#36 Wilfully helpless
On 30 March, Uttar Pradesh government banned the sale of meat within 500 metres of religious places, during the nine-day Chaitra Navratri festival. Many mom and pop meat stores are run by Muslims.
Welcome to the third edition of All Things Indian, where I unpack the complexities of contemporary India. Each post is a short piece of fiction based on real people I have seen, heard of and met during my decades of reporting. Each story will give you a short insight into the state of affairs in India today.
The heat is unbearable. It is not even April yet. My legs will give way if I stand a minute longer as the rays piece my body. Where is Chandra bhai? Can’t seem to spot my partner anywhere. I will just have to tell Mastan to send Chandra bhai to Abdullah’s shop when he comes.
“Mastan bhai,”
“Arre, Mastan bhai”
Why does he pretend to not hear me? Can I blame him though.
“Arre, Mastan bhai.” I hold his arm.
“You do realise it is Eid, right?” I did not expect him to swing around forcefully to face me. I am trying to regain balance.
“Don’t assume that I will be scared because you are the police,” he tells me.
“I will not.” I bend my head down.
“Why are you doing this, miyan?” now his tone is softer, he is trying to reason with me.
“Mastan bhai, you know that fans of your meat are spread from Deoria to Dadri,” I say.
“Chal chal, you rascal”
I let him speak. He should let out the frustration, the anger.
“Even you are a fan, aren’t you?” he asks me.
“Even though I am a Brahmin,” I say, pinching my throat ever so slightly. I swear.
“Then why?” there was just one tear flowing down his left cheek.
Mastan’s grandfather and my grandfather were competitors in neighbourhood chess tournaments. They hated it when the other won, but also loved it very much. Main streets of Lucknow’s Kaiserbagh would be filled with groups of people hovering over chess boards throughout the summers. They had nothing much to do until the rains cooled the earth down and one could go to plant wheat seeds again.
Although Mastan is 10 years older than I, he doesn’t patronise me.
“Mastan bhai” I hold his arm again, look down in helplessness. “I don’t make these laws” I whisper.
Why am I being held responsible? After all, I am a lowly constable. What has this country given me other than a treacherous job after a ten-year wait. My wife wanted to go to Shimla, I could not afford it. My son wanted a new toy car, I prioritised buying rice instead. My mother wanted her ashes to be scattered in Kashi, I didn’t have the bus fare for that.
I want to shake Mastan’s shoulder and ask him these questions.
I had been standing in the punishing heat all morning, came close to fainting, but continued to work. I continued to ask meat shops to be closed. I gained nothing, huh Mastan bhai?
But, I stand there. Say nothing.
“If I don’t do business, what will I take home on Eid?” he asks me.
He will not be able to take his wife to a hill station or buy toys for his children or take his mother to the Ajmer Dargah.
Life has been hard on me. But, people have been cruel to Mastan.
My people. His people. Our people.
“Eid mubarak” I blurt out, even as I hand him the lock to his meat shop.