The Jamindars.

The Jamindars.

As I sat in my room at the Buddhist Vihar in Bodh Gaya on a June night I kinda just wanted to be alone. But that wasn’t happening. A tall old man appeared at the door. I didn’t know him, didn’t really want to. He didn’t look good, seemed to carry a lot upon his rounded shoulders. It looked like trouble. His face was deeply lined, his lean frame somewhat unsteady. He had bare feet, obviously tough and hard, almost not like feet at all. His hair was long, beard short, eyes sad or maybe just tired. And I couldn’t help wondering why he was so scared.

The man produced a rather worn-out scrap of paper, a greenish corner torn from some sort of lined school pad. It was a note from Radika: ‘Joe my love, please help this man, Mr. Param Kumar; Radika.‘ That was all I needed, although I still didn’t know what Mr. Kumar needed. Nevertheless merely reading the words ‘my love’ by Radika made me wanna help the old guy. Hell, I woulda given him all my money except there wasn’t much left by then. His english wasn’t so bad. He just kind of mumbled through but I got the gist. Looking down into his hands, every so often looking out the window furtively, expectantly, the man began.

Mr. Kumar told me there’d once been an immensely wealthy patriarch in the area with two very different sons. And that all the trouble started upon the father’s death. Apparently when dad died the more worldly and elder of the two sons ended up with everything: all the wealth, the land, a fabulous house. The other only got one lousy gold finger-ring and a tiny cabin on a tiny tract of land. Also apparently he was perfectly ok with that. Go figger.

As time passed, or so the story went, the brother with the whole estate wasn’t as fortunate with his estate of mind. He argued with his wife, didn’t get along with neighbors. He worried about losing his fortune and never did produce the son he dearly wanted. In fact he became depressed and increasingly envious of his brother who always seemed fine, had a happy wife, and he had a son.

They both grew old and eventually it seemed the poor brother was not long for this world. So the rich one paid him a visit. He wanted to know the secret. He wanted to know how his brother stayed content even up to then. The dying man looked up with a small smile of sorts and said the secret’s not a secret. There was no secret, just a mantra engraved in ancient Pali inside his lousy gold ring. He always wore the lousy ring. In fact he loved it, and he embraced the mantra: 'Annica'. Loosely translated that means ‘this will also change.’
           
Sitting by what turned out to be his brother's death-bed that day and hearing the secret that wasn’t a secret, the poor rich guy made a big decision. He changed his ways. He understood the mantra’s deepest meaning and he changed. Then before his own death, not so very long afterward, he called for his nephew Prakash, to tell him a secret, a real and important secret. He whispered the location of three large metal trunks filled with gold, silver and jewels that he‘d buried on his land. But, and it was a big but, he made Prakash promise to use all the treasure to free their neighbours from the clutches of the greedy dastardly Jamindaars.

That was an easy promise for young Prakash. It coincided with the long-held desire of his pure heart. In fact he and his dad had often pleaded with uncle to use his vast fortune to help the people.

It's an old story of course. The small landowners fall into hard times. The monsoons, drought or infestations ruin the crops. They need a buffalo, a cow, a dowry, whatever, and they borrow. The land is collateral, interest rates are formidable and they effectively spend the rest of their lives under the control of the Jamindaars. Even the children have to pay upon the death of the parents. Their homes are lost. Their lands are effectively lost. They become slave laborers on their own properties, working hard to feed their families and the voracious appetites of their over-lords.

Sometimes the Jamindaars even 'arrange' to have crops sabotaged. People work each day in fields of hard fortune, watching a crimson sun set as they also watch their lives set under the weight of oppressive debt. And all of this, by the way, predated more or less the agrochemical and agricultural biotechnology Jamindars of today. This more corporate-based though similarly cynical and greedy Jamindar, Monsanto, has been accused of not only causing farmers’ widespread debt but widespread suicide.

Meanwhile, it’s easy to fathom the depth of Prakash’s happiness as he left uncle that day. And he wasn’t foolish enough to tell anyone. But uncle must’ve, because Prakash fell deathly ill within a couple of days, poisoned. At first it seemed Prakaash would carry his secret to the funeral pyre. Friends, relations and villagers chanted and prayed.

It may have been the prayers, or the doctors, but Prakash began to rally, a bit. At least he didn’t die. At that point Mr. Kumar stopped his mumbling, looked up and spoke rather more clearly: "Tonight he is alive, though not talking, not eyes open, doctors not hopeful isn’t it? He needs a very particular serum, a drug is needed, from the clinic, one in Delhi only. And we knew not who to trust to collect that. I was sent you. Radika is a friend of the people. Babaji is a friend of the people."

