Half Tomato, Boiled Sparrow Eggs

Part 1:

They met in a train. He boarded it just a minute before its departure. Usual traffic snarls outside the New Delhi railway station. Had it not been for the coolie, who sliced through the crowd, carrying his suitcase on his head, he would have never caught the train.

The coolie had just kept the suitcase down and he was adjusting his breath when the train came to life with a hiccup. He dragged the suitcase near his berth. Berth number 61.

After he had assumed his seat, he took a swig from his mineral water bottle. He looked around. A couple. The husband wearing a suit of cheap fabric. A three-piece suit with a loud red tie. The wife, wearing a big necklace over a bridal sari. He looked at her feet. Vermillion painted. They ate from a paper box containing oily purees and mango pickle. And some sweets.

He opened his suitcase and took out a copy of the India Today magazine. As he slipped the suitcase under his berth, his eyes fell on a T-shirt: Free Tibet. He looked at her. The girl was more or less of his age, may be a couple of years younger. Arundhati Roy, he thought to himself. He dug his eyes back to the magazine. A child started crying somewhere. A blind man passed, selling soap strips and digestive pills. Inside the magazine, children died of cold in earthquake-hit Muzaffarabad. Majority of girls in Delhi thought pre-marital sex was alright. Sensex touched 9000. Indian men increasingly streaked their hair.

‘Coffee, coffee’, he heard the vendor shout. As he passed through the narrow alley in the compartment, she called the Vendor. ‘One coffee please’, she said. ‘And one for me’. He was surprised at his voice. He thought the girl had looked at him. The vendor offered one to the girl in a plastic cup. And then to him. In a similar cup.

‘How much?’ the girl asked.

‘Six rupees’. She took out a hundred-rupee note.

‘Sorry madam, no change’.

‘Get it and then give it back to me’, she said.

This time he spoke again. ‘Take it from me’, he handed over twelve rupees to the vendor.

‘No, it is ok, he will get the change from other passengers’, the girl said.

‘Hardly matters, it is such a small amount’, he smiled at her. This time the girl did not say anything. The vendor left.

‘Coffee, coffee’.

For some time, he looked out from the window. The girl had taken off the headphone of her walkman and her eyes were closed. The train slowed down a bit. It was passing through a vast expanse of fields. The light had begun to dim. Smoke bellowed out from the cakes of cow dung outside a house. ‘Time to cook dinner after a hard day’s work’, he heard a voice. He looked at the girl. She was also looking out from the window. ‘Yes, the stomach does not understand the limitations of life’, he replied. Silence again. Outside a group of boys, naked, vied to climb over the back of a buffalo. The train caught speed.

In another hour or so, the couple climbed on the top berth. They sat there talking about things; their affairs. Relatives, mother-in-law’s, brothers, mango pickle: he picked up the strings of their conversation, here and there. The girl took to reading a book. He tried to read the cover but could not. After a few tries, he gave up. Minutes later, the girl closed her book.

He wanted to speak to her. Their eyes met and he asked, ‘So, are you going to Ahmedabad?’
‘Oh yes, I am. And you?’ ‘ Same here. I have been transferred from Delhi. I work for the Indian Express’. ‘That is great. So you are a journalist’. ‘And what do you do?’ ‘I work for an aid agency. We are working for the victims of Gujarat riots’. Someone made a noise. Like a bird’s chirping. He looked up. There was nothing. The couple had gone off to sleep. The train stopped at a station. A few passengers boarded the train. Someone was snoring badly. A mother asked her child whether he wanted to go to the toilet. He said he didn’t want to, but she still took him. Someone complained to the attendant that the blanket given to him was dirty.

She got up. She came back minutes later, holding two small packs in her hand. She handed one to him. ‘I got burgers’. ‘Thanks’. He took it, passing a shy smile. She lifted the translucent cover and had begun to bring the burger close to her mouth when she stopped. She opened the two halves and took out rings of tomatoes out of it. And then she began to eat.

