= =20 THE BAND OF BROTHERHOOD

(The incident took place when we were posted in Hyderabad, where we lived in independent Railway Bungalows. At present we have a ‘flat’ existence in Mum= bai at posh Colaba, where Security promptly cordons= off all the unwanted species- the ‘strays’, the ‘tramps’ and the ‘its’) = &nb= sp; =

      ‘Mum= my’, the voice called out. ‘Mummy Ji’.

     ‘MummyR= 17; being a call any woman would respond to, it broke me out of my concentratio= n. A few minutes ago Champagne, my dog had started to bark but I was so lost in the kitchen that I had igno= red his yaps. I was alone in the house. I knew it was not any of my children calling. Both my son and my daughter were out. Neither of them possessed th= at raucous voice either. And none attached that respectful suffix ‘Ji’- ever.

   ‘Mummy’, the voi= ce came again, the speech much softer but more pronounced and hoarse. ‘M= UMMY JI’, the tempo and the gruffness now increased, giving way to an urge= nt need to be heard. Even without wanting to, the endearing appellative prompt= ed the mother in me to leave the kitchen. I entered the bedroom, from where I could have a view of the person outside and discreetly parted the curtains. <= /p>
     A face suddenly = rose before my eyes. It was the face of an offender! One that had insulted the society it was born in. Of someone that had plagued mankind by raising questions of a mismatched gender issue. It was a face that was crafted by t= he Creator yet that which boasted of a genuine genealogical error. I froze. In= voluntarily a small gasp escaped my lips. Simultaneously the curtain dropped from my tr= embling hands, blocking out that terrible apparition. I backed out. I was thoroughly horrified. Seeing my expression Champagne started to bark even louder.

    ‘MUMMY JI’= , the shouting continued over and over again like a stuck record, overshadowing the consta= nt barking of my dog. I refused to give audience any longer, concealing myself behind the curtain, confused and disconcerted, with a hand to my anxious he= art. Then the clapping started- that hard striking impact of manly palm upon pal= m, giving way to a continuous background melody. Only it was far from melodiou= s. Those sinister sounds of two fleshy inner ridges cupping together forcefull= y to produce menacing vibrations now left a wobbly feeling in my knees. The clos= est I had come to witnessing these weird humans and their profane acts of applauding god-know- what, was only in the movies. ‘Haan ji’s’ we called them. Often enough,= a few gross manly bodies draped in saris with garish makeup adorning their mannish features would saunter about on the sidewalks. But those I was careful to s= hun. Those I was expert at avoiding. Today was the first time I was subject to s= uch close proximity. And I felt queasy and uncomfortable. A feeling of fear now began to grip me.

   Even as a child I had been t= old by my grandmother of the power of the maledictions that would flow out of these blasphemous mouths, often condemning the other flawless paragons of the wor= ld. Like any other normal being, I didn’t want any evil eyes to be cast o= n my happy little family. I didn’t want any grudging tongues to pour forth= any of those vile pronouncements. So before the string of curses could taint my eardrums red and paint my household gray, I rushed to my almirah. I hurriedly unlocked it, found my purse and grabbed some loose notes lying = in it. With my heart almost doubling in speed I proceeded to commit an act of which I myself had been a critic for all my living years. But, I reasoned o= ut, I had to arrest the plague that threatened to break out from outside my protected realm. I had to prevent the danger that was about to upset my neat and orderly domestic arrangements. I had to stop the menacing clapping of t= hose dreadful palms. Even if it meant greasing them!

   I rushed back to the window,= my eardrums blocking out that disturbing ovation. Parting the curtains once ag= ain, very carefully with my forefinger and thumb, I threw out the crushed notes = into the garden. I don’t know if he or she or whatever it was, ever manage= d to gather the money I had flung amidst the flowers that bloomed outside my bed= room window. I only knew that I felt relieved. The spongy silence had soaked away those ominous sounds. I hurried back to the kitchen and to the sweetmeats t= hat I had been making for the upcoming festival.

   The second encounter was a little m= ore dramatic- although a lot less traumatic. My dog came bouncing at me barking= and announcing the arrival of an uninvited guest. Without any reservations I we= nt out. And immediately repented! I should have known, I thought miserably. Pa= lms once oiled would not only continue to function smoothly but produce much sharper sounds. I retraced my steps and shouted at my = maali to sort things out. I= felt the gardener was better equipped to listen to the curses that would soon st= art to flower on that despondent tongue. This time I refused to oblige. What one need not hear, one need not feel threatened of. With the maali fighting it out on the battlefield of my garden and Champagne vocife= rously applauding their not so amusing encounter, I quietly walked back into the r= oom and forgot about the entire prohibition episode.

