TRANSLATED FROM THE HINDI BY AYUSHEE ARORA

Mousaji was referred to as Mousaji by not just me, but practically everyone in the village.  In the vernacular language, ‘Mousaji’ loosely means the husband of your mother’s sister.  In Sagar, there is a three-way junction called Teenbatti, or the ‘Three Lights.’ Ahead of this intersection, there lies a steep climb.  Sagar is, anyway, a town with uneven terrain, oscillating between high and low topography, much like Bhopal. Rickshaws do not go up the rising land.  Only carts and taxis manage to take people up the mountain.  Just before the ascent ends, a narrow alley opens up on the left.  As soon as you enter this narrow alley, your nostrils are assaulted with the noxious fumes of ammonia. There are high walls on both sides of the narrow street. These walls are plastered with advertisements for digestive supplements, cures for mysterious illnesses, fans, cigarettes, kohl, and toothpaste, among various others.  Actually, these walls are the back portion of buildings where the pipes of public toilets and bathing houses open up.

Where this constricted space ends, there is a small playground liberally littered with ashes, rubbish, and broken bricks and stones. In this playground, those directionless people squat, who unfortunately do not have access to facilities like finished or in-house toilets. A little ahead of the playground, there lies a village called Pacheet Tola. This is where Mousaji stays. 

It is no unusual occurrence to bump into Mousaji.  You could be coming back from the city, returning from the market, bicycling to work, coming back home after watching a movie or going to college, but you will invariably see Mousaji stretched out on an old frayed bed next to an old brick house.

Whenever anyone passes by the narrow street, Mousaji looks at the person with an anticipatory, almost desperately expectant gleam in his eyes. In Mousaji’s eyes, one can see the same undisguised greediness that a child displays when presented with a box of sweets.  Every passerby understands the not-so-veiled meaning of this interaction, and raising his right hand in mock –salute, yells out a hearty, “Mousaji, Jai Hind!” This appeases Mousaji, and he goes back to contently puffing away on his cigarette. Should a passerby be in a hurry or lost in his own thoughts, and fail to acknowledge the existence of Mousaji, then that causes deep hurt to the latte. Incapacitated with grief, he goes on   to grumble and mutter discontentedly under his breath. 

I was new to the town of Sagar. My job was also new. While on a census counting excursion for Pacheet Tola, I encountered Mousaji for the first time. He made me sit on his floppy mattress, and attended to me as if I were a long-lost grandson. In that conversation with Mousaji, I learnt that his household was a four member one- him and his three sons. The two older sons worked in far away cities, and the youngest was in college right there in that town only. Mousaji was the one who did the cooking for the entire household. 

My conversation with Mousaji was interesting, to say the least. He said to me, “Son! Our days were the heydays. Those were the times! We had the British Raj then. It seemed like day and night, we did the same thing. All day long, we would chant Gandhi’s name, partake in religious singsong, and walk around with a cheap khadi bag. ‘Britishers, leave India!’ was the slogan given by Gandhi, so, of course, we had to follow! When he heard the slogan, the Viceroy came to my house, all dressed up and contrite. Folding his hands before me, he said to me, ‘Mousaji, you’re the only one who can save me now! Gandhi is influenced and swayed only by you. You’re the only one who can convince him. Please, I beg of you, let us stay in India!’ I told him, ‘Sir, you are the administrator, but this is a matter of principle. Tilak and Gandhi are saying the same thing- that freedom is our birthright.’ On hearing this, the Viceroy’s eyes filled with tears, and he fell to my feet, begging for forgiveness. But I didn’t budge even an inch from my principles.

I politely kept nodding my acquiescence to whatever Mousaji was saying.

Mousaji’s household was in dire financial straits. They did not have generational wealth or land. All they had was that small brick house, a small corner of which had been let out on rent to a schoolteacher, for the paltry amount of Rs 20. 

I got busy writing down information in the census form. A lot of formalities had to be completed. Mousaji went inside briefly, and came back laden with a small cloth bundle in his hands.  He laid the bundle down on the cot, and started opening it with trembling hands. 

Not one hair on Mousaji’s head was black. Like the husk of corn, it was white His arms. legs, even his spidery veins seemed to be white. His flesh creased and crinkled like a wrinkled cloth. Like an earthen vessel brimming with water, Mousaji’s eyes too, always seemed to be full of swishing liquid, and his eyelashes always seemed to be quivering. Despite this, the light in Mousaji’s eye hadn’t faded even one bit.  After every five-ten minutes, his head would swivel from one side to another. 

