WHEN Mannar wore a maroon t-shirt and a white veshti, he became a member of the Neo Freedom Fighters For Social Justice League.
He did not know he belonged to the League. It was a secret league. Its secret uniform was a maroon shirt (a t-shirt or even a banian or a jibba would do at a pinch) and a white veshti or trousers. For women, any maroon article of clothing. They were not idiots, these NFFFSJLers, so there was also a secret signal. The signal was a head scratch.
On the day that Mannar wore the maroon t-shirt (which he borrowed from his roommate because one of his shirts was dirty and the other, which he had washed, was not dry) and veshti, Mannar had also not washed his hair for five days because it was the last week of the month and there was no money for shampoo.
Mannar left his mansion and walked along a street in Triplicane. The street was narrow and crowded, and it was also a bus route. Mannar let himself be jostled by the frenzied foot passengers and even let a cow have a shy at him (it slyly pretended that it was only going to lick its rump), but took care not to step into the path of the buses, for everyone knew all the drivers were hardened homicides. If it was earlier in the month, he would have been inside a bus, enjoying the sight of pedestrians flirting with death. Now it was either the bus fare or dinner.
It was 6 in the evening. Mannar was in a hurry; he had to relieve the day shift watchman at 7, and he had to walk 8 kilometres from Triplicane to T Nagar and eat at a kayyendhi bhavan (he was a regular at one near Panagal Park) before then. He was hopelessly late. But the day shift watchman, Munsami, had been late this morning, so it was his turn to wait.
He leaped over a puddle of dirty water and very nearly barreled into a man striding along in the opposite direction. The man glared at him. “Sorry,” Mannar said and would have moved on, wondering why some people should be so touchy. The man’s arm shot out and a hand gripped his shoulder fiercely. Mannar sighed. What now, a fight? For this?
The man planted himself in Mannar’s path now. His eyes bored into Mannar’s, and they blazed manically. Mannar scratched his head in perplexity and also because it itched. The man nodded and scratched his head too. He spoke, and said something startling.
“Come, let’s have tea.”
There was a tea stall not five paces away. Its tiny, grungy interior, lit by a naked CFL, had four pigmy sized mica topped tables and stools. Mannar followed the strange person into it as a matter of course. Free Tea. Maybe a bun to go with it too.
The woman at the counter at the entrance to the shop handed out the tea and the two sat at a table. Mannar blew on his glass before taking a cautious sip. The other drank the scalding tea as if it was a cool drink. This was a remarkable man, Mannar thought.
Mannar looked wistfully at the bottles of biscuits, cakes and buns on the counter. A bun with the tea. He looked fixedly at the bottle of buns. Perhaps the man would get the hint.
The man was looking fixedly at Mannar.
He had a jolna bag which he had laid on the table. He was wearing a maroon khaddar shirt and a white veshti. He cast a hasty glance over his shoulder (he was facing away from the busy street). His hand dived into the bag and brought out a parcel made of newspaper and taped with broad cellophane.
He placed the parcel on the table and held out his hand. Mannar took it and the other gripped it with manic strength briefly.
“Good luck, friend!” he said. Then he stood, spun around and walked away.
“Oi!” Mannar yelled and ran to the edge of the pavement. The man had disappeared in the crowds. Mannar looked at the woman manning the counter. She was gazing sternly at him.
He returned to the table. His head whirled. Fifty rupees was his entire fortune. The tea cost five rupees a glass. It was the twenty sixth. The month had thirty days. Why, there were all kinds of fools in the world, and he was their king. He cursed himself and he cursed the manic stranger. So this was the new game, eh? Very neat, very neat.
“My friend,” said a voice at his shoulder. It was the stranger. He had not run away after all. Mannar’s heart leaped.
“I hope you have money for the tea,” said the man. “I have no change.”
And he was gone again, walking with his spasmodic gait. Just like that. Mannar slapped his forehead. Why hadn’t he grabbed the fellow when he had the chance? Idiot. Idiot!
He paid for two glasses. He considered telling the woman that he would pay for one glass only, seeing that the other person had run away and was a stranger. He opened his mouth, took in the woman’s sour face and gimlet eyes and said, “that is all.”
He stepped out of the stall and went his way dejectedly, dragging heavy feet.
“Oi! Oi! Maroon t shirt, oi!”
Someone was shouting at him. Now what? He turned and saw the woman standing on the pavement outside the stall. He trudged back to her. She held out the newspaper parcel, her face expressionless.
