Ticketless

 Circumvention

 

Vinod Wasnik had moved his lips closer to the cup to take his first sip of morning tea, when a shrill cry of the landline telephone induced a sharp twitch in his hand destabilizing the teacup and momentarily disorienting his senses.

It was three-trill set indicating an outstation call. The year was 1995; the mobile phone had not yet made its debut in India. A few feet away from the device, Vinod was standing on the balcony, cup in hand, watching his son Rohit walk to school. The steaming beverage spurted out of the tilted ceramic cup, scalded his fingertips and blotched the front of his sky-blue full-sleeved shirt ─ its stiff cotton fabric softening under heat and moisture. The curve of his paunch had grown rounder since he turned 40 two years ago and pushed the buttons out ever so slightly, but short of exposing the vest at the seams. Below his waist he was wrapped in a towel with which he had just dried himself after a bath while a pair of beige cotton trousers dangled from the arm of a wicker chair. His uncombed hair speckled with grays stood stiff on its end like ripe grass. He only had half an hour to find another shirt, put on the trousers before he could hop on to a train that would take him to the south of the city, where, on the fourth floor of a government building, he would settle down at a desk in the office of the government’s insurance cooperation.

“Tch!” He blurted out steadying his hand. An outstation call at this time of the day that had sparked the minor upheaval could announce only one caller: a man Vinod would go any lengths to avoid.

Sakharam Kawade who had dialed the number from distant Akola was eager to convey tidings he was sure his nephew Vinod would be overjoyed to receive. His assessment was entirely contrary to the truth, for every utterance that came from Sakharam uncle only served to sink Vinod’s spirits.

“Are you taking the herbal tea I sent you? Half of Akola is having it and the results are stupendous! People are paying for its purchase. I have to tell you what happened on this one occasion…” Every time Sakharam started on his dreadfully long narrations of imagined breakthroughs in herbal cures, Vinod’s thoughts would wander to each mundane aspect of his house imbuing them with much intrigue: the speck of dirt on the TV screen which he had briefly mistaken for the mole of an actress in a movie he had seen, the scattered pattern of marble and black stone shards in the cement mosaic tiles coming together to form animal shapes and the seat and backrest of the wicker chair that had become floppy with use and looked like it held an invisible person much like Mr. India. At times he had set the receiver aside, finished a column in the newspaper or a seen through the ending of a TV programme and returned to it minutes later only to put an end to the conversation saying, “Alright then, until later.”   

After his retirement six years ago as a functionary in the district administration, Sakharam had acquired a sudden interest in natural medicine. The interest was sparked by a wandering quack he once saw in the market square. The quack was surrounded by a crowd. He held a phial high up in the air and declared, “Two drops a day, drives body pain away, and you will gallop like a horse one day!” The gathering cheered and repeated the lines aloud. So taken in was Sakharam by this spectacle that he decided to dedicate himself to the study of the curative properties of plants. But it was more the quack’s performance, the promise of magic, the theatre of hope, that Sakharam conjured up more than actual remedies.

To is defence, he bought books on medicinal flora, turned his kitchen into a laboratory in which he brewed, ground, grated, pounded and stored a variety of pastes, powders and potions extracted from the shrubbery he built in his courtyard.

Once Vinod received a big plastic jar of brown paste by post on which his uncle had written in hand: ‘Strength unlimited – one spoon before breakfast and one before bed’.

It was followed by a phone call. “Vinod, you won’t believe what happened. I gave the tonic to a friend’s son and within a week he was working the jowar field like a bull!” The image shook Vinod Wasnik’s urban sensibilities to such an extent that he took the jar that was lying unopened on the TV table and dropped it straight in the bin. From then on, he avoided taking Sakharam’s calls thanks to every imaginable excuse dished out by his wife Madhu on his behalf: from the mundane – ‘Vinod is not at home’ – to the bizarre – ‘Vinod’s hearing has been temporarily blocked because of excessive wax in the ears!’.

