A World Within Page 4

  ‘Deepu and you have loved me the most. I am at times worried about Mala. This is the only regret I have. But on the other hand all my kids are settled and happy,’ he says with pride.

  ‘Yes, Dadoo. But tell me who is the best. Do say it is Rewa.’

  He ignores me, ‘Now I will grow old. No one can stop this from happening. My happiness is when my children are happy. They should do mauj, jaise humne mauj ki [they should enjoy, as we enjoyed], parents want nothing else. I want nothing from life now. I have a house to stay, a place to sleep, food to eat. What else do I need? Asha should be happy, children should be happy, that is all.’

  Then as if he remembers something, he looks affectionately at Rohit who has joined us for lunch, ‘I have three sons and he is one of them,’ he hugs an embarrassed Rohit who smiles.

  He shifts to his favourite topic, ‘Rohit, do you get leave? Take a few days leave and come to Solan. I have a few things to settle. My LIC accounts, my property documentation. I do not know anything. There is so much of confusion. You must take leave for at least five to seven days,’ he laughs and caresses Rohit’s cheeks.

  ‘We will come, Daddy, I will take leave,’ Rohit says sincerely.

  ‘You must. Vikram and Deepu will also come, raunak ho jayegi [it will be full of life].’ And then adds worriedly, ‘I don’t know. Deepak may get settled there in Singapore.’

  ‘Deepak is also coming.’ I hurriedly quip in so that he doesn’t feel sad that his youngest son will settle abroad.

  Suddenly he says with a spark of energy, ‘Let us all go to Singapore to Deepak’s place. There are many Indians there. Let us go, we will have a good trip.’

  ‘Okay, Dadoo, we will plan a trip,’ I mumble.

  7

  12 April 2010

  I look out of the window, it is dark outside. Probably it will start raining. Dadoo and Mamma are comfortably settled in bed.

  ‘Dadoo, tell me about your marriage,’ I ask.

  ‘News came from Burma, the girl is fourth standard pass. That was a different time. Fourth class was good enough education, at least for the females. When she came, I asked her about her qualification she told me that she had only passed second standard.’

  ‘So what? It was fine with you when you had accepted fourth pass. There is hardly any difference,’ says Mamma conversationally.

  I settle down to hear their story.

  ‘What choice did I have? The girl was from Burma! It was “a catch” to get married to a firangi! And they were millionaires,’ he says happily.

  ‘Did you get dowry, Dadoo?’

  ‘No, nothing—’

  ‘—Why are you lying, you got everything – dressing table, dining table, beds, beddings, utensils, and ten thousand rupees cash for car. Three sets of jewellery, gold buttons, gold cufflinks and not to forget the twenty-four carat gold Parker pen,’ Mamma quickly adds.

  ‘Ten thousand for car!’ I exclaim warming up to their discussion.

  ‘Their family said they did not need a car, so your Nana gave cash,’ Mamma clarifies, ‘however, your chacha took the money. All other items too were kept in his house, the joint family used it. I could not pick my stuff from there, they would have felt bad.’

  ‘Prakash needed money for business so I gave it to him. It doesn’t matter who used it,’ said Dadoo sheepishly and then asks, ‘Where is your brother?’

  ‘Baldev Mamaji?’ I enquire.

  ‘Is he alive?’ asks Dadoo seriously.

  Mamma glares at him.

  ‘Where does he live? Delhi?’ he asks hastily.

  ‘In Bhabhor Sahib,’ Mamma replies.

  ‘Her brother does not have any affection for her. I will tell you a secret, she is not the real sister of Baldev. She is from a different mother. That is why he does not love her.’

  ‘This is what he thinks. No one talks about this in our family,’ snaps Mamma.

  ‘Everything changes with time, Asha. But one thing is sure, my voti [wife] is very wise,’ he retorts laughingly, ‘through her winks and gestures she stops me from talking.’

  Mamma grins knowing that she has to do all this to handle him in his different moods.

  ‘I have forgotten her father’s name. I think it was Milkhi Ram. People were in awe of their family, they were the richest and most prominent family in that area. My father was also an adviser to the raja, we too belong to the elite of Bilaspur State.’

