second marriage broke off after birth of a boy, it was a terrible shock for Baa. His anger towards inflexible social system became stronger. Similarly elder brother’s three marriages also didn’t succeed, baa was much anguished. Due to his reformist thoughts he didn’t maintain many social relations. He never participated as Patel on occasions like marriage or divorces though he would visit ill relatives or go to offer condolences to the bereaved without fail. Even after retirement he used to read newspapers, magazines or books or would just talk. After second divorce Kamalaben got good job but she had to live away from home. To begin with mother lived with her, baa lived with us brothers.   Bhabhis didn’t get along well hence to buffer the difficult situations mother returned to live with us  and baa went to live with sister. Talkative Baa who would like to talk with darbar also got used to the stagnant four walls of a government quarters.  In those last five years of his life his only centers of affection were Kamalaben and his dear son Atit.

Ma and Baa had a large chasm to bridge. Mother was totally uneducated but had excellent social skills. Baa was at the level of gnani but he was grounded in his principles like me. I am surprised how their marriage survived. In my memory box there are only rare moments when my parents talked in a harmonious tone. And yet it was beyond doubt that they loved each other so dearly. Perhaps it was this love that enabled their life together despite differences.

The constant mood of Baa’s life was bitterness. He had strong bitteress towards prevalent social system, politics, religion and economy. He was engaged with Ambedkarite movement right from its inception. He was member of republican party and samata sainik dal. Rama Bhagat, volunteer of samata sainik dal in all blue half pant-shirt-cap and  shoes is still   alive in so many people’s memory. He was so committed to the Ambedkarite ideology  that even when textile mills in Ahmedabad were ruled by Majur Mahajan, he did not become its member. Once he met with serious accident, got severe injury, was chronically bed-ridden and didn’t get any compensation. Even then he didn’t seek shelter of majur mahajan. At the time of Babasaheb’s nirvana, Ramanbhai was very ill. Hence he could not attend Babasaheb’s funeral that was a matter of great lifelong regret for him. After anti-reservation movement in Gujarat in 1981 when dalits recognized value of Babasaheb’s ideology , he was very happy. He used to read dalit literature with much interest and would comment,  “ in Babasaheb’s  era, if there were such writers then..” He was staunch opponent of Hindu religion. I have known more about Hindu religion and dharma shastras from him, than from reading innumerable books.

Fifty-sixty years from now, when dalit life was slave of traditions, blind faith and witchcraft, Baa had  scientific attitude and understanding. He considered religious worship rituals as pretense and opposed it whole heartedly. Once upon a time he was bhagat, but he never performed hom, havan , puja, even satya narayan katha in our household. He did not allow us to perform even Vastu in the home where we live now. Instead he organized a program of Bhim bhajans by Ambedkerite singer Pagal baba. This event occurred forty five years back. He would discuss and debate vehemently with very strong conviction. He respected Islam and Christianity but his heart was with Buddhism. He repeatedly mentioned that he could study a little only because of missionary schools. He had tattooed Christ above Rama tattoo on his hand, thus far he was converted.

He groaned with severe pain before twenty four hours of his death. Mother told him,” Look at the photo of Saibaba just facing your bed, look at it. Chant  God’s name and you’ll feel better..”

Even while experiencing excruciating pain, he averted his face to the other side and said, “Is sai babo before my eyes? Change the direction of my bed, take my bed in the opposite direction!” He forced change of his bed. It is said that at time of death even the staunch atheists embrace death uttering name of God. But my Baa, Rama Bhagat’s atheism lasted till   his last breath.

His socially skilled sons, who inherited physical and financial property, trampled his ideological legacy   while he was still alive. Fifty years back this man who didn’t allow for vastu, his very sons   bought a small house and performed vastu that too in presence of Baa and observing Hindu rituals. Baa opposed Hindu religion till his last breath, but his sons prayed for peace of his soul with Hindu bhajans sung by a Hindu bhajan singer, performed asthi visarjan on the bank of Reva and performed shraddh, last rites too.

It is said that children are the replica of their parents. But this should not be limited to only the facial features. They should follow parental ideology especially if they were progressive. It is true that, there have been many lapses on part of his children in following   Baa’s ideology.