He took out faded, crumbling pieces of paper from the bundle and carefully laid them out on the cot.  With a trace of longing in his voice, he said, “Son, don’t talk to me about those days. Ah, what fire and passion we had in our young blood then! Not a single care in the world. No worry about how to food on the table, no worry about how to take care of the wife and kids- no worry whatsoever! All we had was a burning fire within, and the flag of revolution. The British Raj government was merciless. We used to be beaten brutally. And ironically enough, the ones beating us were Indians itself- our own brothers beating us bloody. But Gandhi explained to us that the fault wasn’t theirs’. They were just following orders.” After this monologue, Mousaji took out a neatly folded, albeit faded newspaper and said, “Here, take a look at this newspaper.”

I glanced at the newspaper. It was a local newspaper, written somewhere in the fifties. In the newspaper, there was an article titled ‘Freedom Fighter Maya Prasad “Hiteshi’’, with a picture of Mousaji underneath. Twenty eight years had passed since then. Mousaji was middle aged at that time.

Mousaji hung his head and said, “Look here. The police nearly broke my skull, by beating me relentlessly with sticks. Even now, during the monsoons, my joints start aching. When Ganesh Shankar Vidyarthi was killed, I stayed on here itself. We had recently had a cup of tea together. How on earth was I to know that a little while later, brother Ganesh would be leaving this world for good? Ah what to say……”

Later on, the people of Pacheet Tola told me that Mousaji would keep embedding such details in his mind. He seemed to have a personal equation with the who’s-who of the entire world. From Dadabhai Naraoji to Morarji Deesai, they all seemed to be long lost relatives of his. In his youth, Mousaji was a common volunteer with the Congress Party. He could give a few speeches here and there. When I met him, it was difficult for him to speak for two-three minutes without breath flaring up. When the British Raj cracked down upon the protestors, known as satyagrahis, Mousaji was quietly running away from the Teenbatti junction. The crowd jostled him, he fell, and cracked his head open. When taken to hospital, he was placed in the same ward as the other volunteers. On the list of ‘Political Sufferers’, Mousaji’s name was nowhere to be found. 

I tried to rack my brains, but to me, Mousaji displayed no signs of being insane or delusional. He appeared to be perfectly healthy, sane and balanced. Every morning, without fail, he would go to the Khelavan Paanwala, smoke two-three cigarettes there, and read the newspaper cover to cover. His memory was astoundingly sharp.  All his memories of the time and events before India’s independence were crystal clear. The only problem was that somehow, he would inextricably link himself to the said memories and events. 

He told me that his two older sons were working at very high and reputed posts. The eldest son, Mahendra, was working as a manager at Orient Paper Mill, owned by one Mr Bindla, a renowned industrialist, and the younger one, Rajendra, was a ranger at the Forest Department. Mousaji made it ardently clear that he never wanted to be a burden on any of his progeny. He believed firmly in being self-sufficient and self-reliant. His youngest son, Narendra, would also do very well. A simple, sweet and well-mannered boy, he was extremely good at his studies. 

Mousaji took great pains to inform me that all his three sons were as dutiful and respectful as the legendary Shravan Kumar. Even for the most trivial of matters, they would consult Mousaji and adhere to his opinion. Even for trifles, they would write to Mousaji, and ask his advice. Even the problems that came up with the grandchildren, Mousaji would resolve. Mousaji’s own sons also called him Mousaji.

Famous politicians and bigwigs seemed to be associated with Mousaji’s family.  Once, someone framed Rajendra with false accusations, and took the matter to the Chief Minister. When the Chief Minister heard that Rajendra was Maya Prasad’ Hiteshi’s son, he immediately dismissed the case saying, “This is a scheme to implicate Rajendra and tarnish the good name of Mousaji’s family. The petitioners are utter rascals.”

Mousaji tells me that his eldest son has a lavish mansion, with a car, and several servants. Apparently, Mr Bindla, the industrialist thinks of Mahendra as his own son. Mr Bindla asks Mahendra to handle all his financial and bank matters, because of how much he trusts him. When Mahendra got married, Mr Bindla was seen dancing merrily in the wedding procession. I am informed by Mousaji that Mr Bindla is a fair complexioned, humble and simple man, who wears plain, old clothes, and serves society through his selflessness.