  ‘We had jeeps, trucks, farms, mills and so much more, we had groundnuts, pulses, sesame, plantations of mangoes and litchis,’ says Mamma fondly.

  ‘Her brother was not even seventh pass. He ran away from school. I know that.’

  ‘Mamma, you tell me about your life in Burma,’ I intervene quickly.

  ‘We were one of the richest families in Burma. Then something happened and your Nana was arrested in civil unrest, his partner fled to India. Later your Nana was captured by the Japanese and kept as a prisoner for three months. I had a chacha and a chachi amongst other relatives there. We prayed fervently for his release; hundreds of roses were needed every day for puja. And then we got to know that the prisoners were being sent to Kala Pani … We went to meet him … I don’t remember much … He came back after three months and started work again. I don’t know whether he was sent to Kala Pani or not. I was about four years old then.’

  ‘The British Raj changed at that time … when he was captured,’ says Dadoo grudgingly entering the conversation.

  ‘Our house was in Bhamo. The only way to reach Bhamo from Rangoon was by taking a flight to Mandley, which was scheduled to fly only once a week, and then a journey by road to Bhamo. I remember, a Japanese soldier entered our premises during the Second World War. He begged for water but no one gave him water. He was shot. I still feel miserable about this, but we were all so scared, he was the enemy,’ she says defensively.

  ‘We had our own temples. Priests from Benaras were specially employed to take care of the temples. We had cooks at that time. We travelled in jeeps and whenever we travelled to India, we always flew. We had a huge well inside the house. Our house had toilets, very few houses had a toilet at that time,’ Mamma recalls.

  ‘What a problem we had! My father had to construct a toilet when we got married especially for her. It was the talk of the village,’ he guffaws, ‘They were interested in the toilet more that the pretty bride.’

  ‘Were you very beautiful?’ I ask.

  ‘I was called Mala Sinha – the star. The Burmese watched a lot of Indian movies,’ Mamma says coyly.

  ‘Her father was a king! He was so rich but her brother was jealous of me,’ says Dadoo getting agitated.

  ‘My father died at the age of sixty-five. He was coming to India. He died of heart attack. Everything in Burma was confiscated by the government,’ Mamma continues.

  ‘They had a very bad time after that. Bahut bura haal hua [it was very bad],’ says Dadoo.

  ‘My father had five brothers; two were in Burma and the rest were in India. I had so many cousins, now I have lost touch with them,’ says Mamma wistfully.

  ‘Look at her brothers’ children. They are not doing anything,’ says Dadoo.

  ‘What are your brothers’ children doing?’ Mamma asks defensively.

  ‘Her father married twice,’ says Dadoo ignoring Mamma’s barb.

  ‘Your brother also married twice. What about him?’ Mamma counters.

  ‘Oh, you don’t know her brother, your mama, he never invited me to have food with him and he did not even have tea with me. He was so jealous.’

  This topic is getting out of control, I think.

  ‘She also did not love her brother, this is the truth. I know that,’ he says.

  ‘I loved him and I love him.’

  ‘She is wrong. I know it. They were of different mothers.’

  ‘In my marriage all jewellery came from Ambala. I had diamond karas [thick bangles], with rubies studded on them. My bhabhi was very good. She loved me more than her daughters,’ Mamma recalls
.

  ‘Rewa, leave it. Talk something else. Don’t remind me of the sad past,’ says Dadoo out of the blue.

  ‘Is it hurtful, Dadoo?’ I say trying to look serious.

  Dadoo is silent.

  ‘Did you get a lot of gold in your marriage?’ I persist looking at Mamma.

  ‘Rani haar [queen necklace] and gold karas, they weighed more than a kilo,’ says Mamma.

  ‘Asha, is your brother alive? Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘Yes my brother is alive. He lives in Delhi and sometimes in Bhabhor Sahib.’

  ‘Look at her, she does not know the exact whereabouts of her brother. She has no clue about his children. He does not even come to meet her.’

  ‘All this is because of you,’ Mamma snaps.