I never expected there would ever = be a third time. But it happened. It was on the day of Holi= . The whole of the Nation was engrossed in hurling at each other a profusion = of colours. Since I detested this c= olourful rioting because of its intense hues, which made my skin blush and burn for = days, after my family had left to frolic with friends, I posted a huge lock outsi= de the grill of the front door. I then settled down with a book

I was so engrossed in ‘The F= ountainhead’ that it took me sometime to register the summons of the familiar call with = the familiar background drill. ‘Mummy’ it began and then there was applause. The clapping together with the mouthing of an endearment specially reserved for my own flesh and blood, again started to unnerve me. Then I remembered the huge device I had hung outside the door to prevent any intru= der from invading into my private world. After a few seconds the sounds of ‘Mummy Ji’ and the clapping petered= down. Perhaps the garish kohled eyes had noticed the = lock too. In the few minutes of silence that ensued, I got out of the comfort of= my bed and with caution peeped out from the utmost corner of the curtain.

  For a long time I stood still, with= out moving, without breathing. Ch= ampagne had wandered off to the verandah and was barking at the strange outsider. F= rom behind the curtain, I watched that apparition of monstrosity. Very carefull= y! The face that stared back at my jumping dog looked tight and drawn. Yet the= re was a hint of amusement on it. The hands that were examining the lock seemed sturdy and strong. Yet there was something gentle about the movement of tho= se manly fingers. The bare feet exhibited a robust energy. Yet there was somet= hing mild in the way the ankles shifted. The entire persona of the one draped in= a gaudy sari looked virile. Yet there was something graceful in the way it mo= ved. I stood looking for some more time until the fingers dropped the lock with a sigh. With one more doleful look, an arm rose delicately out of its powerful physique. It artistically twirled the fingers to blow a soft kiss at my dog,= whose barks had now turned to a whimper. Then with a gradual twist of the effemin= ate torso, it gently sashayed its way all along the pavement. I stood looking u= ntil the colourful flouncing figure had reached the = gate. After the initial disappointment, the purposeful manner had returned once again. With a conscious effort it closed the outer gate and determinedly clicked it shut. I further waited until it was completely out of sight. Fin= ally I heaved a sigh of relief. Then I went back to my book. <= /p>
   After almost fifteen minutes= I realised I was still glued to the same sentence. Some= thing was terribly wrong. A nagging pin of rationality now began to prick me for = the next twenty minutes. Minutes that gripped me into anal= ysing a few of those half- truths of humanity that I had conveniently chosen to a= void all these years. Slowly I felt a part of me transform itself into tiny litt= le bombs of guilt and plant itself strategically. First in my head and then in= my heart! And one by one, these bombs started to go off. I searched in vain to= try and find out those hushed answers that the world was so secretive about.

   After another ten minutes I = found I had replaced ‘The Fountain’ with a Dictionary. Under the lett= er ‘E’ I hunted for the particular word and tried to squeeze it out from the tight-lipped pages of the lexicon. It described ‘Eunuch̵= 7; as ‘an ineffective man’. The meaning still appeared shrouded in abysmal mystery but was clear enough to finally brush away the cobwebs of at least my complete ignorance. However, before I shut the book I happened to glance sideways. Another fancy word in the other page caught my eye. “Ethics” the word read. That meant a code of behaviour that is considered correct and of the rules and the principles that ought to govern it.

   That set me thinking again. = Was it ethical to have allowed my thoughts to stagnate in a pool of ignorance? Was= it ethical to stamp my blind approval with society and castigate a certain cla= ss? Was it ethical to censure a human breed for no fault of theirs? What code o= f behaviour was considered correct for the correctly inconsiderate class like me? What rules and principles supposedly governed = this mode of ethical thinking? Would I ever be able to wean myself away from this accepted form of wisdom? I had no answers. That I decided would have to be found if and when the fourth meeting took place.

   It was on the day of Diwali that it finally happened. This time there was = no iron sentinel posted on the door. I was sitting on the verandah reading the newspaper. Champagne was lying curled at my feet. Immediately his ears perked up. He got up with= out a sound and sat down. From the corner of my eyes I could see his wagging ta= il sweeping the ground, a sure sign of a visitor. And one that was not so unwelcome either. When I finally looked up I again froze. The familiar figu= re stood there. We looked at each other for sometime, both avoiding each other’s eyes. This time I was completely taken by surprise. But frank= ly speaking I don’t know who was more surprised. It or me! It, because I did not make the usual dashing headway for a pe= rfect hideout. Or me, because it just stood the= re without any round of applause, wrapped in sounds of an awed silence.

I looked at Champagne. His doggy ears had sensed t= hat this entry posed no danger to the household that he was in charge of. His d= oggy eyes had noticed nothing unfamiliar about that physique or its unusual dress code. His doggy brain had registered the fact that there was nothing to bark about.