Presently, Madhu was staring intently at the open wardrobe in the bedroom meditating on selecting a sari that would bring her some cheer on a Monday morning, but at the same time withstand the pulls and stretches of a train commute. She had set a vessel of bathwater on the gas to boil. She was dressed in a printed cotton nighty that sat like a tea cosy on her moderate frame and was stained with turmeric and wheat flour. She and had just finished cooking beans and chapati, which she would carry to work. Madhu worked as a clerk at a bank’s branch office in Worli. She had packed the same fare in her husband’s and son Rohit’s lunchboxes. She would leave when Tarabai, the house help, came at 9.15 am on the dot, to take over the chores and mind Rohit - who was 14 and didn’t need any minding - till her return in the evening.

When the phone rang, Vinod whooshed to the bedroom. “Has to be him! Please, please, say I have already left!” he said in a hushed voice lest it would travel down the unhooked device all the way to Sakharam’s ears.

Madhu entered the drawing-room with a scowl on her face. On a Monday morning, the last thing she should have had to face was the tyranny of Sakharam uncle’s phone calls.

“It’s your uncle!” she shot back at Vinod as the phone jangled again. As Vinod mimed gestures of entreaty, she finally answered the call on the third ring.

“Guess who it is!” Sakharam’s raspy voice boomed out even before Madhu could complete a “Hello!”

“Why, of course it’s you Sakharam uncle. What a thing to ask!” Madhu replied.

“Can’t wait to speak to Vinod, is he there?” Sakharam asked.

“Left for work early,” Madhu said almost as a reflex.

“You sound a little weak to me. How is your health?” he asked.

“What on earth can be wrong with me,” she said.

“I have created a wonderfully refreshing tea to drive away that fatigue. Go get a pen and paper and jot down the ingredients,” he said.

“I would have really, but I must rush for work,” she said.

“Oh, no worries, no worries at all. Guess what, I can deliver it to you myself. I am coming to Bombay next Friday.” Madhu’s face dropped and her shocked eyes darted to Vinod.

“That’s…oh…great!” said Madhu. “Vinod will be surprised to hear.”

“Tell him. Alright then. Meet soon,” said Sakharam and hung up.

“He is coming here,” said Madhu placing the receiver into its hold.

“He what!! For what! Unbelievable!” cried out Vinod.

Occasions of familial interactions always unsettled Vinod to the point of anxiety. He gave wing to his friendliness and uninhibited funny side to those he felt close to, but to all other extended relations, he cut a reserved, awkward figure silently suffering the tyranny of conversations and laughter with closed eyes in some corner of a sofa. He was simultaneously called ‘Our Vinod’ and ‘Sour Vinod’ by different sections of his family.   

No social call or family gathering could disturb his schedule of weekend naps. Vinod would ritually gather the mattress from the bed, lay it onto the floor to harness the coolness of the tiles; he would turn on the fan to its fullest swing, wrap a duvet from head to toe, tuck it into his sides and be lost to the world for hours together in which the earth turned on its axis drawing a curtain of soft paleness on the blinding afternoon sun.

Madhu and son Rohit often asked him how he could breathe after mummifying himself in that manner. They attended most of the family gatherings armed with reasons for Vinod’s absence. The Wasnik house never hosted any family do, Vinod using its small size to his advantage. Hearing of Sakharam uncle’s imminent arrival, he was filled with the sense of an impending invasion.  

“How long does he plan to stay,” he asked Madhu.

“A week perhaps,” Madhu replied.

“I can’t think…What are we going to do?” Vinod gasped.

 

                                                          ***

 

On Friday afternoon, the Howrah-Mumbai Express pulled into Dadar station at 5.30 pm delayed by over an hour. Sakharam stepped out on to the broad platform. He clutched onto a rexine duffle bag slung on his shoulders. He was dressed in loose white cotton pants, a white cotton shirt cut out from a thinner fabric and rubber sandals. A sleeveless khadi jacket offset the monochrome look.

From the inner pocket of his jacket, he fished out a flyer and read: Join the Society of Herbalists! Become part of the noble mission to take nature’s powers to the people! October 7, Saturday 4.30 pm at Adarsh bungalow, Versova, Mumbai. Let the movement begin!