*****
It was well past midnight. The office Mannar guarded, on the first floor of an office complex, was deserted. The narrow street, which he could see through a window, was very nearly empty, except for a pack of apathetic dogs. No one ventured into this small cul de sac at this hour and the dogs had no reason to bark. Mannar opened the parcel in the dimly lit reception of the office. There was nothing else to do. He would usually stretch out on the visitors’ couch and sleep peacefully until morning, but he was not sleepy tonight. The tea stall incident still rankled. He’d finished the day’s newspapers. The rows of cubicles stretched away into the dark bowels of the building, as desolate as a graveyard. Worse than that. Graveyards had life.
The parcel was full of handbills. He had hoped vaguely for something more like currency notes. He’d run out of newspapers, so he read a handbill.
He sat up straighter. His heart beat faster. He read on avidly, hungrily now. It gripped him, this handbill.
Kindred sufferers, fellow citizens of this our once glorious and now benighted land, this bharat that Gandhi dreamt of, stop being cows. The scum of the earth, vile, treacherous parasites, milk you, they suck your blood, and you stand there like cows, like livestock! The politicians have raped our country. They and their cronies, the capitalists, keep you in squalor and poverty. You live in hovels, they live in palaces too big for them. You do not have the money for two square meals a day, and they throw away food because they are too full. They buy your votes, your priceless right as a citizen, your only weapon, with biriyani and arack. They crave power for one reason only; to defraud the nation, to cheat you, to take the money that would put a roof over a man scorched by the sun, that would save a woman dying for want of medicine, that would help a child to climb out of the cesspool of poverty and illiteracy.
My friend, why do you stand by idly and watch as these parasites become fat and sleek at your expense? Why do you let them step on your head and climb higher, and push you deeper into the cesspool of poverty?
If you are a cow, read no further.
If you are human, and your blood quickens at the thought of the injustice, the crimes being perpetrated upon you by the demonic creatures also known as the politicians and capitalists of this country, join the NEO FREEDOM FIGHTERS FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE LEAGUE.
Yes. It is time for a second freedom struggle. It is time for a thousand, a lakh, nay, crores of Gandhis to rise again. This is not the India that the mahatma dreamt of. These contemptible leaches that call themselves politicians are not the leaders he wanted for India. India is not free yet. Let us finish the job Bapu began.
The NFFFSJL will not rest until our great nation is rid of these parasites. It will not rest until every citizen of this country gets JUSTICE! We are for a society in which those who govern are servants, accountable in every way to the people they serve.
If you would join the fight, if you would help the cause that matters above all else, join us.
Wear a maroon shirt, preferably khaddar, and a white veshti, also of khaddar. If you are a woman, you should wear a maroon sari. Should you see another person who is dressed exactly like this, scratch your head. If the other person also scratches his or her head, you have met a fellow NFFFSJLer. Your fellow freedom fighter will have news or instructions for you, if you are a new member. If you are an old member you will have news and instructions for them. If on the other hand, you are a politician leach or a capitalist pig, tremble! For the day when you will pay for your crimes is not far away!
We are not strong enough yet to come out into the open. So you must guard the secret of our existence with your very life. Do not talk about this to anyone. When the streets are filled with maroon and white, when the guilty cannot turn around without their gaze falling upon one of our brethren, then we shall move. Then there will come a day of accounting, when they shall pay for their crimes, when justice shall be done!
Until then, wear maroon and white as often as you can. If you are one among the crores of the oppressed in this nation, if you would cure yourself of the bovine apathy that afflicts so many of our compatriots, you will. Jai Hind!
*****
Mannar was even less sleepy than before. This was like a quarter of Monitor whiskey, raw, swallowed in one gulp! He sprang to his feet and began to pace from one end of the reception to the other. It was clear now that the strange one who had not paid for his tea was some sort of underground revolutionist. And he had mistaken Mannar for another. Now that he had read the handbill, it was not a mistake anymore. Mannar wanted in.
The beauty of it was that he was already in. All he had to do was wear the uniform of revolution. And here was his first mission. He must hand out the handbills, of course. He sat down at the receptionist’s desk and thought. He must be careful. He must not waste the precious handbills. Each piece of paper was a seed. It must be sown in fertile soil. It must go to someone with blood running in their veins, not water. To people from the labour class, the underclass, who were trampled by the rich as they scrabbled for more riches.
He lay down on the visitors’ sofa and tried to sleep. He had work for the morning.
