Black & Yellow Chronicles – 4

Posted on | June 15, 2009 | Comments

(continued from here)

“No. It was the love of one man that brought me to Mumbai.”

(Before I could make sense of that, he quickly clarified.)

“My chacha (father’s younger brother), sir. We go back a long way.”

(By now I knew I would not have to ask him. He continued.)

“My chacha is 2 years older than I am. We grew up in Jaunpur together and were very close. In fact, if there was anyone I ever looked up to, it would be him.”

“The same chacha who accompanied you to the doctor’s buffet?”

“Yes. Chacha and I went to the same school. There was hardly any money in agriculture. On top of that my father had to sell most of our land to repay the local money-lender. The day I passed my 8th standard exams, my father told me that I should now work and help him run the family. So my chacha also stopped going to school and decided to work alongside me.”

“What work?”

“Odd jobs. Petty labor, part-time stuff. Then the day I turned 18, my father got me married. He needed the money.”

“What money?”

“The girl’s father paid my father 25000 rupees in cash.”

“Oh.”

“My father is a good man, sir. He had three brothers. Chacha was the youngest. The other two died young and my father was taking care of their families as well.”

“You lived in a joint family?”

“Yes. My son was born soon after. The year after that, my daughter was born. Those were tough times. You would know there is nothing called development in Uttar Pradesh. The m******od politicians and their goondas (goons) have built their havelis (mansions) by squeezing the poor farmer over the years.”

“It is sad.”

“It is their strategy sir. The m******od politicians will not allow the poor to study. So they stay ignorant. Then they fool them into giving up their land. Then they make them work on their own land as laborers. Uttar Pradesh is like this because the poor farmers are uneducated.”

(That, I have to admit, was a pretty accurate and concise analysis.)

“That is why I decided, come what may, my son will study. I admitted him and my daughter to the local school. The boy was bright. Topper in his class, every year.”

“That is good.”

“Not necessarily,” he smiled. “Chacha had bought a second-hand tempo with the money he had saved. So we made money transporting odd stuff from one village to another. It was going fine till my son topped his school in the 8th standard exams.”

“You see, we lived in a village near Jaunpur. The local school did not teach beyond the 8th standard. So the only way out was to admit my son in the senior school in Jaunpur. That meant spending 15 thousand rupees, which I did not have. I asked my father, who flatly refused. He said, put the boy to work – we need to make money, not spend it.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothing. My father is the head of the family. His word was final and I could not disobey him. It was chacha who did everything. He quietly sold his tempo and used the money to pay for the boy’s admission fee, hostel charges – everything.”

“Sold the tempo?”

“Yes. Chacha said, if the boy studies, chances are he will have a better life than we had. So he went and did this on the sly. We were hoping my father would not find out.”

“Did he?”

“Yes he did. Bad deeds rarely get caught. But good ones get blown out of proportion.”

“What did he say?”

“Father had a showdown with chacha. He was clear. If you cannot live by his rules, you cannot live in the same house. So chacha left the house. Now I love my chacha more than anyone else. So I left with him. My father has still not forgiven us.”

“Then?”

“For 3 months we did odd jobs at highway dhabas (restaurants) and slept in the fields. Then chacha borrowed money and bought a tempo. We had just the two of us to look after. So we managed to save money. In one year, we bought a second hand jeep. I drove the jeep while chacha drove the tempo.”

“What about your family?”

“They stayed back with my father. It was better that way.”

“And your son continued his studies?”

“Yes, chacha had already paid for his fee. We were also doing better and managed to send him money from time to time. Everything was going well till chacha had a lafda (trouble) with some local cops. The m******ods wanted a big chunk of our earnings.”

“Why?”

“Permit charges for running our jeep and tempo on the highway. Extortion sir. It happens all the time there.”

“Doesn’t that happen in Mumbai as well?”

“Mumbai cops are the best sir. They don’t bother taxi drivers like us for big money. If you get caught, 10-20 rupees are all you need to pay if you plead well. But in Uttar Pradesh, the cops are different. They don’t leave you. You never know when they will trap you in some murder case that you have nothing to do with.”

(I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a barb. Compliment maybe.)

“That is when chacha decided to come to Mumbai. I couldn’t possibly stay without him. So we sold the tempo and jeep, took all our savings, caught a train and arrived here. Over the next 2 years we bought a taxi. Then the second one followed. We made enough money to send back some to my father. And to my son. We got my daughter married in Jaunpur. Then, in time, we bought a little kholi (room) where my wife, chacha and I live today. Chacha never married. He treats my son as his own.”

“So now that your son is getting married, you should be happy. The daughter-in-law will look after you.”

“I am a realist sir. She is a educated girl, working in Pune. When she visits us, you think I will be able to ask her for a cup of tea? I am an illiterate taxi driver. I will be the one who will make tea for her. The times have changed. She will go and live with my son in Delhi. I will drive my taxi here.”

“Why don’t you go and live with your son? He is doing well now.”

“Who will like to keep a taxi driver in the house sir. Chacha says, we should be happy that my son is well settled.”

(I was thinking about the irony of the situation when he spoke up again)

“So now that you know all this, tell me something sir.”

“What?”

“After all I went through for my son, am I wrong in taking 1 lac in cash and a Scorpio from the girl’s family?”

“Turn left and stop outside that gate.”

(We had reached my colony and I had been spared the agony of answering a truly tough question.)

“It was lovely talking to you. I did not even ask you your name.”

“You are from Lucknow, sir. So I will tell you. My name is Jeet Singh. Ask anyone at the cabstand. They will know me.”

(I paid him 500 rupees and asked him to keep the balance. The conversation was worth a lot more, if you ask me. Well worth a lot more.)