Pleased, he neatly folded the paper and tucked it back. He had read the notice in one of Akola’s local newspapers Lokshahi while waiting his turn at the barber’s. His interest was piqued to such an extent that the first thing he did after having his hair snipped was to buy a copy of the paper. At home he cut out the advertisement and placed it in his wallet, marked the date on the calendar and set off to the town railway station to book a ticket on the express for October 5 which would reach Mumbai the next day.

Presently, he stepped out of the Dadar station and hailed a taxi from outside the Swami Narayan mandir for the Wasnik residence in Borivali.

Vinod had decided to do overtime at work and did not so much as look up when the clock struck 6 pm. He lingered over files, smoked two extra cigarettes and drank two more cups of tea than his daily quantum.

“Aiming for the best employee award, are we?” remarked his colleague Shirish Jagtap seeing Vinod glued to his seat poring over letters of insurance claims.

“Hardly the way to go about it,” retorted Vinod.

“What’s keeping you then? Fight at home?” jested Shirish as he transferred his pen, notepad, stapler and pincushion from his desk to his briefcase.

“Worse. Visiting uncle,” said Vinod.

“Who? Health plan?” asked Jagtap.

“Yes, him,” moaned Vinod.

Vinod had spoken about his manoeuvres to tiptoe around Sakharam’s insufferable accounts, which had provided ample fodder to Shirish to take the occasional dig at him.

“Don’t you get too healthy!” said Shirish waving off to Vinod as he lifted his briefcase and strode out of the glass door.

It was only after the security guard’s third round of inquiry asking if he planned to stay longer, did Vinod finally decide to call it a day and trudge home to face the presence of his uncle.

In his characteristic style of shielding himself from the unpleasant interaction with uncle Sakharam, Vinod had invited his older sister Maya to spend the weekend with him. Maya, a school teacher, agreed on the condition that Vinod and Rohit would help her get through the excruciating task of correcting test papers and tallying the marks.

It was 10 pm when Vinod was dragging his feet on the steps of his building. He could hear Sakharam’s roaring voice echoing through the flight of stairs.

“Finally, you are here! I was afraid I was going to have to go to bed before greeting you,” said Sakharam when Vinod stepped in.

“Hello kaka! How are you?” Vinod made a cursory inquiry.

“See for yourself. Fit as a fiddle!” gushed Sakharam.

“What brings a homebody so far away from home?” asked Vinod.

“A purpose. A cause. I am going to be part of a herbalists’ association. They have a convention tomorrow in Versova. You might just start seeing more of me, who knows,” Sakharam said.

“What!?” Vinod could barely hide his alarm by what he had just heard.

“Let’s all eat. It’s quite late already,” Madhu said immediately to fill the silence and Rohit gave out a chuckle.

The diner was a sumptuous spread of spicy mutton curry, chapatis, rice and shrikhand which put everyone in a sedated state by the end of their last morsel. Mattresses were spread in the drawing-room, where Vinod, Rohit and Sakharam would sleep and Maya and Madhu took the bedroom.

“Incredible journey!” Sakharam said without having been asked. He was lying on his back, an arm thrown over the forehead. “I was carrying three packets of the energy-boosting tea I had prepared. I was meant to give one to Madhu, but I gave away all three on the train. So many takers! Fatigue capital, that’s what this city is.”

What a relief, thought Vinod. He smirked at the irony that the cause of fatigue was doling out its antidotes.

“Hm,” said Vinod from under the duvet and the room fell silent.

At 3.30 pm on Saturday, Sakharam got inside an auto and gave the Versova address. At the same time, Vinod was on the train back home, completing a half-day in office.

On returning, he ate a meal of methi and chapati and topped it with a cup of sweet tea. Rohit was out playing with his friends and Maya and Madhu were getting ready to go for stroll in the building garden.

Vinod was reaching for the TV remote when the telephone rang. He changed tack and grabbed the receiver to answer the call. At the other end a gruff voice asked, “Who is Vinod Wasnik? Constable Shinde here. I want to speak to Vinod Wasnik.”

In a second a million thoughts clashed in Vinod’s mind creating a haze. He looked at Madhu and Maya. “Speaking. Yes. Vinod here,” he said tentatively.

“I am calling from the Versova police station. You need to get here as soon as you can,” constable Shinde said.

Vinod’s face sprouted a look of panic. Seeing him in a state of silent despair, Madhu and Maya grew concerned.