The people of Pacheet Tola however, told me of a reality that was in stark contrast to what Mousaji had told me. The ground reality was that Mousaji’s oldest boy Mahendra, after repeatedly failing the eighth grade, had enrolled for Home-guard Training, and now worked as a caretaker in the paper mill. The middle child was a guard with the forest department, and the youngest boy Narendra had managed to make his way to college somehow, but was barely interested in studying. He was busy gallivanting around the whole day, and was often found at the gambling houses, playing for tainted money. 

All three boys treated Mousaji very badly, and would not lift even a finger to help him. Sometimes, the oldest son Mahendra would send twenty –five-thirty rupees to his father.

Once, when Mousaji fell severely ill, his sons did not even bother to cast a glance his way. The villagers picked up Mousaji from his house and took him to the hospital to get him treated. But Mousaji, as soon as he got better, started saying that his eldest boy Mahendra, on hearing of his father’s ill health, immediately went into a worried frenzy, and quickly called the high-ranking doctors at the hospital. The doctors promptly came and took Mousaji to the hospital in their own car. Mahendra kept calling them repeatedly. On the second day of Mousaji’s illness, Mahendra couldn’t make it to work, because of his anxiety. On learning about the reason for his absence, Mr Bindla too, got worried and he also started calling up the doctors too. Mr Bindla even went so far as to tell the doctors that if Mousaji’s illness was beyond their comprehension, then he could easily send Mousaji abroad for treatment. The doctors worked tirelessly, and Mousaji was all right after five days.

I sometimes felt that Mousaji was playing a pathetic prank on himself. He had fabricated an entire universe built on his delusions, which he perceived as the ultimate truth. I sometimes wished that one of the villagers from Pacheet Tola would go up to Mousaji, shake him out of his illusionary stupor and tell him, “ Mousaji, wake up and smell the coffee! Understand the circumstances and predicament you are in. You need to stop living in a fool’s paradise; else your entire life will be filled with turmoil. Every man should be aware about his real status, after all. You should think of yourself and your future, with a practical mindset. Mousaji, you are a simple, poor man., who does not have a single monetary fruit of his labour left to his name anymore. You are an old man. If at any time, your sons become greedy for your house, you will find yourselves destitute and begging for alms on the street. Wake up, Mousaji!”

My feelings towards Mousaji oscillated between extreme anger and extreme pity. I would find myself equal parts furious at and sympathetic towards him. One thing I was sure of- I wanted to do something to help him. At least enough to help him get his feet back on the ground again, and help him deal with the stark, harsh reality of his circumstances. 

When the election buzz started, and all political parties were busy campaigning, Mousaji was to be found in the jeeps of all political parties. Whatever political aspirant would come to Mousaji’s house, Mousaji would go with him. Mousaji would even tell the said aspirant that they need not worry about the votes of Pacheet Tola, and everything would be conducted in a fair manner. After a spin in the jeep, Mousaji would come home and tell the villagers, “This candidate right here is like my son. I do not know much about politics, but he will manage well. His father and I were close friends during the pre –independence struggle, and were even put in the same lockup. Ah…what to say about those days. Anyhow, I have known this candidate since he was a baby running about in diapers.”

I wasn’t the only one who was worried about Mousaji. A lot of the decent, simple village-folk were also concerned. Many people tried to bring Mousaji back to earth by explaining to him, by mocking him, by reprimanding him, by telling him firmly. But at such times, Mousaji would become utterly bamboozled. Whenever someone would try to pluck Mousaji out of his delusional world, he would narrow his eyes to slits, glare at the person with a hatred-filled look, and spew venom. Sometimes, he even came down to blows. At such times, the liquid in his eyes would threaten to spill over, from under quivering eyelashes. This would evoke such extreme pity for Mousaji in the heart of the other person, that all efforts to bring him back to reality would be abruptly stopped.

One day, an incident happened, which I to this day, am still in disbelief about.  Mousaji was getting ready to prepare food, when someone came and told him that Narendra had been arrested.

Mousaji threw some water on the earthen stove to put it out, and picking up his ancient khadi bag, he started to make his way towards the police station. Initially, his spirits seemed to droop, but then once he started muttering something under his breath, his mood brightened.  It wasn’t difficult to discern what he was muttering about. He fully believed that talking calmly would appease the policemen, and mitigate the effects of the situation. 

