Maqbool, by Yashoda
A twenty-twenty five year old man is sitting by the road, his legs folded under him. Next to him is a hillock-like pile of things, covered by a sheet. Whenever a car passes by, the sheet blows a little, tearing off a bit, and the steel utensils, cans for storing flour and children's clothes become visible. The basti is in its everyday rhythm. People know that a settlement has been broken somewhere, but the reverberations of that are deep inside hearts, not on the surface. But those tremors have taken a concrete form and lie before everyone's eyes today, as this young man by the road. People passing by him ask him, “What happened brother? Why are you sitting here?”
He says the same line to everyone in reponse: “My house has been broken.”
“Where was it?”
“Nangla Maachi, Sarai Kale Khan.”
“Did they give anything in return?”
“No.”
Slowly more and more people started to come to meet him. The road which seemed very broad otherwise, began to fill with people. The togetherness, the warmth which one sees in shared spaces inside a dwelling began to stream out through its lanes, onto the open crossroad.
People would look at him, ask him questions, offer their condolences, and placing themselves in this truth of the approaching day, get frightened.
One would look and ask, then go and tell four to five people in his neighbourhood. Women would leave their household chores to come and meet him, participate a while in his grief, then return to their homes with their children, cursing the government.
As time passed, the hot breeze of the afternoon increasingly drew out the moistness from the man's face, and his face became a sentence that circulated in the locality.
“You always said, khala, that you vote for the Congress. Go ahead, keep casting your votes for that “Hand”. That “Hand” now reaches to claw out our face.”
“The government doesn't have any land. They will chase us all out now.”
“All the land there was has been filled. Oh, we should have left before, with love and in peace. At least would have got a plot in Holambi Kalan.”
“It will not be an easy task, breaking this place. We will fight back with guns.”
“Oh ofcourse... That's what they used to say in Kale Khan as well. Now look what is happening there.”
Conversations were accelerating at a speed impossible to slow down. But the man by the side of the road just sat there like he was sitting in the morning. He would neither eat, nor drink. Many people from the neighbourhood took turns to make tea for him, but he refused to drink it. People tried, but he didn't want to eat or drink anything.
Wind began to blow. He held fast the sheet that covered his things, as if he didn't want any face to peep out of a wall made of torn canvas.
The sun began to set. Stoves began to be lit in preparation for dinner. Quiet conversations continued.
Tasting salt in the rice, one said, “Now look what a mother that is. In times of need a mother ought to clasp a child to her breast, but this one didn't even let him shelter himself in her courtyard.”
Frying spices for the vegetables, another said, “Look, she turned out to be more hard-hearted than the government.”
As the glow of the stoves increased, the shape of the young man by the road increasingly made a special space in everyone's midst.
The 8:00 PM soap on Sahara TV, Buniyaad, had started; and in it, a huge group of refugees had started on a never ending trip, eager to save their lives. Outside, by the road, the young man sat, his eyes still shining on a body that seemed to be setting before its time. Tired people returning from work would cast a deep gaze at him, and contract into their dwelling. Something wove itself like fine crochet, but what was it? This is perhaps impossible to know.
Suddenly, the electricity went. Men, women and children began to step of of their homes into lanes, onto the roofs, the courtyards. Men walked towards the road outside. But what's this? Usually when there is a power cut, people gather on the road outside and make a lot of noise. But the road is silent today. No one is singing. No one is standing at Sultan bhai's stall smoking a cigarette, narrating his amor's story. People haven't made small groups, laughing loudly. No one is discussing films and cricket. The near-by tailor is not whistling. The Delhi Police jeep has not had reason to come and station itself outside the dwelling. Maybe this is a co-incidence, maybe something else. Everyone is floating from one place to the other like a gust of cool wind.
Just then, a dark, plump girl, wiping her eyes with her dupatta, walked up to the young man sitting by the road. “Maqbool, my brother...” And saying this, she embraced him and began to cry. The silent, stoic form of the entire day – the young man by the road – melted and wept.
