Asmita

When Rajesh went to meet her Sunday evening, she was not in front of her room as expected. He peeped over her room from the iron-clad window and called with a familiar tone, ‘Asmita, where are you?’
No answer. Again he summoned her, but in vain.

He went to the terrace and saw female tenets playing with beans and chatting in their usual ways. Two children were watching their mothers while passing smiles to Rajesh. He asked them where Asmita was.

He was appalled when one of the women spoke, ‘She has gone to her mawali. Why has she become so important?’

To avoid any further conversations, Rajesh swiftly replied, ‘Because she is my friend and I want to meet her’, and left.

He went downstairs and headed straight to the masala shop. He liked to call it so because he had discovered that the shop sold chilly and sourly items, which he wanted to try before but couldn’t stop by. He bought a few aalu chops, mittas, and bread pieces.

While eating, Rajesh looked at the roads ahead: dusty, crowded and slow. There were school children wrapped up in vermillion powder whilst cheerfully swapping a large shield; perhaps they had just won some competition. At the northern hinge of the chowk, people were drinking their evening tea and smoking cigarettes. Within a while, a truck carrying overload of sugarcane shoots strode by, stirring the dust that had just begun to calm. There was another crowd of men hovering around the paan shop across the road probably waiting for their share of the surti that the paanwala was clapping and mincing. Several bailgadis were trying to make their way through the people and vehicles, all of who seemed static yet moving at the same time. Human noises of ‘huuh’, accompanied by slashes of sticks, from this pre-modern locomotion were normal to the ears here.

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It had only been two months that Rajesh had come to B concerning a medical research project. His job was to examine the weight and the physical conditions children of this village and send reports every week. He was intrigued to find the mothers to be heavily under weight and mal-nourished. The babies too were skinny and severely deprived even of basic amenities.
‘Do not engage there too much, it’s too dangerous!’
‘Just a few weeks back, there was a communal riot and many people were murdered. So think twice!’

These were the unintended suggestions disclosed to Rajesh whenever he shared an intention to move to the locale. The usual travelling from the safe zone with familiar and safe people was suffocating Rajesh and their monologues were making the place more alien, more mystic.

While in the office Toyota, he looked vehemently at the people busy with their daily chores and was beginning to wonder what made them so dangerous. Was it their sullen lives? Their earthly skin color, perhaps?

‘Namaste Rijalji’, said the host, ‘Rajeshji is a staff from my office and was looking for a room. Is any of your rooms vacant?’

‘I knew that the best home in this area is yours so brought him here first’, he added instantly as if to appraise his listener.

‘Namaste Bholaji’, replied the owner, smiling.
He was a mid aged man who had voluntarily retired from a government job because of the insecurity which was killing his mind and heart. Therefore, he assured, he was very precise in unleashing every detail of his tenets before giving any final decision. After all the clarifications about Rajesh and his work were done, Rijalji gave his approval.

‘Okay Rajeshji can stay here but there are some rules he must obey and the amount will be six hundred rupees per month’. Rajesh accepted the offer instantly and promised to move the next week. The significance of working for a blue number plate organization was making him feel knightly.

But the house and its arrangement were indeed noteworthy. The two-storied house lay toward the west facing the morning sun; there was a small hut in front meant to work as a kitchen; and the free spaces were cemented which made it tidy and spacious. The room looked cozy and was netted in the windows keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Luckily he was also provided with a bed and a table.

******

Working for the NGO had a special smoothness with his work. Men readily welcomed Rajesh into their homes and discussed even private matters like their wives’ menstruation cycles and the best approach of achieving a male child. The thatched houses of his clients were made of bamboo walls barely constituting modern utilities.

While travelling deeper south, Rajesh sometimes saw children squatting in the edge of the road to relieve themselves. Later he was to realize that the whole village did not possess a single latrine, and recalled funny remarks his office staffs often made about how the whole villagers cower in queues during dawn. The women, they would add, are allowed to leave their homes only during this hour.

In the day, Rajesh saw groups of men in the village chowks sharing surtis, smoking and chatting in loud voices. A newcomer like Rajesh would usually be welcomed with blind stares and still faces until he was far from them. The children played in open spaces and looked dirty smelling of unwashed skin. Their hairs and clothes resembled the winter Gendas, tattered and forgotten. The women mostly stayed inside the houses, tucking their red vermillion marked heads inside the sari and lowering them as if two-third of their lives is spent in understanding the floor beneath.

*******

Asmita, Rajesh found, was different than other women or teenage girls he encountered in the area. It must be because her father died when she was ten and she only bore one elder brother who left to the city for higher studies. Her mother too was very different. She talked openly with men and did not hesitate to start a mouthful of conversations.

The office had rented a room of Asmita’s house to store files and held meetings as necessary. There were two more families sharing the house with the office. During the early days, Rajesh felt uncertain of the people living around his office and went straight to his room after his work was finished. The houses, children and dusty roads looked same to him, strange.

While in his apartment, he became nostalgic of his active days in the city. The evening teas with his friends accompanied by esoteric discourses had never fatigued him. The cigarettes that they would smoke with great sensitivity too never seemed fulfilling. Their untiring debates about national politics, the plights of youths being erased off the historic scene and great ideas had heightening markings. Automobiles and people that swarmed before the shop were invisible, futile to the whole ordeal. The discussions had a temptation among the participants, a charm somehow anticipated.

Guru was the indignant speaker among his friends. His views, acquainted by polemic, were always full of energy and novelty. He constantly moved his hands as if to behold his listener of the complicated issues he was pouring. He taught in a high school college and fondly recalled events of the classes, making them more exciting with his wits and, of course, prehensile enhancements.

Krishna, meanwhile, was a keen listener and rarely spoke. But his utterances were given special attention. It was generally assumed he opened his mouth only during specific periods which meant something important was needed to be supplemented into the discussion. He worked in an NGO, a ten-to-five job most of the others dreaded incompatible to the current aspirations. Sometimes, Krishna himself would reiterate his possibility of a different job, probably desperate with all the diverse experiences his mates were enjoying. But he was also aware that a secure full time job like his was rare and amiss.

Bhuwan was the most controlled speaker. His calmness and diplomacy had gained a reputation. Whenever a heated debate broke, Bhuwan would, after some moments of freeplay, reconcile the arguments threading them into the areas where they met and agreed.

Sumit, the RJ, was also full of vigor and his eyes sparkled whenever he begun a new conversation. He constantly criticized Guru for making the issues more complicated and reductive by focusing through only one point of view. He explicitly condemned the faulty of being indoctrinated to a single theory or narrative. His was a view of an existentialist. This was probably because he struggled in the city without having anyone to depend upon during his early days.

Rajesh too was an ardent speaker who felt his duty to add his perspectives whenever the discussion was becoming focused. He used to be consumed into deepened thinking, sometimes even failing great thinkers, and try to find a loophole where his views could be nailed.

The tea-seller would often barge into the affair and squeeze a moment for him. He usually ended his conversation with a conformation of the number of teas that were ordered. Sometimes a new member would be involved into the discussion. But the group remained intact and everyone felt embarrassed when darkness obliged them to depart.

***********

to be continued...