I turned my head again. And then o= ur eyes met. This time the gaze held. The moment was so poignant I wondered ho= w I had lived all these years with such a boorish mind. The look on that face w= as so……….human. = What was it that I had been so scared about? And then I did something, which I h= ad never thought I was capable of.

‘Aapka naam kya hai?’ I asked, almost as if this was a normal course of act. Immediately I felt foolish, wondering if people like those ever had a name. The surprise was b= ack in those soulful eyes. It was evident that although its identity had been enquired about many times before, it was perhaps the first time the respect= had been attached to it.

‘Jaani<= /span>’, a husky voice spoke out, a few seconds later. It was merely a whisper but I= had heard it. The name touched a chord somewhere. I began to analyse its implication. How appropriate, I thought. Literally it meant sweetheart = or beloved or dearest. Symbolically it suggested an appellative that was universally and neutrally unbiased. Had the mortified parents christened it= so or was it an imprudent agreement of the lackadaisical world it was thrust i= nto?

  ‘Jaani’ I repeated, slowly, cautiously. ‘Where do you live, Jaani?’ And then began a conversation I labeled, as one of the most normal conversations I ever had till date. There was nothing warped or twisted abo= ut it. The gentle kohled eyes, alternating from sh= ock to grateful to moist were suddenly alive. The bitter lips, smudged with cheap lipstick, told me a story that was sincere and unaffected. And all the time= I kept wondering about the reactions from the cream of the crop of friends th= at I so prided myself in having- if = they came to know about this unusual encounter. ‘Chee! So disgusting’, the frank ones wou= ld opine. ‘Oh! That’s so noble’ the superficial lips would mouth, each thinking that it was nothing short of crazy to encourage perver= ted people like ‘them’.        =

   After that Jaani became a regular visitor. Come Diwali, Holi, Christmas or Eid an= d I would find Jaani and a few others gather outsid= e our house. The voices now requested for some donations. The commands, the curses and the clapping had long since stopped. I reasoned out that it was probably the only way to attract the attention of the indifferent people they were surrounded with. Having found acceptance the need was not apparent. And one= day Jaani asked me for some old clothes. A few mont= hs earlier I would have probably pondered over which set of clothes to offer- = my husband’s or mine. But that day, without hesitation I took out one of= my old sari and bundled it into a bag. ‘Thank you bahen’ Jaani said with a smile, gratefully accepting the proffered gift. ‘Thank you’ I s= aid, although not aloud.

   A few months later, Jaani was back, this time with a tiny packet. ‘= I have something for you, bahen’ . I was touched. ‘You shouldn’t have’, I told, suddenly conscious of my husband’s reaction if he ever found out about our exchange of gifts. ‘Actually’, Jaani hesitated, the lithe body moving in an awkward movement, unsure of what to say next. ‘Actually…..’ Jaani said in Hindi, ‘it is not for you. It is = for somebody else.’ ‘Who’? I asked, laughingly. ‘For your ….’Jaani = hesitated, ‘for your…… husband’.

At first I was taken aback. A feel= ing of dread then started to circle my heart. Was it true what everyone had warned= me about? Was it possible that all this while, ‘it’ was having des= igns after all? The surprise must have shown on my face. Ja= ani saw my sudden change of expression. ‘You can give it to him= 217;. ‘I don’t think so’ I said, sounding a little more curt th= an usual. ‘Please, bahen,’ Jaani pleaded. ‘You cannot refuse’. ‘NO’ I said emphatically, trying to move back into the house. ‘We don’t normally accept presents from…..’ And the= n I saw the gift! A golden thread hung out of the small packet that Jaani’s manly fingers held. ‘What is it?&= #8217; I asked, ‘Is it a..?        =

It was. It was a ‘rakhi’. I suddenly remembered wha= t day it was. It was Raksha Band= han- the day that all the sisters, all over our country, tie a ‘rakhi’ on the wrist of their brothers. The day = that brothers all over the country start a long and trusting relationship, vowin= g to protect their sisters from any harm that may befall them. It was just a tiny piece of sacrosanct thread. But it said it all.

With a sheepish grin and an offend= ed conscience, I moved forward and accepted the packet. I then went inside and this time got another old sari for our ‘newfound sister.’<= /o:p>

‘Why did you give it such a = nice sari Amma?’ my servant asked. ‘You = should never encourage these people. Now it will keep coming back again and again.’ I did not answer. It was then that I also realized something.= That with time, the word ‘it’ had slowly been permanently erased from the vocabulary of my prejudiced mind. ‘It’ now had a gender. The gender was ‘she’. And ‘it’ now also had a name. And= the name was ‘Jaani’!

Narg= is Natarajan.