[Reader-list] Something Happened. Post 2.2 by Aman Sethi

[Aman Sethi]

It is now, with great pleasure, that I narrate "Ashraf ki kahani".  Mohammed
Ashraf is a painter at Bara Tuti Chowk; his Kahani is loosely based on one
long interview that I conducted not too long ago, and a few informal
conversations that preceded it.  I would be only to glad to share copies of
the recording, should anyone be interested.  My honest apologies to
non-hindi readers.  i have translated some of the hindi bits - but my blog
http://abjective.blogspot.com shall soon have an updated translated version.

Run, Run, Run, Run. Feet pounding on pavement, chappals fighting for grip,
slick concrete roads, Bombay.  Watch the aunty, dodge the pushcart, cut
through the crowd.  The events of yesterday crowded into Ashraf's mind, but
he pushed them away.  Kuch ho gaya tha (something had happened), these were
just the kind of mistakes that could prove fatal. Run, Run, Run, Run.  By
the time he reached the entrance to the market, Ashraf knew it was too late,
he was finished here.

Eyebrows raised in mock surprise greeted him, "Aur Ashraf Bhai, Sunday ko
kahan the?" (So, ashraf, where were you this Sunday?)  But then the eyes
narrowed, the brows came close.  A conspiratorial whisper, "Maalik bahut
gussa hai, tum yahain se chale jao." (The boss is very angry, you should
leave as soon as you can)

Ashraf stopped.  Given the certainty of his sacking, was it worth getting a
shouting, or worse, in the bargain? One cannot be the head butcher of the X
chicken shop, and miss Sundays.  It was simply not done.

The X chicken shop was perhaps the most famous chicken shop in the locality
– as was its owner.  Maalik, as everyone called him, was the local market
strongman.  He had grabbed most of the land, both inside and outside the
market, and collected hafta from most of petty shopkeepers and hawkers.  His
chicken was the best in town, "Hur Sunday dukaan ke baahar line lagti thi",
(people used to line up outside his shop on Sundays) and chicken worth
several thousands of rupees was sold.

Mohammed Ashraf was the murga karigar at the X chicken shop.  Having long
surpassed the rank of the common butcher, he was now accorded the respect of
the karigar – the master craftsman.  To call the karigar a mere expert was
to do so at your own peril; capable of slicing chicken with the speed of a
samurai and the precision of a swiss watch, a karigar was essential for any
successful murga business.  Each karigar had his own secret technique, and
apprentices were advised to watch his hands very carefully.

Legendary for his ability to carve out the juiciest pieces, and yet keep out
the chaatan for himself, Ashraf was earning between Rs 1800 and Rs 2000 per
month as salary, while the chaatan got him between Rs 50 and 100 a day.  The
chaatan referred to the chicken scraps that nobody wanted – organs, random
bits of skin, fat and flesh.  But then this was Bombay – there was nothing
that nobody wanted. Less than a quarter the price of the regular meat,
Chaatan often sold under the counter faster than succulent chicken above it
– snapped up by labourers, carpenters, plumbers, palledars and others like
Ashraf himself.

Sundays were the busiest days.  Throngs would line the street outside the
shop, selecting live chickens and pointing them out to the helpers.  The
helper would pull out the bird, weigh it, tag it with a plastic token and
pass it on to the apprentice, who would then chop off the bird's head and
stuff the still-flapping carcass into the large dibba.  One by one, butchers
would pull out birds, call out token numbers, and chop them as per customer
specifications – curry, fry, tandoori – you name it.

That fateful Sunday, Ashraf did not make it.  "Something happened", he
explained defensively to the gathering crowd.  Without its chief karigar,
the X chicken shop fell hopelessly behind demand. The boys pulled hard, but
it was no use; that day the queue extended all the way till the church.  The
Maalik lost between five and eight thousand rupees, Ashraf lost his job.

But there was still enough to do in Bombay.  Thanks to his experience as a
thekedar (contractor) in Calcutta, Ashraf found himself an entry level job
mixing concrete. The money was good, but something was lacking.  Once you
were a karigar – in any field, you could not reconcile yourself a life of
unremarkable, ordinary, dehadi.  It just wasn't done.