I have inherited from my father not merely dark complexion and short stature but the height of his progressive and reformist ideology too. That is why I didn’t sit at home for long after his death   in mourners’ white clothes accepting condolences. I went to my office on the third day itself! I didn’t participate in Baa’s barma, asthi visarjan or shraddh. This was neither exhibition of my progressive ideology nor escapism. It was my faith in Baa’s ideology consciously nurtured.

It’s six months since   his body ceased to exist but at midnight I feel  presence of Baa asking us: “listen to me!” I am deeply anguished about his helpless (!) sons and daughters who cannot practice what he said so many times.

From ‘Pitru Tarpan’

Asthi  visarjan = bones gathered after cremation are ritually flown in sacred rivers

Barma = feast after death

Bava = ascetic

Bhagat = devotee

Bhajan = religious song

Chora = village  public  place

Darbar = assembly of a king

Gnani = the one with spiritual knowledge

Hom havan= ritual of sacred fire to please Gods

Kabaddi= an Indian outdoor game 

Majur mahajan=  The labor union of textile workers inspired by Gandhiji

Paragana =limited area residents of which of a specific caste have social relations

Pateliya =Patels

Republican party =political party founded by Dr.Ambedkar

Reva =Narmada river

Saibaba = a deity

Samta sainik dal  =organization founded by Dr.Ambedkar

Shraddha = rituals observed in bhadarva month for late  ancestors

Skylab

 Takia kalam= pet word,which any person use very often

Vairagya = non-attachment, actually leads a householder to a state of being in the world but not of the world

Vastu = rituals done on entry of a new house

Vevai = father-in-law or elder men in son or daughter’s family

Queen of Black: A Short Story by Jasumati Parmar

“Get up Hari, get up my son. Come on, we are late. And today you have to take with you your small sister as well. The children from morning shift were saying that today is the day of spicy khichri.”

Hari would get ready on hearing the name of khichri, but today he wouldn’t. Don’t know why. He feigned as if in deep sleep in his ramshackle khatli. Mani tried to wake him up by fondling his hand but he kept on lying crossed legged.

“My son, are you sick? Or haven’t finished your homework? Or the teacher beat you up?”

But Hari wouldn’t listen. At the thought of the khichri, however, Nanki was dancing to go to school.

“My sweet wise son, rise up. See there is not a grain in the house and you will have stomachful khichri there.” Mani dragged his foot this time but he started crying loudly.

“No, I am not going. All have school-bags and I have this dirty theli with darned patches? That Padiya, studying in Std I only, has a beautiful bag with three pockets – one for compass, one for lunchbox and other for books. No, everybody is laughing at me; go, I am not going.”

Mani placed her hands on his head and kissed on his forehead.

“My dear wise parrot, we are hard pressed for money this month, you know. Your father worked for a few days only. Wait, I will buy both of you siblings beautiful school-bags, I promise.”

And Hari got up. Not perhaps for the prospect of the bags, but for the tears that rolled down her mother’s face. Both left for school.

Mani’s house in the chawl was the poorest. Jivan would hardly get a week’s wages in the mill, as he could get work only if someone was absent in the night shift. He would occasionally drink, and would even play cards on small bets. He would come dancing and singing when he had won. Would bring with him Hajibawa’s qabab and jalebi for children. A blouse-piece for Mani. As if a celebration of festival in the house!  But when he had lost, he would tip-toe like a cat and lie awake in the khat silently. Mani would feed children with whatever leftover collected and soothe them by sleeping beside them. Children would fall asleep but Mani wouldn’t. She would slowly and without making any noise slip into the only khat they were having.  “Have the children eaten anything? “ Hari would ask her in low voice, lest they awake.

Jivan as such was a good man. He has never abused her nor ever slapped her. Yes, he calls Mani as ‘Kali’, but that is only because of the colour of her skin. Or may be because of her uncomely features. But certainly more because of his love for her. He also loved their children as a caring father. When not drunk, he would pick up his earlobe to confess his mistakes. He would promise not to drink or gamble any more. But when among his peers, he would again join them in the company and loose wages of the whole month.

“My ominous forehead! What is there in the house to cook?  Do you have any feeling for the children or me? You enjoy your hobbies of drinking and gambling as a king. We have to go hungry for days. Now, give me, this month’s wages.”