‘You should not waste tomatoes like this’. She looked at him, a bit surprised, as if asking – What?
‘Yes, you should not be wasting tomatoes like this’, he spoke again. She laughed faintly. ‘Actually I don’t like them’. ‘It is not a matter of whether you like them or not; the point is you should not waste them’. This time his voice was raised. And she hit back. ‘Why are you shouting; why don’t you eat yours and let me eat mine; in peace, that is’. Silence. There was a murmur above. The husband moved in his blanket. He looked up. He thought he saw what he thought were feathers. The train was moving on full speed now.

He felt embarrassed at his own voice. Why did these wretched tomatoes always figure out in God’s scheme of things for him? He tried to speak again but his voice got choked in his larynx. She put the tomato rings in the paper and rose again. He saw her leaving. And when she came back, she put the white sheet on the berth, then a blanket and removed her sneakers. Making rolls of her cotton socks, she thrust them in her shoes and lay on her berth, under the blanket. He was still looking at her and suddenly he was reminded of the burger in his hands. Slowly, he unwrapped it and took small bites. Afterwards, he rose and threw the wrapper in the bin under the washbasin. He took out his cigarette and lit it.

By the time he came back, she had switched off the light and had turned her back towards him. He sat on his berth for while. He switched on the light. She did not move. The train moved so fast that it seemed that it would jump tracks and crash into the sugarcane fields. ‘Listen’, he finally gathered courage. No response. Probably she was asleep. He tried again. ‘Listen’. Seconds passed and he sensed a dull pain in his chest. And then she turned towards him; a big question mark on her face. ‘I am sorry for my behaviour’. She kept on looking at him, nonplussed. ‘I need to tell you a story’, he said. ‘Story? About what?’ ‘About those tomatoes. Please, I need to get this off my chest. Please’. She nodded.

‘In 1984, I was a young boy of eight. My home was a cup; its walls made of hills. Kashmir. I was in the school, when the yearly magazine was distributed among the students. Its first page was a picture of Goddess Saraswati (the goddess of knowledge and learning). In the lunch time, when I went in the playground, I saw some of my Muslim friends tearing the picture off and wiping their nose with it. I felt a sinking feeling in my heart. I felt as if I would have to bear the brunt of their folly. I would fail in all examinations. I would not be able to remember anything. I would not be able to solve any mathematical equation. I would not remember the name of any mountain, any ocean. I would not remember when Nehru was born. I would not remember stories in my English and Hindi textbooks. Every year in March, on the day of Gauri Tritya (the birthday of Goddess), our family priest would bring us a photo frame of the Goddess and we would worship her, my sister and me, along with our books. But now I feared that she would never come to our house. Back home, I told this to my father. He uttered a prayer and that was it. No reaction. I could not share my fear with him’. The story continued.

June 1984. The Golden temple in Amritsar was surrounded by the Indian Army. Their mission: to flush out Sikh extremists led by a man called Bhindrawala. He and his men were hiding inside the premises of the temple. There was a photo of Sikh Guru Guru Govind Singh in their Puja room. When they heard of the siege, his father put a fresh garland around the Guru’s neck. Later they heard that some Muslim men had gathered outside the ancient Hanuman temple near the Amira Kadal bridge and hurled the old statue of the monkey God in the waters of the Jhelum river. Some Kashmiri Hindus were beaten also. What had they got to do with the Golden temple? Or for that matter, what had Hanuman got to do with the siege? Nobody told him anything. There were no answers forthcoming. But he knew that he could no longer have the Prasad of Boondi on Tuesdays in the Hanuman temple.

October 1984. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi shot at by her Sikh bodyguards. They heard the news on the state-sponsored radio station. It could only report that she was being operated for her bullet injuries. As a young boy, he knew nothing of her or her policies. She was just a connection; symbol of India, of which he considered himself a part. He thought that Muslims had tried to kill Indira Gandhi. They had tried to kill India. He decided to retaliate. If she dies, he would bomb his Muslim neighbours with tomatoes. He took a big polythene, plucked all raw and ripe tomatoes from his kitchen garden and put it in his inventory. And at two in the afternoon, the BBC radio confirmed that Indira Gandhi had succumbed to her injuries. His sister came back from the school. She was crying. ‘They are celebrating on the streets. Burning crackers and distributing sweets’. He could not stop now. He called the boys out and attacked them with tomatoes. Hundreds of them. Till the elders intervened. But by that time, all tomatoes had spit their seeds on their clothes, their faces.