Tears streamed down the two pairs of eyes. Everyone gathered around them. They consoled and quietened the brother and the sister. The power cut ended. Holding all this things in their hands, everyone took Maqbool into the dwelling at eleven at night.
“Where was it?”
“Nangla Maachi, Sarai Kale Khan.”
“Did they give anything in return?”
“No.”
Slowly more and more people started to come to meet him. The road which seemed very broad otherwise, began to fill with people. The togetherness, the warmth which one sees in shared spaces inside a dwelling began to stream out through its lanes, onto the open crossroad.
People would look at him, ask him questions, offer their condolences, and placing themselves in this truth of the approaching day, get frightened.
One would look and ask, then go and tell four to five people in his neighbourhood. Women would leave their household chores to come and meet him, participate a while in his grief, then return to their homes with their children, cursing the government.
As time passed, the hot breeze of the afternoon increasingly drew out the moistness from the man's face, and his face became a sentence that circulated in the locality.
“You always said, khala, that you vote for the Congress. Go ahead, keep casting your votes for that “Hand”. That “Hand” now reaches to claw out our face.”
“The government doesn't have any land. They will chase us all out now.”
“All the land there was has been filled. Oh, we should have left before, with love and in peace. At least would have got a plot in Holambi Kalan.”
“It will not be an easy task, breaking this place. We will fight back with guns.”
“Oh ofcourse... That's what they used to say in Kale Khan as well. Now look what is happening there.”
Conversations were accelerating at a speed impossible to slow down. But the man by the side of the road just sat there like he was sitting in the morning. He would neither eat, nor drink. Many people from the neighbourhood took turns to make tea for him, but he refused to drink it. People tried, but he didn't want to eat or drink anything.
Wind began to blow. He held fast the sheet that covered his things, as if he didn't want any face to peep out of a wall made of torn canvas.
The sun began to set. Stoves began to be lit in preparation for dinner. Quiet conversations continued.
Tasting salt in the rice, one said, “Now look what a mother that is. In times of need a mother ought to clasp a child to her breast, but this one didn't even let him shelter himself in her courtyard.”
Frying spices for the vegetables, another said, “Look, she turned out to be more hard-hearted than the government.”
As the glow of the stoves increased, the shape of the young man by the road increasingly made a special space in everyone's midst.
The 8:00 PM soap on Sahara TV, Buniyaad, had started; and in it, a huge group of refugees had started on a never ending trip, eager to save their lives. Outside, by the road, the young man sat, his eyes still shining on a body that seemed to be setting before its time. Tired people returning from work would cast a deep gaze at him, and contract into their dwelling. Something wove itself like fine crochet, but what was it? This is perhaps impossible to know.
Suddenly, the electricity went. Men, women and children began to step of of their homes into lanes, onto the roofs, the courtyards. Men walked towards the road outside. But what's this? Usually when there is a power cut, people gather on the road outside and make a lot of noise. But the road is silent today. No one is singing. No one is standing at Sultan bhai's stall smoking a cigarette, narrating his amor's story. People haven't made small groups, laughing loudly. No one is discussing films and cricket. The near-by tailor is not whistling. The Delhi Police jeep has not had reason to come and station itself outside the dwelling. Maybe this is a co-incidence, maybe something else. Everyone is floating from one place to the other like a gust of cool wind.
Just then, a dark, plump girl, wiping her eyes with her dupatta, walked up to the young man sitting by the road. “Maqbool, my brother...” And saying this, she embraced him and began to cry. The silent, stoic form of the entire day – the young man by the road – melted and wept.
Tears streamed down the two pairs of eyes. Everyone gathered around them. They consoled and quietened the brother and the sister. The power cut ended. Holding all this things in their hands, everyone took Maqbool into the dwelling at eleven at night.
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