  ‘Don’t make a noise, go to your brother. You cannot stay there even for a night. He has not even called her for the last twenty years. They are strangers. He has never asked her if she is alive or not.’

  ‘Shanti rakho [be calm],’ Mamma says.

  ‘It is a question of fate, each one has his or her own kismat [fate]. Her mama was a judge. He and my father were class fellows and that is how we were married,’ he says concluding, giving Mamma an affectionate smile.

  ‘Out of the two families which one was more important, Dadoo?’ I ask.

  Mamma hisses, ‘Chup reh, baat ko mat badha [keep quiet, don’t stretch the conversation].’

  ‘I can’t say. We both are winners in this marriage. When our marriage was fixed I was in Solan; prior to that I was posted in Bilaspur. Had I stayed there for a few more months, I would have married Malkiet’s sister. Malkiet’s father was very influential and rich. At that time marriage was more between families than individuals. So social status was important … ’

  ‘But aren’t you happy with her?’ I ask quickly.

  ‘Of course, she is the best,’ he says making Mamma smile.

  8

  Dadoo was born in a small, non-descript village, Chaunta, in erstwhile Bilaspur state of present day Himachal Pradesh in the year 1931. He was named Jagdev, meaning the god of the world.

  His father, Lala Amrit Lal Verma was a landlord and the village moneylender – a ‘rich’ man from village standards. He had studied engineering in Lahore. For some time he worked as an overseer under the British Government but then he left his job as untimely death of my father’s grandfather brought him back to take over the money-lending business in the village. Also someone had to look after the land and the shops.

  My grandfather was a well-known person in Bilaspur state; he was close to the Raja of Bilaspur and was one of his advisers. He was elected as the pradhan (head) of the village panchayat and remained so for more than sixty years till his death at the age of ninety-five.

  Bilaspur state was the last to accede to the Indian Union after Independence. The state, known as Kehloor, had come into existence at the foot of the western Himalayas more than a millennium ago. This land of legendary sages Markandaya and Ved Vyas was ruled by many progressive rulers. Not only the rulers even the common people of Bilaspur are a proud lot, even though the outsiders see this pride as arrogance.

  Dadoo belonged to the generation that saw the state capital of Kehloor – the beautiful town of Bilaspur, named after sage Ved Vyas, who is said to have meditated here – submerge when Bhakhra Dam was built. This temple of modern India changed everything for the people. Everything. Their homes, shops, fertile fields, exquisite temples dating back to seventh century, the grand palaces, market, and the vast plain known as Sandu ka Maidan went down in the Gobind Sagar Lake. The scars of this submergence and the pain of being uprooted from the land of their ancestors never left Dadoo. He always remained an outsider – an oustee – the rootless person.

  We children, who were unware of the emotional upheaval that submergence had caused, could never understand his pain and could not relate to him when he said that he longed to go back to go to Chaunta, his native village. But there was no Chaunta! It had gone down in the Satluj; it was under the Gobind Sagar Lake, the reservoir of Bhakra Dam. The village disappeared but nostalgia remained and Jagdev Verma, my Dadoo, has been living with this nostalgia all his life.

  It was not just the pain of submergence of Chaunta but also the fact that he had to leave his second home too that made him distressed. They were offered land in Jaddu Kuljar – backward area – after Chaunta was submerged. Since my grandfather was educated, he sent away Dadoo to study in a school, at the age of four, which was far away from the village. Dadoo initially stayed with his maternal uncle and then shifted to a hostel in Bhanoopli; he then moved to Mahalpur and eventually to Hoshiarpur for further studies. He was the first person to do MA in mathematics from the Bilaspur state.

  Dadoo taught mathematics to graduate and post graduate students for decades. Mathematics is all about memory and numbers, but now, he is forgetting things that are so common. How could dementia happen to him, the professor of mathematics? Mysteries of brain are so deep and confusing.

  After completing his degree Dadoo came back to his village but soon his father asked him to look for a job. And so, along with a servant Dadoo left for Shimla, the biggest town.

