Lokpal - Andhon Ka Haathi

THE pre-introduction debate on the Lokpal Bill in Parliament reminded me of a one act play I got opportunity to direct and perform long years back. Must have been the third year of graduation class, and the occasion the annual college fest. The play was called Andhon Ka Haathi, Hindi poet-writer late Sharad Joshi’s celebrated work, satirizing the prevailing political class of 1970’s. Joshi gave us the famous Vikram Aur Betal serial in our growing up years, and his works continue to get profiled on the small screen.

Briefly, the play revolved around a set of blind men and an elephant. The men try to comprehend the elephant with their understanding limited by only that part of the pachyderm’s body that they can lay their hands on. Anchored by a sutradhar – played by yours truly – the narrative revolves around juxtaposition of what the blind men feel to what the nation’s political class understands of the country’s ills.

Midway through the act, hoots and shout-downs made dialogue delivery impossible. If eggs and tomatoes did not come our way it was perhaps because the auditorium did not have a supply close by. The organizer of the show – an all size Gujarati-speaking Bongo – came to the blinds and frantically gestured to get our elephant off the stage ASAP.

But I digress.

As leader after leader from all shades of the political spectrum rose to speak in Parliament, it was clear what they were doing. Obfuscation. A right wing Sushma Swaraj could not but raise the issue of minority reservation and hence reject the Bill. The party is as yet to steady its view on CBI’s inclusion in the Ombudsman. A corrupt Lalu could not have but cautioned all MPs about how dangerous it would be if even ex-MPs were included as possible targets of Lokpal hounds. For the CPM, Basudev Achariya stuck to their stand that the elephant can’t but be shepherded only by the Parliament. Owaisi of the MIM of course could profusely thank the government for having brought in the Muslim reservation in an eight-member constitutional body.

All this while the treasury bench occupants watched with a certain contentment, even some glee. Manmohan could not have bargained for anything better than this to puncture Anna’ third leg of the Chameli revolution - our own version of Arab spring. Could someone smell Diggi’s hands in the till on this? We are yet to find out. Or perhaps, journalistic grapevine already knows it in Delhi.

Joshi wrote Andhon Ka Haathi in 1970’s. But as I watched the debate in Parliament unfold I thought it was being re-enacted again. Only that the shouts and hoots were kept out and one could not throw eggs and tomatoes on the television screens, even if one had supply at hand.

ZAFAR

When times change, how much they change lives...

THE Emperor of India had already slipped out of the Palace two days ago. As the triumphant British broke the siege and marched onto Red Fort on the fateful morning of September 19, 1857, last of the mutinous sepoys deserted their posts melting into the escaping hordes.

Zafar arranged a bullock cart, took his blind mother with him, and set out before dawn in search of a safer hideout. There were not many options. While escaping from destruction all around, the duo had to evade oncoming British, and in the rural surroundings take care not to hit any of the marauding Gujars.The cart took the road to Karnal and was out of Delhi at sunrise.

Having traveled all day Zafar asked the cart-puller to stop and decided to rest on the outskirts of a village for the night. Getting inside the village could have brought some help. But, equally, it might have led to loot and murder. He was not sure whether the village belonged to the Gujars or the more reasonable Jats.

Sleeping without food Zafar got up in the morning to find that the driver had decamped with the bullocks. Doors in the village in vicinity were knocked for help. The Jats obliged with food and shelter.

But not before long the greed for the boxes being carried by the old woman and the young man got the better of the Jat families and they dumped them after robbing them of the heirloom. In the scuffle the blind sister-in-law of the Emperor of India suffered a blow on her head and gave up her life in the jungle.

Zafar looked around, found a dried bamboo pole, and spent whole night digging a grave for his mother. In all likelihood the woman;s remain must have been dug up the same night by wild dogs or jackals and made food of. Zafar again began his furtive journey…this time to south and Mumbai. Of whatever was left with him, he managed to hitchhike on a west bound ship and landed at Mecca in Arabia. For 10 years Zafar lived like a fakir surviving on the alms from pilgrims coming from across the world.

But motherland was India and how could he live in Mecca even if it was the centre of universe? So began his journey via land and Lahore to return to Delhi that was now a British city. No more the capital of India. The proud Timurid would, however, not take an offer of royal pension, working instead as a cart-pusher transporting bricks for railways. Years must have passed before Zafar managed to buy his own cart.

It was a hot summer day in the year that Mahatma Gandhi’s name was rising on the horizon. Delhi was now the capital of India again. A deaf 80-year old Mirza Zafar was pushing his cart on the road between Grand Jama Masjid and the Red Fort. Just a furtive glance to his right to the looming red sandstone structure and Zafar continued his breathless push toward his destination. As he turned toward his left to get into a lane from the Chandni Chowk junction, a Ford convertible swerved past him, its left side grazing the cart and throwing him off the road as he tried to balance the weight of bricks.

Before Zafar could collect himself out rushed a man from the car that came to a screeching halt ahead of the cart. In his late thirties, foppishly dressed, drunk and abusive, businessman Kishan Arora could not countenance any obstruction when in hurry. Not the least when his destination was the terrace garden of lovely Mumtaz.
“You Haramkhor old man, are you supposed to push cart on this big road next to Red Fort? Is this your ancestral property?” Amid the rain of abuses landed a hail of big blows on the face of a still recovering Zafar. The Timurid blood had not faced anything like this since his escape from Delhi in 1857. One big blow in return left Arora with a bleeding nose. .
… … …

The matter went to court. If the judge was amused, he did not show it. The rest of the courtroom laughed. The old man continued unaffected with his harangue. “Only sixty years ago this man would have been my slave and I would have surely banished this man to oblivion for having done anything like this to a poor subject. You all would have been slaves to my orders.”

This story is of Zafar Sultan, a nephew of the last Mughal Emperor of India, Bahadur Shah Zafar. To be more precise, the son of Bahadur Shah’s younger brother Mirza Babur. As narrated in the book “The Last Mughal” by William Dalrymple. Shows how when times change, how much they change lives. Thats why thought of posting this.