January 1990. The selected killings of Kashmiri Hindus began. It triggered off an exodus. Neighbour would not tell neighbour about it, till he had fled to Jammu. My father refused to leave. Until one day, when the news about Ashok Kumar Qazi was flashed. He was my father’s friend; he lived in the old part of the city. He was way laid by three terrorists and shot in his knuckles. As he cried for help, they pulled his hair out. They slapped him and spat on his face. One of them unfastened his trousers and urinated on him. It was only when they heard the siren of a distant police van, that they pumped bullets into his stomach and chest and ended his agony.

A day after his killing, they migrated to Jammu. They spent few days in a hotel and then shifted to a single room in a marriage house. Thousands of families lived in refugee camps. Torn tents. Snakes and scorpions around. Non-existent water and power supply. Sun strokes. Depression. Pain. Misery. Relief organisations would come and distribute milk powder, kerosene oil, biscuits and buckets. One day he went visiting one of his friends in one of the camps. He saw a long queue in front of a tempo. He asked his friend what was being distributed. Tomatoes, he said. After fifteen minutes, the tomato supply was getting exhausted and there was still a long queue. So they began distributing half-a-tomato to each person. Cutting a tomato into two halves with a blunt knife and a spoon. My friend also got a half. The bigger half; he was happy about it. He feigned illness and locked himself in the bathroom. And then he cried.

He stopped. He looked at her. Her eyes were red. She was crying too. ‘That is why I cannot bear someone wasting tomatoes. Those images come back to me like a torrent’.

‘Listen brother, even I need to tell a story’. They looked up and they were dumbfounded. On the top berth, where the husband with the three-piece suit slept, there was a sparrow. ‘Yes it is me’, the sparrow said. She rubbed her eyes. His mouth opened up. But no one else seemed to listen to the sparrow’s voice. The husband was probably still dreaming and so was his wife. Only their chests moved up and down due to breathing. He remembered that earlier noise and the sight of those feathers.

‘Listen, let us not waste time in wondering how a sparrow can speak and what story he needs to tell. Let us get on to the story directly. And may be after you hear it, you have no questions left to ask’, the sparrow said.

‘I will tell you a story. It starts from the Gulbarga society of Ahmedabad’. And then he began…

 

Part 2:

His mouth was still open. He didn’t know how to react. The sparrow looked at him and then it spoke again, ‘On second thoughts, let me tell you about myself first. Otherwise you will keep on thinking about me and not concentrate on the story.’ He continued.

Normally, the life span of a sparrow is not more than a decade. But look at me; I came to being 350 years ago. That was the time when a man from Armenia, who had travelled all over West Asia, came to Delhi. His name was Sarmad. At that time, Delhi was ruled by Emperor Shah Jahan. Sarmad was originally a Jew but had embraced Islam.

I still remember the day – I was two years old – when Sarmad entered the house of my master Abhai Chand. I was kept in a cage near the entrance of the house. My master’s room overlooked the entrance and hence from a window in his room, he could see me whenever he wanted to. My master had a very sweet voice, almost captivating and when he sang in Mushairas – the poetry recital sessions – the audience would enter into a trance. His voice was like a ticket to the heaven and when he sang with his eyes closed, the Gods listened too. With their eyes closed.

It was during one of his recitals in Chandni Chowk that Sarmad happened to be present. And my master’s voice mesmerised him. The melody of his voice, he could do anything for it, he thought. And when Abhai Chand met Sarmad, he also felt a longing for him, which he could not describe in words. Or express through his singing. Who was the flame and who was the moth; it was very difficult to tell. They started living together. Sarmad became a fakir; he shed all his clothing.

So when Sarmad entered his beloved’s house for the first time, he looked at me. ‘The nectar of my heart’, he addressed my master, ‘may love bind us; in the process setting us free. Let this sparrow be a symbol of that freedom’. On this note, I was set free. As he opened the latch of my cage, Sarmad said, ‘May you live till love exists in this world’. I was free. I was so happy that I felt like making seven rounds of the entire world.