Mani checked into his pockets, one had a matchbox and some bidis, and the other had a piece of paper with figures scribbled on it. He had started playing the number-game of matka, but he couldn’t tell her. Friends were telling, it’s a good game to earn money without doing anything. Mani started weeping, but without sobbing. The children are sleeping and they were helpless.

“Had gone to the factory since morning. Walking the two gau distance. Waited at the gate for two hours. But refused to engage me for any work. Made many requests but the mukadam didn’t take mercy upon me. And that Savali and that Pashli smiled ha…ha…hi…hi…with him and he called them in. I know the secret. I am black and ugly. And to top it all, a lowly harijan.”

And Mani broke into sobbing. Jivan became sober instantly, as if getting over from the desi hangover.

“Kali, mind it, never ever go to the factory. These sons of a bitch, bloody wealthy people think our women are their dasis, and men their gulams!”

Mani stopped crying, solaced that her husband understood her plight. Feeling relieved, she put out the kerosene lamp and leapt into Jivan’s khat burying her head in his bosom.

At a stone’s throw distance from the dalit basti, there were flats and bungalows of high-caste people. But none wanted to hire Mani as domestic help, even a kachra-potawali. What their guests will say seeing her clean the floor of their drawing room, they thought! They must have a maid worthy of their caste status, fair in complexion and socially acceptable.

Mani had no options but hard work and drudgery. Those, most refused by others. She was usually called for her patent work – seasonal milling of chilies for the families that like to boast of keeping yearly stock. She was also remembered by the mothers and mothers-in-laws of pregnant women in the chawl – yes, to wash those dirty diapers and bleeding rags. Rest of the days, she would sling a sack and go rags-picking for the whole day. Would spread and sort out the catch in her room – paper, plastic, iron scrap, tube, tyre, bones, horns, all and sell them to the godown-man. Would return with a bottle of cooking oil, a head-load of logs for fire and other provisions to make their family meal for the lucky day.

Hari and Nanki would rejoice seeing their mother. They would open the small plastic bags and fill the contents – salt, gud, tea-dust etc in the pots and bottles. Hari would light fire in the chulha, and Mani would cook rotla on the earthen pan. She would ask: “Nanki - had your father come?   Did he bring something?”

“Yes mother. He was there with his friends. They were all playing cards for the whole day.”

Mani was frightened, lest he may open the adda in her own house! But on second thought, she compromised that it was because of the family he was after the cards and companions. Like her, he was also not getting regular work, she knew. Frustrated, he started drinking. He thought he would earn a few rupees if he ran this private adda at his house.

“Mother, tomorrow is first Monday of Shravan. Teacher will let us leave early. Shall we go to the Chakudiya Mahadev Fair?” Hari asked.

Chakudiya Mahadev.  Poor and hungry, sadhu or fakir – all get to eat ramroti at its sadavrat. Whenever there was nothing in the house, Mani used to secretly slip there in the evening with her children and eat there in the darkness. 

Meal could be free, but what about the merry-go-round and the magician’s show and the colourful toys in the fair? What if children want to enjoy rides and delicious delicacies?  How to go in the fair without a paisa in her sari-knot?  “Nanki’s father, are you listening? You do something, do anything, but manage for some money somehow. We will take these children to the fair tomorrow.” Mani requested from the bottom of her heart.

Whether he listened or not, he left the home hurriedly.

Mani and children waited for him late in the night. But Jivan did not turn up. Patting the children to sleep, Mani kept on staring at the door, lying awake.

And well past midnight, the door creaked open making as little sound as possible.  Mani lighted the lamp and she saw there was a guest with Jivan. He looked stranger and not one of her play- card companions.

“Kali, entertain the guest. Want to go enjoy the fair tomorrow, eh..?”

Mani stood aghast. She understood Jivan was dead drunk as was the lustful guest. She immediately awakened the children.

“Is it dawn, mother? Are we going to the fair so early? “

“Yes, my children. Let us go to the Chakudiya Mahadev temple. Yes, right now.”

She ran out of the house dragging the children behind her. She decided in her mind that she would never ever bother him for money.

