A touch of Tibet in Kochi

Photos: Sethu Das (in blue shirt), founder of the Friends of Tibet Foundation shows the Zenith Radio to the Dalai Lama; the Potala Palace in Lhasa. Photo by Jaqueline Meier of Switzerland; A father, mother and 12-year-old son who had arrived at the Tibetan Refugee Reception Centre in Kathmandu, Nepal, after trekking over the Himalayas. Photo by Angel Lopez Soto from Spain; a thangka painting

The Friends of Tibet Foundation has set up a museum and a library about Tibet. Tushar Gandhi, the great grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, and human rights activist inaugurated it on October 22

(Published in The Federal)

https://thefederal.com/.../why-kochi-is-rooting-for...

By Shevlin Sebastian

It is a cloudy Sunday afternoon. Panorama Nagar in Kochi is deserted. There are bungalows lining the road. Most houses have grassy lawns, gardens with roses, sunflowers, and marigolds, apart from mango and coconut trees. Silence abounds. Only the chirp of sparrows can be heard. Everybody is taking their afternoon siesta. In front of one bungalow, set at quite some distance from the road, white, red, blue, green and orange flags are fluttering on a wire.

This is the first hint that there is something different about the bungalow.

And, indeed, it is different. The bungalow houses a museum which is dedicated to showcasing the life and times of the people of Tibet.

According to their history, the Chinese invaded and captured Tibet in 1950. Thousands of Tibetans died. Many fled, trekking over their Himalayas, and took refuge in India. In 1959, the Tibetan spiritual leader Dalai Lama sought political asylum in India. It was granted to him. He fled from Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, and trekked over the Himalayan mountain passes and reached Mussoorie. According to government data, there are 85,000 Tibetans living in India today.

Inside the museum, one of the first things that catches the eye is Zenith Royal 1000-1 Wavemagnet Transistor Radio. The current Dalai Lama used it when he lived in the Potala Palace in Lhasa. He took it with him when he came to India and established a government-in-exile in Mussoorie, in the state of Uttarakhand in northern India. In 1960, it was shifted to Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh.

“The Zenith Corporation made it for the exclusive use of the Dalai Lama,” said Sethu Das, the founder of the Friends of Tibet Foundation. “It was one of the most powerful radios built at that time.”

Sethu pulled out its very long antenna. “This was how the Dalai Lama kept in touch with all the happenings in the world,” he said.

On November 25, 2012, the Dalai Lama visited Kochi.

Sethu said, “Your Holiness, do you remember this radio?”

The Dalai Lama shook his head.

Sethu said, “This is your radio.”

The Dalai Lama laughed heartily, as he hadn’t expected to see the radio in Kochi. The Dalai Lama’s sister, Jetsun Pema, had gifted it to the Friends of Tibet several years ago.

On October 22, Tushar Gandhi, the great grandson of Mahatma Gandhi and a noted human rights activist, inaugurated the museum.

When Tushar saw the radio, he said, “I feel nostalgic when I see the Dalai Lama’s radio. It reminds me of the clandestine radio broadcasts by the courageous Congress worker Usha Mehta in Mumbai 75 years ago."

Usha had set up the Secret Congress Radio, an underground radio station. She broadcasted the communications of the leaders, many of whom were in prison. It functioned for eight months during the Quit India Movement of 1942.

“Today, the Tibetan movement symbolises the battle of right against might,” said Tushar. “The world must sympathise with the Tibetan people. We Indians must make the battle to regain the homeland of Tibet for the Tibetans our own. We must help to achieve this dream during the lifetime of His Holiness The Dalai Lama. I affirm my solidarity with the people.”

At the museum, next to the radio, in a framed photo, are images of Tibetan currency. You can see paper notes like 25 and 100 Sang notes. They were in circulation till 1959.

There is a long-distance shot, by Jaqueline Meier of Switzerland, of the magnificent Potala Palace. It is located high up on the Red Hill. In the massive courtyard in front, there is a group of Chinese police officers standing around. This is a stark reminder of the invasion. Thousands of Tibetans died at the hands of the Chinese troops.

One of India’s greatest spiritual teachers, Osho, said, in a speech at Pune, in 1988, “Tibet has fallen into darkness. Its monasteries have been closed. The Chinese have forced its seekers of truth to work in labour camps. Nowhere in the world has there been such a concentrated effort to discover man’s inner being. But the communist regime has destroyed everything that the people had built in the past two thousand years.”

In another image, taken by Angel Lopez Soto from Spain, a father, mother and 12-year-old son had arrived at the Tibetan Refugee Reception Centre in Kathmandu, Nepal, after trekking over the Himalayas.

They are sitting on a bench and having soup, their eyes cast downwards towards the bowls. They looked weather-bitten and hungry. The father has placed his foot in a basin of warm water.

