The Benefit Season (9 page)

‘
But I am not taking him
anywhere! All I ask is you let us manage his affairs. I don’t know
who met you and gave you this impression. But we’re
different…’

‘
Everyone says they are
different. Even that man did. But you are all the same- greedy and
selfish’.

‘
I am not here to take
away anything from you, or break your family; just give me a
chance. If there is a problem, maybe we can help you with
it’.

‘
Ha! You have no idea what
problems poor village folk have’.

I have a good idea, but I am not telling him
any. ‘Try me, uncle. Please tell me. Even if I can’t do anything,
at least you will feel lighter. I promise you, if after today you
say you don’t want to see me again, you won’t’.

The man knots and unknots the frayed ends of
his white cotton scarf- confused where to start.

‘
It’s ok uncle, what harm
can he do?’ Chand says. ‘ I think he’s like one of us’.

The uncle looks at his protégé, and begins
to speak. ‘Well, my brother has three daughters, elder to Mukut
here. You know how it is; to marry them off and for their dowries
he took farm loans from the cooperatives. Then he took more loans
from the local moneylenders to repay the farm loans. When the
interest became larger than the capital, and it all ballooned
beyond his capacity, he took more loans. He got trapped in the
vicious circle and when he had nothing left to mortgage…he
committed suicide so that the family wouldn’t suffer any more
because of him. You see, the govt. loans get written off but in the
village, the moneylender’s loans don’t. Proud landlords that we
were, we are servants now in our own farms. My wife, and daughters-
I have six of the fairest, are now working the lands and houses of
the lender’s for two meals a day only. I have avowed that I will
repay my brother’s debt and earn back our family lands, name and
honor. I have been allowed to leave my home so that I can try and
repay the debt. My family is still held hostage in the village-
they can’t leave, or they’ll be killed. Mukut has never stayed back
at the village since he was in Military School, so they couldn’t
get a hold on him. So now you see, why I can’t afford to take
chances with Mukut- he’s our only hope. I have sacrificed my own
family so that I can make something of this boy.’

‘
If you let us manage him,
you will have your land and your honor again. And your family will
be together again’.

‘
We have survived
difficult times so far, and we can do it in the future as well.
Leave us to our destiny’.

‘
Just because Mukut has
made it to the national XI, doesn’t mean that he’ll stay there till
the next selections. Look at the competition, the political pulls;
without solid support, how far do you think the boy will last out
there’?

‘
As long as it is god’s
will! And his will is what we accept with gratitude’.

‘
Do you think it’s fair to
Mukut?’

‘
What do you mean? You
think I’m not doing all this for him?’ The man roars.

‘
How long do you think the
boy can take the pressure. There is the stress of playing on the
field and then off it he knows he has to work towards the family
debt. Do you think that will bring out the best in your boy? Why
not let us take care of all his problems off the field and you and
him work on his game?’

‘
We have managed so far
without you haven’t we? So leave us be’.

‘
If you had your debts
squared off, and your family here with you, don’t you think Mukut
would do a far better job? He has talent here; we could bring in
the pros that could tweak his technique and fitness, which would
give him that edge. Don’t you think, Mukut?’ I turn to the boy. He
seems to agree but can’t speak in front of the elder. He looks
entreatingly at the uncle.

‘
Don’t listen to him boy’,
the uncle booms! ‘ Him and his cunning ways, and words sweet, silky
and smooth as honey. Pay our debts and unite our families! I
haven’t heard such yarn in my years. Strap ‘em up and git ye out to
the field. And you, be gone with you, tempter from the
dark!’

I bend and touch his feet,
and walk away. My two chancy companions follow me out. Next the
doors is placed a visitors book. I shuffle through the pages and
find the uncle’s address: “Village Kursi, Block Gondlamau, District
Sitapur, UP.” I snap a picture of the address and joust past
photographer punters on phone with their bookies, players tipping
off on pitch conditions and managers betting against their own
teams. Indians don’t lose matches; they simply tank them. Now that
the matter of corruption in cricket is in the Supreme Court, we
believe and hope only an outsider can do something for the
beautiful game:
May the Twelfth Man save
the game!