“What has happened?” Vinod asked, his heart pounding at a rate he never had experienced before.

“Sakharam Kawade is staying with you? You are his relation?” constable Shinde asked.

“Yes. I am his nephew. What happened to him?” Vinod asked.

“He is fine. We are just asking him questions,” Shinde said.

“You what?” Vinod said.

“Routine procedure. Drugs case. We don’t have the time to give you a speech here. When are you coming?” Shinde asked.

“Leaving now. An hour at least,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Madhu.

“Something happened to uncle?” asked Maya.

“Someone from Versova police station. They said they have Sakharam kaka. They are asking him questions,” said Vinod.

“What questions?” asked Maya.

“I don’t know. The constable was rather rude. Wouldn’t say. Something about a drug case. I need to go down to the police station,” he said.

“Drugs!” Madhu and Maya spoke almost at the same time.

Vinod threw a shirt on his back, wore a pair of trousers, grabbed his leather wallet, and within minutes he was inside an auto and hurtling southwards against the city’s traffic as Maya and Madhu watched from the balcony aghast.

Sakharam had reached Versova at the appointed time. Many people had been ambling about exchanging smiles. The bungalow had in fact been a rundown structure and Sakharam had thought it odd that there was no banner outside to direct the attendees. He had come to find the place judging by the group of people and upon inquiry was directed to a hall, where red plastic chairs had been arranged in a circular fashion. The meeting had started half an hour late with speeches on the need to build a movement on indigenous knowledge.

An interval later, a man had walked into the hall. He was of slight built and unremarkable features, but something about the stillness of his face and the panoramic gaze he threw about the room suggested that he was somebody to reckon with. Sakharam had felt he looked familiar and had made a mental note of making his acquaintance. The man had taken position inside the centre of the circle of chairs.

“As we are here joined by a common cause, it is time to know what we can do,” he had said without offering an introduction. “To begin with, the core team would be giving each of you 20 of these,” he had said, holding up a dark glass phial and a pamphlet. “This is an oil extracted from rare plants whose benefits have been recorded by scientists.” At this, there had been a knock on the door followed by the ringing of the doorbell and the room had turned towards the door.

In a flash, quick as lightening, the man had dashed off to the kitchen. As soon as he had yanked open the kitchen door, three policemen had rushed in and had nearly thrown themselves on him. Many more had followed and spread themselves out in the hall.

“Seize the bottles. Check the rooms. Nobody’s moves.” One of the inspectors in charge had directed his team. The room had broken into an uproar. One by one the police had escorted everyone in the room to the police van stationed outside.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sakharam had asked to the havildar escorting him to the blue van. “You are going to tell us that. Selling hashish in the name of medicine? How are you feeling now, hun?” the havildar had said.

Inspector Ravindra Kamble spread out his fleshy palm to even out the creases on a sheaf of paper on a large teak table lined with olive green rexine cloth. Across the table, on a long low wooden bench, Sakharam sat among a row of people making the best of the narrow seating. They wore nervous looks. Many others were standing in groups and some poured out of the station’s entrance. Terrified eyes watched Kamble as he sipped his cutting chai while writing something in a long, ruled book.

A posse of havildars was lugging plastic cans of the amber liquid that was swishing about inside the containers. Some of them were bagging glass phials in clear plastic pouches. A trail of sweet scent hovered above the thick air of consternation amid the bustle at the police station.

“They don’t teach educated people to think, do they? What is this?” remarked inspector Kamble now holding out the piece of paper he was caressing a while ago.

“We had absolutely no idea this was something illegal,” said Sakharam.

“You don’t read the papers?”

“This was in a paper”

“Which one?”

“Lokshahi.”

“What paper is this? Never heard.”

“It is printed locally in Akola. People buy it for its classifieds,” said Sakharam.

“Lokshahi, is it?” He made a note of the name. “Right now,” he went on, “democracy seems to be in danger.” Kamble began smiling at his own imagination.

“What is the danger, saheb? What has happened?” uttered Vinod, who upon reaching the police station around 9 pm had been directed to the table where Kamble exercising his wit and had caught only the last word.