*****
The day shift watchman drifted in at 8 in the morning. Late again. He looked at Mannar guiltily but defiantly, as if waiting for him to make a noise about it. But Mannar had other things on his mind.
“Munsami!” he said. “Are you a cow?”
The other bristled. “You are the cow! Who are you calling a cow? You are a dog!”
Mannar flapped his hand irritably. “I meant a cow who is milked by the rich, and given nothing more than a pittance as salary in return! Can you even afford oil cakes on your salary? You have five children! Think man, you have to beg and borrow to feed your family while these capitalists who employ us waste costly food!”
“So what?” said Munsami, still beliigerent, but also confused. “Just because I came a little late. As if this dorai is always on time,” he muttered.
“Never mind all that,” said Mannar. “Here, read this.” He gave his fellow watchman a handbill. “I will go now, tell me what you think of it this evening.”
*****
His roommate, Bhaskar, read the handbill before he left for his job at a factory that made steel vessels. He was lukewarm, to begin with.
“What will come of it?” he said. “How many of these so called revolutions has this land seen? Nothing changes, I tell you. The poor people are indeed cows. They are also idiots. They will lie down apathetically and let these people screw them. They are nerveless corpses, who pretend to be alive! They deserve these bastards they elect to the government, they deserve the sick assholes who infest government offices like cockroaches and scorpions and take money for doing their duty, as if they are granting us favours! Chop these politicians and government clerks to pieces I say! And that motherfucker who owns our factory, makes us work like dogs for his leftovers! Give me my t-shirt. I will wear maroon and white from today!”
His voice had risen to a shout. Mannar was a little startled, and dismayed. He had forgotten the t-shirt. His friend had talked himself into a fine frenzy, but if he joined the NFFFSJL, he could not be part of it. He reluctantly pulled off the t-shirt.
Bhaskar noticed the wry face. “Oh, ok, you keep this. I’ll buy a new one today. I know a pavement shop where you can get them really cheap.”
“Buy one for me too,” said Mannar, recklessly. “I will pay you on the first.”
*****
Mannar spent the day wandering the streets with alert, roving eyes. He handed out most of the handbills, looking both furtive and intense at the same time. Most people looked bemused when they took the handbills. Mannar was a tall and well built man and had a magnificent virumandi mustache (he came from Tirunelveli, where these mustaches grew as well as rice). He managed to convey a sense of import, and the handbills did not look like some advertisement for a saree shop or quack medicine.
He was waiting to cross a road in Mylapore when he saw, out of the corner of his eyes, a man in a silk jibba and veshti waiting to cross the road too. The jibba was maroon. And the veshti was white. He was a swarthy, corpulent creature, one of those grossly obese persons who always made Mannar wonder how anyone could afford so much food. He looked like one of the parasites who were the sworn enemies of the NFFFSJL. And yet he wore the uniform. Not the uniform, strictly speaking, silk! The man turned quickly and gave Mannar a sharp look.
He scratched his head! Deliberately, nodding significantly at the same time.
Mannar scratched his head too, more in perplexity than in acknowledgement of the secret signal.
“Come,” said the big man. His blood shot eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Let us have some coffee.”
Mannar started. Oh ho, so this was the game.
“Oh, it’s alright, some other day,” said Mannar.
“Really, no need to feel shy, there’s a good café at the end of this street, and they will be making bondas and bajjis at just about this time.” The man looked at his heavy gold wrist watch. The many rings on his fingers glinted in the late afternoon sun. “And some kesari will be perfect after the chilli bajjis and mysore bondas. These people are not stingy with the cashew nuts.”
Mannar’s swallowed saliva. “But, you see, it’s the end of the month, and…”
The man gripped his elbow. “Come, come, we’re meeting for the first time, you will be my guest. League members have to look after each other, right?” And the man actually winked. So there it was, out in the open. Perhaps the man had news. Yes, the movement was already gathering force. And there were funds enough, it seemed, for the occasional indulgence.
*****
After his third plate of mysore bondas, the man found the time for introductions.
“Karuppiah,” he said, looking intently at the display of sweets in the glass case at the other end of the tiny café. “And you?”
“Mannar, very happy to meet you,” said Mannar. He meant it. He was replete with bajjis and bondas, and a glass of excellent strong coffee, and the kesari was still to come. With cashew nuts. He could see it in its deep steel dish inside the case, and it was steaming hot. It appeared to be swimming in ghee.
