A Burning(18)

Me, personally, after I lost my job after that cursed slum demolition, more than a decade ago, I never got a job again. I do some of this, some of that. Some transportation business. Some import-export. Some middleman fees. That’s how I manage.

These days, as I was saying, my friends and I come to this highway, and we park in our cars by the side and wait. One time a poor old villager, maybe the village guard, came tottering up to us saying, “What, son, did your car have a breakdown?”

    We laughed. “Grandpa,” we said. “Have you seen this car? It’s from foreign! It doesn’t break down!

“You go,” we said to him, “go back to sleep. Go.”

The old man understood and went away, or else some of our younger brothers were just itching to use their cutlasses for something other than cutting weeds, you know what I am saying?

Gradually a truck came. It had one of the major signs of cow transportation—some liquid dripping from the back. Now, it could be water, okay. But really? It could also be cow urine. It could mean there are cows on that truck, holy mother cows being taken to slaughter by some bastards. We made it our job to stop the slaughter. If we don’t defend our nation, our way of life, our holy cow, who will? We waved our flashlights and the driver stopped.

When the truck stopped, our men went around to the sides and hit the truck, bang bang bang, so that any cows inside would move. That’s how we would know if that truck was carrying cows. We heard nothing. Meanwhile, in front, the driver was yelling, “What are you all doing? This truck has only potatoes! I am taking potatoes to cold storage!”

“So what is the water?” challenged one of our men, holding his cutlass by his side.

“It rained!” shouted the driver. “It didn’t rain here?”

Turned out, he was telling the truth. So we let that truck go.

We are moral men. We are principled men.

    But let me tell you, there are persons who don’t have any respect for our nation. They don’t have any respect for mother cow, and they attack her for beef, for leather, all sorts of disgusting things. There is really no place for such persons in our society, don’t you think so?





PT SIR


EARLY IN THE MORNING on Republic Day, a haze of pollution softens the skyline, and children stand sleepy-eyed before the national flag, singing the anthem. Teachers watching the show hold handkerchiefs on their noses to ward off smog and chill.

When it is time for the students’ parade, PT Sir walks down the line of schoolgirls, reminding them to swing their arms high, to beware of limp salutes. He inspects their uniforms: Their white shoes are clean, their fingernails are clipped. He is almost done with his final check when there is a murmur of activity at the school gate. Somebody has arrived.

Leading a small group of people, the principal shows the way to somebody who follows. Then PT Sir sees a familiar saffron scarf hanging loosely about the neck of a woman in a white sari. Bimala Pal shushes his exclamations.

“I had work right next door, I will only stay for two minutes,” she says.

A student promptly unfolds a chair in the front, and a few more for the assistants and bodyguards who follow. Another student is dispatched to buy tea and freshly cooked shingara, pastry filled with spiced potatoes and peas. The principal, too flustered to look for the petty cash box, hands the student money from her own purse.

    Bimala Pal protests, “Please, nothing special for me. I have just come to visit, even though your sir did not invite me!”

At this she looks at him, teasing.

PT Sir bites the tip of his tongue and shakes his head. “How would I invite you to such a humble event?” he says.

Rows of teachers and students gape at the VIP visitor, while her bodyguards stand as a wall behind her, sunglasses on their noses, declining the plastic chairs procured for them.

Now, with Bimala Pal seated and a dish of shingara in front of her, an earthen cup of milk tea at her feet, the principal offers, “PT Sir is one of our most valued teachers.”

PT Sir looks at her, amazed.

“He is beloved by the students,” the principal continues. “Really, it is his hard work that has made this ceremony come together.”

PT Sir smiles graciously at the lies, then turns away to help the students begin the parade. The girls march in single file, their knees rising higher at the sight of Bimala Pal, their voices crisply calling out the beat, “One-two-one! One-two-one!”

PT Sir watches as the playground fills with his students. His back is straight as a rod, a pen smartly tucked into his shirt pocket, his chin held a little higher.



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AT HOME, PT SIR’S wife offers him a paneer kebab, cooked on the stovetop.

“Don’t make that face,” she says. “Paneer is good for you. With your cholesterol, you should be eating less meat.”

So he eats the cubes. They are a bit dry.

“You can’t make proper kebab without a tandoor,” responds his wife, miffed. “Don’t eat it, then.”

But he eats. While he eats, he tells her the story of Bimala Pal’s visit. How the Jana Kalyan Party’s second-in-command came to his school to see his ceremony.

“You are so easily flattered!” his wife says. “She was coming to see where the terrorist went to school. What else did you think?”