But times were changing. Shah Jahan’s son Aurangzeb had taken over the reigns of the Mughal Empire and he had his younger brother Dara Shikoh done to death. And as Dara happened to be Sarmad’s disciple, he now set his murderous gaze upon Sarmad. By that time Sarmad had become the epicentre of spiritual and moral authority.

In 1658, on royal orders, Sarmad was beheaded in front of the Jama Masjid. And as Akil Khan Razi, the royal chronicler of Aurangzeb, wrote later: When the Jellad – the executioner was about to put his sword to Sarmad’s neck, he uttered:

‘The nakedness the body was the dust of the road to the friend,
that too was severed, with the sword, from our head’.

And I was there. Legends may or may not be true, but I have seen it with my own naked eyes. Sarmad lifting his own decapitated head, keeping it in his right hand and then climbing the stairs of Jama Masjid, where his grave stands today.

After his death, my master would not live for long. He died with a pain in his heart; the pain of separation. I was so aghast with the miseries of life and death that I kept on flying through the mirage of Kutch desert and finally crashed in the sand dunes of time; unconscious and aware of nothing but the nakedness of my own being. Days passed into weeks and weeks into months. Months would turn into years and years into centuries but I lay etherised. Till one day.

I opened my eyes and saw a bearded man bent upon me. He was trying to feed me water with a cotton ball. That man was Ehsan Jafri, who lived in the Gulbarga society of Ahmedabad.

I don’t know how I reached there, but I remember one thing. Just before I resumed my consciousness, I heard a voice. It belonged to Sarmad. It said, ‘Go. The window is open’. And indeed Ehsan Jafri kept the windows of his office-cum-residence open. Open for sparrows to make nests, lay eggs, rear their chicks and teach them to fly. Ehsan Jafri was a former Congress MP. But more than that he was a kind human being; a scholar. There were thousands of books in his library: on philosophy, history, religion, literature and what not.
It was at Ehsan Jafri’s house that my progeny was born. Several times a day, Jafri would happily clear the mess we had created in his office. When my chicks were little, I remember, he would put a tape on the fan switch so that nobody would switch it on even by mistake.

February, 2002. Riots had erupted in Gujarat, triggered off by burning of Hindus (Kar Sevaks) travelling in a train. Hindus retaliated back, supported by the state machinery. Many Muslims had taken refuge in our house, thinking nobody could touch the house of a VIP. Those included a 18-year-old girl and her brother also.

One afternoon, the mob surrounded our home. My chicks had grown into adults. They had laid eggs in the nest. For three hours, Jafri tried to seek help. He sought help from everyone. DGP. Joint Commissioner of Police. Mayor. Leader of Opposition. But no help came. Eventually the mob had its way. They cut his belly with a sword and those of 36 others. Including that girl and his brother. And then they set the place on fire.

Later they could only find Jafri’s slippers. My chicks died too. Their progeny lay fossilised in the hard shells of their eggs. Hard-boiled eggs. I have to live till love exists. But I seem to be withering away now. Because love is decaying.

‘I can hear him now,’ the sparrow closed his eyes. ‘He is telling me something. Yes, I can hear him clearly now. He says, Go. The window is open’. The sparrow took flight.

She looked at him. He at her. They both were crying. They exchanged e-mails and promised to keep in touch.

In Ahmedabad, they kept on meeting. Until she was transferred to Bangalore. Farmers committing suicide in Karnataka. She had to coordinate efforts for her agency.

Six months passed. One day she received an e-mail. It was from him. It read: Hi, I am ok here. Missing you at times. Just wanted to tell you that I have shifted to Gulbarga society. It is a nice flat. One bedroom and a drawing room. I have some company here. A few sparrows. I make it a point to keep my window open, even when I am out. Love’.

She smiled. It was afternoon and she was feeling hungry. She just walked out of her office. To the Mac Donald’s. She placed her order: One vegetarian burger with extra tomatoes.

And somewhere a window opened.

 

© Rahul Pandita, Dec 2005, all rights reserved