I was sitting at the police station that day, waiting for some work and formalities to come to an end. There was no electricity in the town that day, and the police station was functioning with the help of candles. 

Angling his face towards the police officer, Mousaji bent down and said, “Jai Hind.” In response, the police officer asked him, “What is your name?”

“Maya Prasad ‘Hiteshi’, Freedom Fighter!”, Mousaji responded.  His tone was exceedingly polite, and it seemed that his dulcet tones wanted to pave the way for a peaceful resolution to the solution. 

“Why are you here?”, the police officer asked.

For a brief while, Mousaji was silent. Finally he said, meekly, “Sir, my son has been imprisoned for something. I have come to take him back.”

The police officer straightened and looked at Mousaji more closely. “Oh, so you are Narendra Prasad’s father? What do you do?” Mousaji was silent once again.  What work could he say he did? The police officer asked him once again, “What do you do?” I felt that the silence stretched on for unbearably long. Mousaji should say something. Just then, a sentry piped up and said, “What work will he do? He encourages his children to steal and thieve. The old man is probably hand in glove with the son.”

Mousaji quivered from head to toe. Shaken, he managed to speak at last, “No, it is not so at all. That’s a lie. I had pledged in 1942 itself that I would never get involved with any wrongdoing. Look at this newspaper, officer…”From the pocket of his knee length kurta, Mousaji once again drew out the same folded, but frayed piece of newspaper  to show to the officer. “I could not think of doing something unlawful. Even the Chief Minister is well aware of this fact. Why, the endeavours I’ve undertaken to weed out corruption……”

“All these people from the madhouse turn up here.”, the police officer blubbered in evident anger and irritation. “Listen you fool, I’m not asking for your case history! Do you have any proof that you own some property, as collateral? Bail needs to be applied for. Your beloved son has committed a crime. All you people come along, spouting rubbish, and trying to drop politicians’ names.”

I saw that Mousaji was standing right there, still holding the newspaper. I then heard that Mousaji was mentioning Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel’s name, but one scolding from the police officer effectively shut him up. The police officer said, “Don’t talk nonsense here, otherwise I’ll throw you also into jail.  Tomorrow morning, at eleven AM, come with the papers of property ownership and a reliable person as a witness for the bail, otherwise your son will stay in jail for the next six months.  And another thing, if you keep talking rubbish, old man, I will give you some whacks on your behind with this stick, which is when you’ll see sense.”

His shoulders drooping in defeat, gait unsteady, Mousaji began to slowly walk out of the police station.

When I left the police station an hour and a half later, this incident was still fresh in my mind. 

On Teenbatti’s road with the descent, I saw Mousaji sitting on a large rock, holding his head between his knees.

He saw me, and started walking with me. I said, “Mousaji, you had gone to the police station for Narendra’s bail matter. What happened?”

He was silent for quite a while. Gradually, his face lit up, and his enthusiasm returned. He said, “Son, that police officer Mishra- I was close friends with his grandfather. When we met today, we started reminiscing about the old days. When I asked him what happened, he fell to my feet, begging for forgiveness. He said to me, ‘Mousaji, I wasn’t aware that Narendra is your son.  The hands of the law have made a mistake, and I am helpless. Tell me, what can I do?’ I told him, ‘Don’t worry son. You were just fulfilling your duty. Carry on.” When I was making my way out of the police station, he offered to drop me home in his jeep, but I declined his offer.

My turn had come, and I had to go the other way. Mousaji left, the darkness swallowing his form. After some time, he turned back and said to me in a halting voice laden with grief, “Son, I have an important favour to ask of you.” He came closer, and put his hand on my shoulder. I thought to myself that only an undecided, defeated, hopeless, fearful hand would feel like that.  His hand was resting heavily on my shoulder. 

He didn’t say a word. He removed his hand from my shoulder and quickly spun around. He couldn’t compose his features timely enough, which he wanted to hide from me. He was again making his way towards the darkness at a snail’s pace. I was on the verge of telling him that I would go with him the next day to the police station, for Narendra’s bail, but by then Mousaji had gone far away.

I called out and said, “Mousaji! Jai Hind!” Without looking back, he lifted his right hand in acknowledgement and got lost in the darkness. The electricity hadn’t come till then, and the whole town was still doused in darkness. 

Also, read four Italian poems written by Paolo Fichera, translated into English by Mikica Pindzo, and published in The Antonym:

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