So there it was. He invoked both the names of Radike and Babaji, whoever the heck that is or was. As far as I know nobody’s ever seen him outside of the Kumbh Mela, but I still swear he was Ram Chandra, Radika’s dead brother. Whatever was the reality, the legend clearly continued and I really had no choice. I would have to head to Delhi, and quickly. The old man scribbled some information on the back of Radika’s note with his pencil and while getting up simply said: “You are the only hope isn’t it Mr. Joe?”

Once alone again I lay down on the bed and thought about how much I didn’t wanna go to Delhi. Last time I was there I got Delhi-belly so bad. In my-heart I also didn’t wanna get involved. But that’s not the heart that counts, and then it occurred to me there was rather a lot of noise outside. I opened my eyes when I heard the shouts and realized something was definitely not right. When I ran out into the dark street I saw a crowd and a woman told me an old man was hurt.

For some reason I immediately knew. I was filled with a withering sense of foreboding that compelled me to press in through the tumultuous group until I was in the midst of the chaos. A large man turned wildly away from in front of me shouting and I saw the old man, Param Kumar, lying on the bloodstained road. He wasn’t hurt. He was dead, brutally stabbed to death.

Dazed and confused, maybe a little scared or maybe a lot scared, I ran back up to my room and shut the door. I sat in the darkness on the end of the bed motionless for what must‘ve been at least half an hour. Finally I got up, lit a candle and packed up my satchel. I left rupees on the table and skulked out into the courtyard and over the low back wall. The plan which was not a plan, not really, was to basically get to Delhi and back before the murderous bastards, whomever they may be, knew what the heck was happening.

I walked endlessly along a dark empty road from Bodh Gaya to Gaya. When a car approached I’d run off and hide in the bushes. I did catch a ride in a Tonga for the last stretch that clattered along well into first light. In Gaya I hired a car and I was off for Delhi by mid-morning. I felt pretty good, pretty safe at that point, until the driver pulled off into a petrol station. At first that was normal, but I saw him come out of the office with a couple of fierce-looking sadarjis and that just didn’t seem nearly as normal.

They began to run as I jumped into the front seat and started the car. I slammed it into reverse, then took off in drive outta the station. There wasn’t the slightest doubt about what I‘d done, what I was doing and I was spectacularly clear about what I had to do. I may have been completely wrong about those guys back at the petrol station. All I knew for sure was that an old guy had been stabbed to death. And it dawned on me then that I was driving in India for the first time. In India. It also dawned on me then that I was driving in India for the first time in a stolen car. That was not good.

Well I drove for a while and it was tough on the nerves alright. But I pulled off as soon as I saw a bus station outside of Meghalaya. I nonchalantly parked behind a market and bought a white curta-pajama set. The sun was hot, really hot. The market was typically crowded, chaotic, noisy, and I liked it. I liked being in a crowded, chaotic, noisy place. I changed out of my western stuff back at the car but I figured my long hair could still easily give me away. However, no way was I gonna cut my hair. I was fiercely attached to my long curly hair. Radika liked my hair. I bought a hat instead. I left the keys in the car and was walking toward the station when I spotted a Jeep full of fierce-looking sadarjis rushing by that spooked me. Actually I had no real reason to get so spooked. They might not have even been the same fierce-looking sadarjis. Anyway I got spooked and immediately jumped into a barber-shop and told the barber to cut my hair short.

The problem with Indian barbers, aside from the fact that they tend to actually cut your hair, is they like to make an occasion out of it: even moreso when you’re a tall white guy with hair cascading down your back and you jump into the shop asking for it to be cut short. Following the buzzing, clipping, snipping, all done with a dramatic flourish, there will be a neck and shoulder massage that shakes you to your core. And when you think maybe it’s all done the guy’ll begin to bang on your head like he’s in a Reggae band. Or it’s like he’s playing the spoons to Appalachian music. In any event, by the end you’re not sure if you‘ve paid 50rs or 500rs but, in my case at least, the end result was the desired result. I hardly recognized myself.

I had soon boarded a bus to Delhi and tried to relax as the contraption clamoured along. Even though I had no choice but to listen to the engine’s roar, even though a chilly wind blew continuously through windows that couldn’t close, I had a few minutes’ sleep somewhere after Kanpur. But I was awake as we approached a rise above Delhi where I saw the city lights.

Once we arrived I made my way by scooter to my usual Delhi hotel, ‘The Ghandi Guest House,’ just off Janpath. I chatted with the manager Jyoti, took a shower, then fell asleep within minutes. And I was awoken again within minutes. I heard yelling in the lobby and upon peeking out my door, sure enough, there were a couple of fierce-looking sadarjis arguing with the desk clerk.