Unable to understand the situation, Jivan fell on the khat and started blabbering in half-sleep: “Kali, today there were 2 queens in my game. Only one was required. If you had come, I would have won the jackpot.  Hariya’s school bag and your petticoat and everything would have been brought new… and enjoyed the fair of Chakudiya Mahadev…”

(translated by Neerav Patel)

Jasumati Parmar (born 1954) worked as a primary teacher for sometime and is now a homemaker. She writes occasionally, and her genre is short story with autobiographical  milieu. Her stories have been included in several anthologies like Pitrugatha, Vanboti Vartao,Madi Mane Sambhare Re

Creamy Layer: a short story by Dr.Neerav Patel

Far from relatives, here in a cosmopolitan city like Mumbai, preparing for the marriage event single handedly is not a child’s play. And yet - clothes, jewelry, party plot, catering, decoration, music party, beautician, utara- so many arrangements were fixed swiftly just by writing a cheque leaf. A small matter like wedding cards, however, was a great headache for the Vaghelas.  After much deliberation they finalized not one but two draft-design-color combinations. One in English, the other in Gujarati - one for their caste fellows, and the other for others. Only then they felt relieved.

Shalini looked very smart and sweet in her air hostess uniform. Whoever she gave the wedding card, it was praised profusely. Captain Chopra exclaimed, ‘O, What an elegant language!’ Flight purser Swaman Deshpande admired: ‘What an abstract art you chose for Lord Ganesha! And that saptapadi shloka in italics...’ Everyone who received the wedding card expressed joyful appreciation. Shalini would feel proud hearing praises for her parents’ high cultural taste and aesthetic sense. But when her co-pilot Kulin Joshi bathed her in kisses, her happiness touched seven skies: Miss Shalini Vaghela is now going to be known as Mrs. Shalini Joshi.

“There can not be anything unpompous in the marriage of a Bapu family!” some lower grade employee whispered in his Kathiyawadi accent. But Shalini was lost in her dreams. She was really flying in the air…

It was getting difficult for the Vaghela couple however; excited though they were with the idea of giving kankotri to all their relatives by visiting their homes personally. They hired a taxi from Ahmedabad airport and drove straight to their native place. The foreigner-like couple was surrounded by all family members and began raining the choicest taunts: ‘oh brother, after so many years you remembered the land of your forefathers? Your father used to come to greet us on every New Year Day and for offerings to Mataji in Navratri festival. He would invariably offer 9-yard religious flag to the deity of Rama Pir. But brother, you studied, married and lived in Mumbai with wife and forgot all family relations. Who are your kith and who are your kin? What is your dear one and who is your near one?’

Vaghelas were taken aback hearing bitter words, in place of warm welcome. Of course, they knew there was some truth in what they were saying. Brothers, sisters, cousins, maternal and paternal uncles, maternal and paternal aunts, all in-laws, these relations cannot be maintained without   visiting them often. If they had not left village for city, if they had not joined white collar jobs quitting hereditary work, if they had remained uneducated rather than educated, had lived in hutments rather than in an apartment, they could have maintained the relations perhaps, perhaps…

Cousin Brothers were very haughty and impudent. They were completely illiterate. But there was this little boy who was pushed to school with the temptation of mid-day meal, and he could make out the alphabet at his own pace. With much difficulty he read whole kankotri to all gathered. They were happy to hear their names among the inviting hosts as per the joint-family custom  : Dhulabhai Punjabhai Vaghela, Kalidas Punjabhai Vaghela… But moving the kankotri back and front, up and down, the elder sister-in-law shouted:

‘Brother, how could you forget our family deity Chamunda? Our family is hale and happy, just because of her blessings. Now as you mingle among high caste Hindus, you left our Mother in the lurch? You printed your God like yourself -- in coat and pants and you forgot our Mother who is ever present?’ With broom on shoulder, she started for the village, muttering:  “you get your daughter married to a caste Hindu. We would not be able to grace your occasion...”

Rather than the photos of clan deities and beginning the kankotri ‘with the grace of  deity Mother Chamunda’, Vaghelas had  printed Babasaheb Ambedkar’s photograph as a sign of new  awareness. And it was an unpardonable offence! They had never imagined that such a large chasm had occurred between them and their relations…

With folded hands they requested all and asked for pardon for this misdemeanor. Younger sister-in-law, from the ghunght of her sari and with down-cast eyes began: “We hardly get adequate food. How can we afford the long journey to Mumbai? Here we make our children’s clothes from the shrouds draped by the savarna dead bodies. We barely get our family supper begging whole village. Shall we not look ‘different’ among your high-caste guests?  Will it not be an embarrassment for you?  Your status will be at stake.”