Kamble turned to give him a sour look.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Vinod Wasnik. I got a call from the station. I was asked to come.”

“Whom do you have here?”

“My uncle here,” Vinod said pointing out to Sakharam.

“He stays with you?”

“No, he just arrived last evening from Akola.”

“You have the ticket?”

“Here it is.” Sakharam fished out the evidence from his pocket.

“So, Mr. Vinod…,” said Kamble ignoring Sakharam, “this is a serious case. He was among those present at a secret meeting where we have found drugs. We have arrested the organisers, who are running a hashish oil racket. They have cheated many people. We are not pressing any charges against these people, but we would a detailed statement and proof of credentials,” Kamble said directing Vinod and Sakharam to a constable in another room.

“Okay. Tell us from the beginning. When and where did you read the notice?” asked the constable clacking a pen on a foolscap paper.

 

                                                            ***

 

‘Mumbai police seize of hashish oil’. The Times of India carried a report on the drug bust on its front page the next day:

Mumbai police on Saturday busted a major drug racket seizing 2.5 litres of hashish oil estimated to be worth nearly Rs. 1 crore. Acting on a tip-off, a team of the anti-narcotics cell swooped down on a house in Versova and arrested the kingpin of an inter-state drug peddling network Sandeep Kumar alias Baban and two of his associates, catching them red-handed in the act of duping a group of unsuspecting persons into selling the contraband as herbal remedy.

Kumar, who is touted as the mastermind of the racket, was on ANC’s radar for the last three months. His modus operandi involved placing meeting announcements in lesser-known local publications outside the city to escape notice, enlisting persons from small towns in an ostensible mission to spread promote natural medicine and using them to peddle the contraband without their knowledge. The event in Mumbai was their second such attempt.

Around 20 people had gathered at the house for a meeting, which was a front created by the gang under the title ‘Society of Herbalists’. They were detained by the police for questioning. At the time of going to press, sources said they would be let off after their statements had been recorded.

The report detailed the seizures, the criminal antecedents of the accused persons and praised the timely action of Kamble and his crack team.

Vinod Jagtap read each word in a feverish daze. It was nearly 2 am by the time Sakharam’s full statement had been recorded, read, checked and signed, along with those of the other attendees, identity documents were checked and copies made. The duo got back home after much difficulty in finding a taxi. Madhu, Maya and Rohit were all awake and nobody slept a wink after that.

Sakharam on his part had grown tired and solemn. When he woke up late the next morning, Madhu handed him a plate of hot pohe and ginger tea.

“I had planned to stay for a week,” said Sakharam, “but now I do not wish to stay for a moment more in this city.”

Vinod felt his spirits rise. He had not considered the possibility of last night having a silver lining and smiled to himself.

“You are still in shock, kaka. You need to rest. What’s the hurry?” Maya tried to cheer Sakharam up, bursting Vinod’s bubble.

“The longer I stay here, the tougher I will find it to get rest. I leave tonight,” he said.

“But there are no trains scheduled for tonight,” said Maya.

“Getting on a bus,” Sakharam said.

“I don’t think…” she started to say when Vinod butted in. “Plenty of connecting buses, once he gets to Aurangabad,” he said. He was getting annoyed at his sister’s persuasions.

“Vinod can take me to the state transport depot and book the ticket. Also, my return ticket to Akola will have to be cancelled,” Sakharam said.

“Leave everything to me. Will take care of it. You just get some rest before the journey,” said Vinod.  

Around 7 pm that evening, Vinod and Sakharam sat in the passenger seating area at the densely polluted Mumbai Central bus depot waiting for the announcer to holler out the departure of the bus.

“There is something I want to tell you, which I did not tell the police. I had the nagging feeling at the time that there was something more I needed to say, but could not put my finger on what it was,” said Sakharam.

“What is it?” asked Vinod.

“Do you remember when the constable started to record my statement and he asked me to narrate from the beginning?”

“Yes, I remember that clear as a bell. You even figured out the date when the advertisement was printed in the paper from the date of your ticket booking.”

“That proved to be quite handy indeed. Only…that was not the beginning,” said Sakharam. His expression had turned lucid.

“Then?” asked Vinod.

“It all started with this man in a market square…”

END