So a year and a half after arriving at Mumbai central station from Patna,
Ashraf got onto a train and left.  Surat and Baroda passed in a blur – a few
odd jobs – and, suddenly, at 9:30 one night he was in Delhi.  "Humne socha
ki jab humne saara sansar chold diya, business chold diya, parivaar chold
diya, toh Delhi aur Bombay mein kya phark padega?  Ghoom ghoom ke kamainge,
khaienge"

Patna, his home town, had never been an option.  Three years ago he had
fought his brother for the last time – and this time he was never going
home.  Though younger than Ashraf, his brother never gave him any izzat; and
finally, when the chips are down, it's all about izzat.  Izzat – there was
no escaping it.  There were no C.V.s for murga karigars, or painters, or
carpenters, or plumbers – there was only izzat that separated a bekaar aadmi
from a sahi aadmi – a man you could trust. It was the kind of quality that
made sense of statements like "wohi sharabi toh hai, pur izzat walah hai."
Izzat is good when one is around strangers, but izzat is essential around
family.  So how does one earn izzat?  Over the years, Ashraf has come up
with a formula condensed into a an easy three-fold path to izzat:
1)    Koi galat kaam karna hai to parde ke peeche karo.
2)    Buri aadat hai to chold do.
3)     Doosre ko izzat do, aur who tumhe izzat dega.

So, apart from somewhat vague exchanges of good will, what purpose does
izzat serve? What is its fayda?  "Izzat ka bahut faidaa hai": The primary
faida being that even when you're lying hungry in a corner of the chowk, and
sleeping to conserve energy, everyone assumes that as a man of izzat you
must have eaten well – which seems like a rather dubious reward, until one
remembers George Orwell's maxim from "Down and out in Paris and London" –
"[while looking for work] It is fatal to look hungry.  It makes people want
to kick you."

The second, more concrete, faida is that "agar kisi ki ma, ya behen apke
saamne zara galat raste se bhi pesh ho rahi ho, toh doosra daint dega –ki
yeh aadmi vaisa nahin hai , kaise aapne iss par inzaam lagaya?"  So it does
have its advantages.  Izzat was the primary reason why Ashraf could not go
back to Patna, and so he found himself in Delhi.

"Ab muhje lagta hai ki Bombay se Dilli aana humri sabse badi galti thi.
Dilli mein koi kisi ki izzat nahin karta."
(I often think that shifting from Delhi to Bombay was a big mistake.  No one
really gives anyone any respect in Delhi)
New Delhi Railway Station, 9:30 PM, Cold.  Jama Masjid – last resort of the
faithful.  Gates closed.  Armed Guard.  No entry after 10 PM.  No sleeping
in mosque premises.  No defacing world heritage site.

"Arre bhai, is there any place I could sleep around here?"  Four faces look
up from the fire.  "Are you new here?"
"Yes, I just got here from Bombay."
Pregnant pause.
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
Rustle of cloth on cloth, practiced hands sift through a bundle of clothes.
Five rupees exchange hands.  Ashraf eats a plate of rice from the nearby
stall and buys a packet of Howrah beedis. "Is there any place I could sleep
around here?"
"Check round the corner."

Around the corner, the card game stops briefly as Ashraf walks up to them.
Situations are explained, heads nod in solidarity and reassurance.  Ashraf
puts down his bori-bistar, and waits for the world to fade to black.

Ashraf awoke to find his card playing comrades gone.  Picking up his
belongings he heads out into the market in search of work.  The chicken shop
has openings, but he shall have to start all the way from the bottom.  It
keeps him occupied for a few days but soon he is back to manual labor.  He
works with a mistry for a while and then heads out on his own.

Three months down the line, Ashraf has a home – Sanjay Amar Colony, Behind
Lal Qila.  He has also bought himself a sewing machine and has learnt how to
stitch "sports sets" from a Bengali Babu in the colony.  He now wears
"pressed" clothes everyday, and everyone calls him "Masterji."  The
"sport-set" business is doing well. Ashraf and the Babu are supplying
finished garments to exporters with markets in Dubai.

In his spare time, he thinks about working for a few more years in Delhi and
then settling down in Calcutta – A house in a nearby village, a railway pass
to commute everyday, and a small floor-polishing business.  Maybe his mother
might come down from Patna, maybe he might just get married.

2004, elections, constituencies, vote-banks.  Sanjay Amar Colony, Congress
stronghold.  Jagmohan, demolitions.

It's gone. The house is gone.  Bengali Babuji has gone.  The samaj has
broken. The Dubai exporter has found other suppliers.  Ashraf has sold the
machine.  He is back on the streets.  He is in Bara Tuti.  He has learnt how
to paint now.  He is a paint-master.  Calcutta has receded to the infinite
horizon.  He is a sharabi, but an izzat walah, and he knows that "gareeb
aadmi ka sirf gareeb hi dekhta hai."

"Yeh jo mandi hai, yeh ek samudar ki leher hai.  Jab paise hote hai toh yeh
leher aage nikalti hai, aur jab paisa khatam toh peeche aati hai.  Leher
kabhi rukti nahi.. kabhi rukti nahin."


A.
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