Village and block Alipura, district Jhansi, Uttar Pradesh. You know that morning has begun in a narrow lane of this village in Bundelkhand as soon as you notice the long rows of children shitting into the gulp and bubble of drains on either side of the lane. The sun has vaulted over the uneven and crooked roofline—cemented or tiled, sagging or humped—and is settling in for the day. Figures of an almost primal nakedness, in striped drawstring underpants, sit slumped on the plinths of houses, overcome with lethargy. Others are still fast asleep in the open, sprawled on scratchy charpoys, unaware of how their dhotis have ridden up, their long but loose drawers have slid agape, or that the views on offer are a topic of interest and wit among the defecating children. Flies dot the lane from one end to the other. It is mayhem at the public tap, where women noisily claim their turn and savage the claims of other women. On a raised plinth right there, but as if abstracted from the commotion, is a row of people sitting on their haunches, spitting out the results of their datoon, rinsing their mouths and gargling energetically over the drain. Also on the plinth is that band of elderly layabouts who answer to the name of dadda, babba or nanna, all now absorbed in extracting—with the aid of beedis—a full night’s worth of congealed phlegm from their chests, which they reverently dedicate to the same drain. Young men rake over the skin of their inner thighs and scrotums, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. Clutching their precious leaf-cups of jalebis to the chest, gastronomes race homewards to escape the harrying flies. An old woman appears with a basket of jamuns on her head. And spread over the entire scene is a peculiar odour, not exactly a stench, though certainly no fragrance either. On such a summer’s morning in the village of Alipura, a tonga entered the lane. Displaying uncanny skill, the driver steered his horse and cart safely past the squatting children on either side who were resolved not to budge an inch. ‘Is the Manekpur Passenger in, bhaiyya?’ The old-timer who put this question to the tongawala had no need of the information, never having stirred out of Alipura in twenty years. But his guiding principle was that there’s no harm in asking. ‘Hau,’ affirmed the tongawala and brought his vehicle to a halt. The old man leapt off the plinth and landed near the tonga with such speed that even the horse was taken aback for an instant. The excitement of the tonga’s halt roused other idlers to their feet and it was soon hemmed in by a sizeable crowd. ‘You might ask them,’ said the tongawala, to a passenger with the self-important bearing of a policeman. Besides this man and his flaring moustache, the tonga also held a loutish-looking boy and a couple of decrepit senior citizens. ‘Say, bhaiyya, which way is it to Dube-ji’s house?’ was their query. ‘Which Dube-ji? Th e one from Baruasagar?’ ‘No, from Mauranipur.’ ‘Come along, we’ll show you there.’ With enthusiasm, the assembled spectators and volunteers began leading the way.
‘Stick close behind us,’ one of them turned to advise the tongawala. ‘I’m doing that,’ he returned, ‘but watch out for the horse, will you? You’re cramping his space.’ The procession made for Dube-ji’s house. An old man, constrained from movement by his swollen joints and a knee complaint, turned to another on the plinth and remarked, ‘They’re here to see Binnoo. Perhaps an engagement will come of it this time.’ ‘Unlikely.’ ‘Why’s that, bhaiyya?’ ‘You can’t trust these Talbehat people. The bastards go around looking at girls all right, but will never come back with a clear yes or no.’ ‘True.’ The tonga had successfully managed a perilous turn of the narrow lane. It vanished from sight, but the conversation continued.
Binnoo was dressing up elaborately. Why? Because Lallan mamaji had found a likely match for her – a good-looking, capable, educated and cultured boy from a decent family of Gaudh Brahmin stock. Armed with these celestial virtues, the boy was coming over to take a look at Binnoo—which was why she was dressing up. Occasions for this elaborate toilette came her way five or six times a year. It had been so for the past few years. The boy in question was always a capable, well-born, cultured catch, and Binnoo did the honours for his reception every time. She would be ready as the good-looking, cultured, capable boy showed up with his parents, uncles, nephews, chums, hangers-on, or any company with the spare time to join him on a pleasure trip. They would examine Binnoo minutely, as if she were a pot they just might buy, before vanishing from view. Yet, a renewed hope accompanied the preparations each time, as the broken-down chairs of the sitting room made way for a sofa borrowed from the neighbours. A pink sari was unpacked. In the family’s joint opinion, Binnoo looked pretty in this sari, paired with its matching blouse of puffed sleeves and a mirrorwork neckline. On such a day she was permitted, even instructed, to ‘do some cream-powder’, considered a crime under more routine circumstances, and which could earn Amma’s rebuke: ‘Keep clear of fashion, Binnoo. Mind you, don’t disgrace us with the caste fraternity.’ It was commonly held that cosmetics ruin the skin, besides bringing dishonour to the family, just as a girl with an eye-catching hairdo was bound to be a shameless flirt. It was another matter that despite these adversities Binnoo always did manage a pretty-ish arrangement for her braid, and to get some touches of make-up on her face. Far from ruined by these attentions, her skin was glowing marvellously, and the sight of it strengthened Rammu’s hope and resolve to make a grab for her at the first chance he got, by night or day. This Rammu, who grew ever more committed to carrying out his programme, was the son and heir of the Bania Gurcharan, their neighbour.
Excerpted with permission from Alipura, Juggernaut Books