It was because of this fear only, that the Vaghelas had to decide for two wedding cards, two separate menus, and two separate receptions at different venues. As if finding a solution, Mr.Vaghela took out money from his wallet and said: ’keep this money. Please don’t worry about anything. Buy good clothes for women and children and all, and this is the train fare. But please do come. Kindly forgive our wrongs and grace the occasion.’

It seemed that anger subsided and things were on track. Youngest daughter-in-law came with a glass of water from an old earthen pitcher. Thinking the water as unhygienic, Mrs.Vaghela turned around and told diplomatically:  “No, no. We have water bottle with us. We have brought our tiffin also.” She opened her handbag and offered Bislery bottle to Mr.Vaghela. A young girl from next door came smiling: “This is the tea made of whole milk. Choice of the big people like you.” Mr.Vaghela stared at the creamy layer floating in the tea cup, he removed it with his finger-tip taking care that no one should notice his impatience.

Unhappy over the attitude and behavior of the family members, Vaghelas bade farewell to their native place with heavy heart and sped away in the taxi towards the city. They wondered what would be the response of maternal uncle, maternal aunt, and paternal aunt’s husband like.

The taxi stopped on the bank of river Sabarmati, near a posh retreat-like building. Its name was quite worthy to its grandness, ‘Kailas Dham’. Vaghelas crossed the beautiful garden and came at the the end of the precincts.  It was the servants’ quarters. Just at that moment,   with shouts of ’Rama bolo bhai Rama’, the mourners got down with a nanami from an ambulance. Maternal uncle, rather than completing welcome formality for the guests, rushed towards electric crematorium. Vaghelas remained patient,   as this was the maternal uncle who was supposed to come to Mumbai for Shalini’s mamera.

‘See brother, there is epidemic of the pig fever in the city. I am very busy. Municipality sahebs would not grant any leave. At such a time you fixed the auspicious date…” Maternal uncle’s wife put her point. To turn away from this awkward situation, Mr.Vaghela asked her: “ I don’t see sons and daughters-in-laws. Where have they all gone?’’ “Brother, everyone is on job. Sitting idle does not fill one’s belly. The elder son’s wife is sweeper in Civil Hospital, and the elder son too is working in a mortuary.   The young children might be at the entrance gate with a cloth spread on the ground, the mourners may give charity after the dead. If you wish to pass time till your maternal uncle returns, go and meet the younger one, he has a job in the neighborhood.” Maternal uncle’s wife proposed, introducing her well employed family in fine details.

Vaghelas immediately accepted the proposal, so that they can come out of suffocating atmosphere of the modern crematorium.

They asked the taxi driver to take them along as per directions of mami. Whoever they asked for the place, with a smile they retorted: “where to?  the Mayors Bunglow?” Vaghelas wondered how come a Mayor would be living in such a dalit basti? The taxi stopped opposite a studio-like building. Much in the fashion of Corporate Houses, there was a plaque with golden letters: Sulabh International, and below it, in small letters was written: Pay and Use Sulabh Shauchalaya. In the middle of the foyer of the building, there was a table and chair and a hansome youth stood by arrogating as its owner. Vaghelas approaching straight away towards him,  he shouted :  ’ One rupee for eki, two rupees for beki’ When they introduced them as relatives, he felt a bit let down, but  he called a boy in filmi style: ‘Go and bring two kadak mithi (strong and sweet) and two water pouches. Run quick!.’ Vaghela couple tried to stop stench of this modern toilet with   hand kerchief. Though they said no, the tea cups arrived on the table of the young manager of Sulabh Shauchalaya. Mrs.Vaghela surely wouldn’t take tea but Mr.Vaghela had no option. He stared at the tea cup. Thankfully, it was without a creamy layer…