ϖ

I ask my escorts if they can drop me at the
railway station. They look at each other and nod. I call Monal and
explain the plan to her and ask if she is okay with that.

Like a true punter, she says, ‘what have we
got to lose? Go ahead but be careful. Do you want to take anybody
from the office with you? No? All the same, it’s best to have a
local contact. You’ll know who he is by the time you get down from
the train. I’ll handle the Mumbai part of the plan from this end.
All the best; Ta da.’ And she’s off to her squash game at the
Gymkhana.

That’s what I love about this woman- a
crystal clear mind, courage of conviction and instant
decision-making; never an unnecessary doubt, and she leans in with
you all the way. No wonder, she’s the envy of every player in our
business.

ϖ

The train to Sitapur has the usual suspects:
There is the fat-as-butter Sardarji drinking from the whisky bottle
hidden under his bunk, while his curvy, obedient wife- her face
covered by the pallu of her sari, serves him piping hot masala
chicken. She shyly swills from the same glass whenever he offers it
lovingly, after carefully maneuvering it inside the sari covering
her face. The slippery conman with his drugged biscuits strikes up
friendships with strangers- these days they have numbered biscuits,
I’m told. Either odd or even numbered biscuits are injected with
drugs; when the man opens a new pack that has already been tampered
with, he inspires your confidence by eating the first biscuit
before offering you the second one. And then he takes the third
biscuit, before giving the fourth biscuit- drugged again, and so on
till you are knocked off and he makes away with your luggage and
wallet. A god man in saffron robes, speaking flawless English, is
seated in the next cabin without reservation, on the bunk of some
unlucky couple that is too reverential to ask him to leave. The god
man ignores the brown skins and engages a couple of foreigners in
obscure oriental philosophy, passing his gilt-edged visiting cards
around, promising them salvation, and detachment from worldly
possessions- which once detached, may be attached- to his ashram. A
small-time politician with his posse of curmudgeon guards, talks
loudly on his phone in another cabin that is stuffed with garlands
of notes and marigolds showered upon him on the platform by the
Director of the Primary Health Care Center that he’d just
inspected. His guards pay close attention to the conversation and
nod vigorously every time he boasts of an exploit to the other
party. A voluptuous, coffee colored female, barely 15, dressed in a
revealing low cut blouse and a colorful skirt tied at the start of
her overfull hips, comes begging for milk for a rosy-cheeked baby
perched loosely on a long arm. Single men tip her generously, while
those under the powerful spell of watchful wives simply sigh and
look on with longing, their fingers itching at the tips of their
fat wallets. A party of singing and clapping eunuchs follows the
beggar girl, welcomed by catcalls of some very lively college
students travelling with us. The eunuchs pinch nipples of the
delighted boys and raise their saris to show their genitals. After
making away with most of the kids’ money, as charge for the show,
the eunuchs move on, leaving our cabin in calm and peace.

I move on to find the TC, for I too like the
god man have no reservation, having caught the first train out to
Sitapur. I find the TC sitting on his bunk next to the coach
attendants, next to the toilets. Once I slip him a crispy
thousand-rupee note, he vacates his berth for me.

The smell wakes me up better than any alarm
clock at 6 AM sharp the next day, as soon as the passengers start
using the toilets. I spread my yoga mat next to the door, shut my
mind and in spite of the stink, do a thousand each of my crunches,
sit-ups, and push-ups, and am ready to go. I tip an attendant 50
bucks to hold a toilet for me and clean it before I go in. I wash
myself with a small enamel mug tied with a short, thick steel chain
to a rusty pipe running near the floor of the toilet, by squatting
on the floor and contracting my vast frame into a fetal position.
In the hard water of the train, there is no joy in the soap. It
lies like a dry, lifeless pebble in my hand. The shampoo lacks
spirit and the water any coolness.

I slip on a clean white kurta pajama and go
back to my bunk, feeling like fresh, fragrant laundry hung out to
dry. I call the coach boy and order three non-veg and three veg
breakfasts with six pots of sugary milk. He looks flustered and is
about to ask me where the remaining five people are; but one wink
from me and he is lit up in understanding.