“Another coffee, strong, medium sugar,” Karuppiah yelled, raising his hand and addressing the lone waiter.
What, thought Mannar. This man had already had three glasses of coffee! But when the coffee came, Karuppiah made the waiter set it down before Mannar, with a casual wave of his hand. Mannar was almost too overcome with gratitude to drink it.
“And bring the kesari now,” said Karuppiah. “Two plates each. Don’t forget the cashew nuts, Suresh!”
The waiter grinned. Karuppiah was obviously a regular, a big eater and a big tipper.
“No, no, really, one plate is more than enough, I’ve already eaten too much,” said Mannar.
“Oh, you can afford to eat, not like me,” said Karuppiah, patting his great pot belly. But he said this complacently, with a self-satisfied smile.
Mannar reflected upon the irony of this. He could not afford to eat because he had too little, and the other because he had too much. Exactly what the handbill had said. He knew it by heart. Not that Kauppiah was allowing this to stop him. The man ate like a, like a, not a pig, he was too nice, like a man with a big appetite and a budget to match.
“But there are so many people who cannot afford three meals a day,” Karuppiah said, almost as if he could hear Mannar’s thoughts. He had to swallow a mouthful of kesari to say this. He shook his head sadly.
“That is what we must change!” said Mannar, his voice rising a little. His fingers tightened around his spoon.
“Yes, of course! It is up to us, who else have they got? These politicians are all criminals. Should be jailed, every one of them. Some of the atrocities I have seen!”
There was a pause while the two ate their kesari. The orange, heavenly sweetness swamped the senses.
The man scraped the last morsel off his plate, leaned back and shook his head sadly again.
“And they have no gratitude, no gratitude at all, the dogs!” he said. “Oh, why am I comparing that noble animal with them. They are worse than insects!”
“Who?” said Mannar, a little mystified.
“The politicians, of course.”
“True, true, you’re very right.”
“How much I have done for them! And see what I get in return.”
“What have you done for them?” said Mannar, feeling that there was a terrible and tragic story behind this large man.
“I spent 3 lakhs, 3 lakhs sir! on the campaign in the last election. For the black and red party, you understand me? I’m not bothered about the money, comes today, goes tomorrow, but the feckless bastards did not give me a ticket. Or even a piffling councillor post. OK, forget all that, did they give me a party administrative post at least? Even that would have been some compensation, some small opportunity to make some profits. But no. As soon as they win the election, they forget loyal workers like me. The chief minister’s son’s best friend, his keep’s nephew, the slimy bastards who lick his ass at every opportunity…it is they who get the big posts. Tell me, Mr. Mannar, tell me! How are people like us to recover our costs if we are not recognized for our service? Is the money growing on trees? Tell me!”
Mannar said nothing. He was staring at the other, bug eyed, wondering what he was supposed to tell.
Karuppiah waved a hand dismissively, as if to say that he was sparing Mannar the effort to answer.
“So I have left the party,” said Karuppiah.
He leaned forward and glared at Mannar. “If this is how you show your gratitude, I don’t want your MLA ticket or councillor post, throw it into the rubbish bin!” He thumped the table, rattling the sundry plates and glasses.
“Why, do you think yours is the only party in the world? If not you, then some other party. Let’s see how long you can stay in power, if this is how you treat your loyal workers. He is watching, he is watching, and one day, one day,” he pointed a portentous, fat finger at the ceiling, “justice will be done!”
Karuppiah had forgotten that he was not addressing an election rally, and his rather alarmed audience of one leant away from the table. Karuppiah subsided gradually.
“That is why it is important,” he said in a more moderate tone, “that new parties like the league come to the fore. I like its style. I read one of those handbills, it’s the best way to recruit new members, you know. Very beautiful, sir. I have made all my supporters wear maroon and white. You just watch, you just wait for the next election, those red and black bastards will learn who they are messing with. They think we’re morons eh? Eh? You just wait and watch.”
Mannar continued silent. He felt his jaws slackening and his tongue drying up.
“There will be party elections soon, I suppose?” said Karuppiah. “I’m counting on your help, Mr.Mannar.”
Mannar got to his feet with a lurch. He clutched his stomach.
“Sorry, urgent,” he said and scurried out of the little café. He walked away with long, helter skelter strides as Karuppiah’s voice pursued him. It had been an unpleasant meeting. Unpleasant because he did not know who had the wrong idea. Karuppiah, or himself.