My natural ‘fight or flight’ instincts kicked in and not surprisingly I chose ‘flight.’ I’ve frankly always been better at flight than fight. But the men saw me trying to slither down the hall. One wearing an old white turban came at me with what I imagined was unrighteous rage. The other called out something I supposed I was fortunate not to understand. Then a gunshot rang out in the room and everyone froze. Jyoti stood in the doorway. There was no mistaking the determination in his eyes as he motioned to the two Sadarjis to back up to the wall. One tried to say something only Jyoti was not interested and anyway didn’t understand Urdu. He told the clerk to fetch the police.

"Jyoti please", I said. "I can't be detained by the police. I haven't the time. You gotta trust me on this. It's terribly important, honestly it’s life or death." He looked at me hard, then back at the two against the wall. "You'll explain some time. Go." "I'll thank you properly at the same time," I said sincerely.

Leaving hotels in the middle of the night was becoming a bit of a habit. I walked over to the ‘Imperial Hotel’ where I could hang out for a couple of hours by the deserted pool. I even slept for a while. At first light I grabbed a scooter and made my way to Old Delhi. The clinic was right on Chandni Chowk only I had the driver leave me in front of the Jasmid Masjid, The Friday Mosque. I wandered around in amongst the early morning worshippers, the crowds on Silver Street, some back-alleys and timed my arrival at the clinic just before it opened for the day.

I watched from across the street for some time, until I felt it was safe. I went in, asked for the medicine and watched as the clerk searched the shelves. Placing two bottles of the good stuff on the counter the pharmacist peered over at me through incredibly thick glasses. And he asked to see my prescription. For a moment I felt tremendous frustration choking me. Then I simply felt pissed off. Before the man knew what was happening I’d grabbed both bottles and run out. I ran like a bounding cheetah.

Behind me there was shouting, ahead of me people stopped to see what was happening. I blew past like the hunted animal I was. One or two tried to grab me as I ran deeper into the market. I turned down one lane after another. At one point I ran into a blind alley. There was nowhere to go, a dead end: an old lady sweeping, kids playing and the shouts getting louder. Then a remarkable thing happened.

Inexplicably, the old lady gestured to me, to get behind a pile of old tires. The kids threw dirty jute bags on top of where I crouched and continued playing just as a few men charged through and the old lady pointed on. I could hardly believe it. Then she had the children show me where to climb a wall that set me into an adjoining street. From there I calmly walked over to the ‘Red Fort’ and lost myself in the crowds. I’m not sure why that old lady and those kids did what they did and I never even thanked them.

Having made my way to the bus station I eventually settled down into the back corner seat of a local bus headed to Agra.  Only then did I allow myself the luxury of considering what I’d just done. I also considered how completely my life had changed since leaving the quiet solitude of my gulf island house. I was no longer that guy. Periodically I’d feel for the bottles in my pocket, and savoured the thought of delivering them.

My body ached with a soreness that may have been more stress-related than actual physical in nature. In retrospect I may have been tremendously over-wrought. For all my anxiety, however, the journey proved uneventful. I transferred to a second bus in Agra and reached Gaya by late evening. In Bodh Gaya I was finished running. Whatever might happen would at least happen in the open and in full view of at least some of the villagers. But nothing actually happened.

As I walked through town people turned to look. It seemed as though business halted as I passed. Past the Buddhist Vihar and famous Bodhi tree, the Thai temple and the Zen center I continued with a hot sun upon my face. When I reached the end of the road I saw Prakash’s modest mud and stone house standing alone across the field. Some folks followed behind me. There were lots of folks in front of the house. Radika turned and instantly ran to me. And she did something Indian ladies don’t generally do in public. She put her arms around my neck and gave me a great big kiss that made everything right. We kissed again and with a big smile she said: “My love, my great gift from Babaji.”

From out of my pocket I produced the two bottles of the life-saving medicine and proudly handed them over. “Oh we don’t need that,” she said matter-of-factly. “what!?,” I blurted involuntarily. “Prakash is fine. Look.” Moving aside, sure enough, there was a young lad sitting half-up on a cot. Beside him were three large white-metal trunks, one empty, one half empty, one closed and presumably full. A man and woman kneeled in front while a man scribbled in a ledger at a desk beside. I also couldn’t help but notice two fierce-looking sadarjis standing on either side of Prakash’s cot.

By then I was thoroughly confused. “Who are those two?,” I asked incredulously. “Yes, our cousin-brothers, sent to accompany you after we heard what happened to Param Kumar. Only why you didn’t want them?” I didn’t actually answer. Instead I just kind of laughed as our noses nearly touched and I exclaimed: “So the whole thing was an unecessary waste of time.” “Not at all,” Radika said rubbing my head. “You got a lovely haircut.”