I get an SMS from Monal that a cab and a
certain local person shall receive me at the station. Must be some
local strongman, I figure, though at the moment I feel quite up to
it all by myself. During the course of my previously following
Aarti mindlessly everywhere, I had joined her Jujitsu classes just
to bask in her glow. The day has come when I shall know whether my
black belt is of any use at all. And hopefully if I handle it well,
there would be no need to crack the knuckles and clench the
fists.

The train seems to be closing in on my
destination as per the boy who clears away my plates and pots-
plenteous testimonies to my fitness for the test at hand.

Sitapur is a holy land-
part of the Hindu
Paanchdham
, i.e. one of the five
essential pilgrim places. The
Puranas
- ancient Vedic scriptures,
were written at this place, and
Maharishi
Dadhichi
is said to have donated his bones
for making
Vajras
-
ritual weapons combining the indestructability of diamond and
irresistibility of the thunderbolt; no doubt deployed effectively
to punch holes in the egos of errant
Rakshasas
- our very own backyard
unrighteous spirits.

The monotony of the
featureless Indian plains is preserved, and a number of natural
ponds and reservoirs dot the bleak landscape. Five rivers irrigate
the land to no avail, their floodplains lined with sandy stretches
called
Burrs
by
the locals. The fields are barren and the veins of field channels
carrying trickles of water run stark and muddy. The land of Sufis,
Seers and Dalits wears a desolate look, long abandoned in the race
for progress and upliftment. People hang from trees to keep cool
here.

As the train chugs into the station the boy
collects my bag and leans by the open door that brings in the stink
of the dry air outside. As I get down two spindly women with six
packs, in bare feet, bright saris and white blouses; standing next
to a frail man with several day’s stubble and worn sandals; greet
me shyly with folded hands. The man stoops down and touches my
feet. One of the skinny women hauls my bag easily above her head,
and balancing it expertly, makes off. I raise a hand in protest but
she’s already out of sight.

We walk to the deserted concrete parking lot
where a shiny white taxi awaits us. We roll down the windows as the
AC doesn’t work, and set off for the lands of the ancestors of
Mukut Chand. I steal a sideways look at the strongman Monal has
sent me; a loose bag of bones, and wonder what help this lady can
possibly be to me.

‘
I am the judge’, she
says, in unmistakable Bhojpuri dialect, ‘judge of the women’s
court. She too is a judge’. She points to the other shriveled,
flat-chested woman sitting cross-legged on the front
seat.

‘
Ah’, I say, and nod my
head, not understanding anything.

‘
Pappu Pandey is a cruel
man. He has an army of several men’, she says.’ The SDM had
received a call from the newspaper office at Lucknow regarding your
visit. We know everything. He has sent us to help you’. She grins
and spits betel juice out of the car. Most of it splatters against
the sides.

‘
Now that I’ve got you
two, I have nothing to be afraid of’.

‘
Yeah, you’ll see’, she
says confidently.

I call Monal and tell her I’ve received my
backup. ‘It’s reassuring’, I tell her. She laughs and says, ’ yeah,
you’ll see’. We discuss some plans and I sign off. I had started
trusted Monal blindly, but now I’m not too sure. I fail to see what
these women can swing that I cannot on my own, without the
additional burden of two gaunt, rattling skeletons.

My entry into the dusty village is heralded
by a ramshackle mob of bare bodied little urchins, some running at
the nose, some running black cycle tires ahead of them with little
wooden sticks, and some running with little, brightly painted
wooden trucks tied to thick white strings, tossing and banging
behind them on the rutted earthen track. The mob is chased by
semi-dressed little girls with matted locks, clinging to their
rough woolly dolls, screaming and shouting for no apparent reason
other than to celebrate the arrival of a rare stranger in their
midst. The local curs join the fun by barking at everything in
sight, but soon loose interest in the merry procession as a more
interesting diversion occurs in the form of dogs from across the
fields rushing in to see what’s up. Women sipping at their hookahs
in the shade watch us through little slits in their crinkled faces;
while bullocks tied to the stumps of their charpoys raise a sleepy
eye, and return to their more important business of chewing
cud.