  Dadoo used to narrate this tale so many times with chuckles, ‘I left the house with great expectations and decided to become a deputy commissioner. I put up at a sarai [a lodge] in Shimla, as there were few hotels and my father had instructed the servant to cook good food for me.’ He would always laugh at this point.

  ‘Soon I got to know that I had to clear an exam for it which was not scheduled yet. So I walked all the way to Rampur, about one hundred and twenty kilometres from Shimla, on the banks of the Satluj. Here, I joined as a clerk. So the “deputy commissioner” became a “babu”. When the magistrate at Rampur got to know that a highly qualified person had joined as a clerk, he called me and told me to find a job suitable for my qualification. A month later, I joined as a lecturer at the degree college in Bilaspur.’

  Dadoo did his B.Ed after that and he was selected to go on deputation to Nigeria. He had to stay there for ten years. Unfortunately we had to leave Mala didi and Vikram in India because of their education. Mala didi was in eighth standard, studying in a Hindi medium school, so could not have shifted to the new educational system in Nigeria. Vikram was also put in a boarding school in Shimla so that both had each other’s company. Initially Deepak and I accompanied Mamma and Dadoo to Africa. Vikram too came to Nigeria after Mala didi completed her matric and shifted to Solan, where our grandmother came to stay with her.

  Dadoo instead of living miserly and saving money like so many others of his generation, travelled all over Europe, Asia, Africa and America. We used to rent a house in London for a month and he would take us to different countries. We roamed around like gypsies.

  9

  Brain works round the clock but when we are healthy we do not appreciate its effort. We take it for granted. It is not a machine, all our ideas and tales of laughter, desire and pain take shape inside the brain. It separates the past from the present in a very meaningful manner without de-linking the two. It is an always churning and brewing melting pot of sanity that gives us sense of time and meaning to our existence.

  But for Dadoo this churning has stopped. For him there is endless confusion. He is at war with himself, trying to give meaning to things that he had always known but which are so unfamiliar. Everything is slipping before him; slowly, each moment.

  He does not quite remember which day of the week it is. A few months back he used to be focused on Sundays: He’d often ask, ‘Today is Sunday?’ ‘When is Sunday?’ or ‘After how many days is Sunday?’ May be that was his way of keeping track of time. But now even that is disappearing.

  It is true that death erases the entire burden of living. Whatever happens, the thought of death being there at the end provides relief. I agree with him when he says, ‘Enjoy and celebrate life, each one of us will die one day.’ But celebration of life and comfort of death seem so m
eaningless when I see him ebbing away.

  10

  12 May 2010

  I am so surprised. The man who left his home at the age of four, built a house in another part of the state, left India with family to work in an unknown African nation, roamed around the world would be so obsessed to return to his native village.

  In the last few years, he had started talking for hours about Kuljar, his childhood and lament why he built this house in Solan, so far away from home. He felt rootless and displaced. ‘I am an outsider. You will never understand what it means,’ he would say to us.

  ‘I want to go to Kuljar. Sohnya sardara wey, neeli ghodi walya, tain kithe dera la laya, vey sonhnaya sardara vey … [Oh handsome warrior with a blue horse/where have you settled/Oh handsome warrior …]. Kuljar is my watan [native place]. I own large areas of land in Kuljar.’

  I sit and listen as he sings.

  Some things are so deep-rooted, it does not matter where you live all your adult life, in the end you want to return to where you were born. Dadoo repeatedly talks about his village, and contemplates to shift though there is no house to live in. But this does not matter to him as there are always the houses of neighbours, kyonki woh apne log hain [because they are our kin].

  One day I asked him, ‘Dadoo, what made you come back from Nigeria? They had extended your deputation.’

  ‘No one can stay away from parents for long. In Nigeria the relationships were not permanent, my parents were here so I had to come back. I saw several countries, saved money, bought land with that money. Now I don’t know where these lands are or what happened to that money. I have forgotten now. Anyway what do I need money for? Nothing.’

  And then he goes on, ‘Since my father was educated he enrolled me in a school and then college. I was thrown out of my house at the age of four by my father. Imagine!’

  ‘But it was for your good, for your education,’ I say.