From Sulabh Shauchalaya to Kailas Dham they returned.  After taking their assurance to come to Mumbai for wedding, they took leave to visit maternal aunt in the east end of the city. Originally the buildings were constructed as M.L.A.Quarters. They were lying vacant as the Capital shifted to Gandhinagar. Hence they were allotted to municipal employees. Currently the dilapidated buildings were worse than slum quarters. Maternal aunt’s husband, after gulping two pouches of desi from Sahibagh adda, bragged, “Brother, look, all of us in our family are having government jobs.” Mrs.Vaghela’s eyes scanned all over the house with a woman’s curiosity - she saw many imported articles. Catching her surprise-struck, as if clarifying he said: “our younger one’s wife is on international airport. Others will have to pay to see the air plane from outside, whereas she enters all overseas planes to clean. In the air plane even toilets are full of fragrance. Foreign liquor, chocolate, whatever is left- food too- by passengers, she would bring home. Your Shalini is also working on plane, may be they have a chance meeting at Ahmedabad airport sometime!”

Vaghelas shivered at the thought of such eventuality!  Masa went ahead: “The elder son is a driver in the dump van of slaughter house and the younger one in the van for stray dogs. All of us have government jobs with the grace of our clan deity.  How do our people do in Mumbai?  It is heard that even the high class people live in slums. They wear good clothes but their job is to collect shit. Your grandfather, when he left village for Mumbai, too did the same. It’s only you,  after education , now has a white collar job…”

After tolerating Mamas’s verbal lashings, Vaghelas could make him agree to come for Shalini’s marriage, for Mamera.

It was getting increasingly intolerable. Vaghelas began checking the guest list. Mr.Vaghela’s father’s bosom friend was living in a remote village in Saurashtra. But his father had insisted that they deliver the wedding card visiting him personally. The old man was his childhood friend .

After offering double money to taxi driver, they crossed dusty roads towards the village. At the end of the village, there was a solitary hut. The village darbars were astonished to see a car going in that direction. On hearing somebody shouting the old man’s name loudly, the old woman appeared from inside: “The old man has gone out of village.  Jorubha, the durbar, passed away and our old man has gone to deliver kalotri. It is our veth and he has gone on feet. After visiting two - four villages he may return tomorrow or day after tomorrow.” Opening the briefcase, the Vaghelas handed over the invitation card to the old woman, the kankotri addressed to the old man who had gone to deliver kalotri and was father’s childhood friend.  Vaghelas could not utter a single word.

Now it was end to Mrs.Vaghela’s patience.  In utter disgust she said: “Let us now call it a day. The remaining cards you can send through post later. As for now, I don’t wish to stay here for even a second. Let us leave by the earliest flight to Mumbai. How much is pending for my dear daughter’s marriage...”

Shalini was very happy to see mum and dad return by an early flight. She asked: “Mom, have you given the wedding cards to all, isn’t it? Our home will be crowded with relatives and family members ...” Shalini who had studied in the convent residential school was to meet her caste fellows for the first time. But Vaghela couple was in no mood to respond. Mr.Vaghela wondered, ‘what a big socio-cultural gap!’ He felt as if he was driven out of his family and caste. Dropping himself in the sofa, he called Shalini: ‘Shalu, please bring me a cup of tea. And of course, don’t add cream. Now I pity the creamy layer.’

(tr. By Dr G K Vankar)

Creamy layer:  with its literal meaning, the phrase in current Indian context has acquired different meaning – a tiny top section of dalit, tribal and Other Backward Caste communities that has become rich, educated, and powerful after getting benefits of reservation policy of the government and is envied upon by the caste-Hindus as a challenge to their hegemony.

Utara:  customary lodgings, Ganesha: God of auspicious occasion.

Saptapad : Hindu marriage ritual in which bride and groom ceremoniously walk seven circles

Bapu =honorific address for a Rajput (apparently the person has assumed Vaghela to be a Rajput rather than a dalit, as the surname is common among the Rajputs and dalits)

Kankotri = wedding card, Kalotri =letter informing death

Mameru = customary gifts of bridal clothes and ornaments from maternal uncle

Mama = maternal uncle,Mami = maternal uncle’s wife

Masa = husband of mother’s sister,Eki= passing urine,Beki = passing stool

Adda= illegal den for drinking, Shauchalaya = toilet, Kadak Mithi = strong and sweet, tea

Kailas Dham = literally the abode of Shiva in the Himalayas, but ultimate destination after death metaphorically