“He may have suffered from frostbite,” said Sethu. “This is a scene from the 1960s.” A young woman, in a white top and floor-length skirt, stood on one side and watched them with a solicitous look on her face.

On another wall hangs a thangka. It is a Tibetan Buddhist painting which is painted on cloth. It depicts Lord Buddha, who is sitting crossed-legged inside a lotus. “They make the paints from natural plants,” said musician Nirmal Anthony, a member of the Friends of Tibet. “The lotus is a flower that grows in the mud but is untouched by it. Buddha’s message is: ‘You should live in the world but remain unaffected by its vicissitudes.’ The thousand-petalled lotus symbolises the enlightened state of human consciousness.”

There is also a photo, taken by Mumbai-based photographer Suresh Natarajan, of a smiling Dalai Lama, sitting on an armchair in his office in Dharamshala. The Dalai Lama radiates positive energy because of his twinkling eyes. He looked to be in his fifties. A copy of the American magazine, Newsweek, is lying on a low table in front of him. Today, the Dalai Lama is 88 years old.

Other photos show the vistas of the Tibetan landscape with its blue skies and high mountain ranges.

Some items have been placed on a table. These include the first Tibetan passport used by the Finance Secretary Tsepong Wangchuk Dedhen Shakabpa; the 1934 September edition of the National Geographic magazine carrying the image of the Tibetan National Flag in the ‘National Flags of the World’; Chinese Communist Party Chairman Mao’s ‘Little Red Book’, and a uniform worn by the Chinese soldiers during the invasion of Tibet.

A visitor’s view

Sudheer Nath is a Delhi-based journalist cum cartoonist. Once or twice a month, he comes to Kerala to visit his family. He dropped in to view the museum.

“If you visit the museum without knowing the history of Tibet, you will not get an idea of the pain and despair behind the photos,” he said. “It will be ordinary photos for those who are ignorant. But for me, it was a deeply moving experience.”

Sudheer has been a keen follower of the Tibetan issue for 25 years and has attended many functions of the Friends of Tibet. He has visited the Tibetan refugee colony called Majnu Ka Tila near Kashmere Gate in Delhi. “I am a supporter of Tibetan independence,” he said.

There is also a library which houses hundreds of books about Tibet. You can see ‘A Journey in Ladakh: Encounters with Buddhism’, by spiritual teacher Andrew Harvey; ‘Tibet: Reports from Exile’ by Tibetan author Thupten Samphel, and ‘The Definitive Account of the Dalai Lama and Tibet’, written by American journalist John F Avedon. There is a book by the Dalai Lama, called ‘Awakening the mind: Lightening the heart.’

Attracted to Tibet

Sethu was working as a graphic designer with the ‘Economic Times’ newspaper in Mumbai. During a vacation, he landed in Dharamshala with a photographer friend. That was when he encountered Tibetan monks with their distinctive maroon cloaks. He got curious and did interviews to know more about them.

When some of them refused to speak, he realised later the Chinese had cut off their tongues. He felt an ache in his heart. “I discovered my life’s work and passion in Dharamshala,” he said. Soon, he gave up his job. Thereafter, he set up the Friends of Tibet at Mumbai in 1999. This was followed, in the same year, by the setting up of the Friends of Tibet Foundation in his hometown of Kochi.

The Foundation works to safeguard and advance Tibetan heritage, including their healing traditions.

“We are conducting research on the unique heritage, legacy and history of Tibet,” said Sethu. The Foundation works with scholars, scientists, health experts, and sociologists to publish research papers.

During the Kochi International Art Biennale, in December, 2022, the Foundation set up ‘Shadow Circus: A Personal Archive of Tibetan Resistance (1957-74)’. Activist film-makers Ritu Sarin and Tenzing Sonam curated it.

Karma Yeshi is a former finance minister of the Tibetan Government in Exile. He said that the Friends of Tibet are doing wonderful work, mainly in South India and Mumbai. ‘They have made the people aware of the sufferings of the Tibetan people,” he said. “All this has happened because of the immense dedication and sincerity of Sethu and his team, Suku, his brother, and their father CJ Yesudasan (1938-2021), one of Kerala's well-known cartoonists. Because of them, many other people have joined the group. All of them are so sincere.”

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Tibetan Medical Camp

Next to the museum is a doctor’s chamber. Dr. Dorjee Rapten Neshar conducts a three-day medical camp once every two months.

“Sowa Rigpa, or the Science of Healing, is one of the world’s oldest known medical traditions dating back to the 4th Century AD,” said Dr. Neshar. “The Indian healing system of Ayurveda has influenced Tibetan medicine. We use pulse and urinalysis. Our medicines are composed of herbs and minerals. We have physical therapies like acupuncture.”

Around 100 patients come to seek treatment.

One of them is Sreelal. He is an artist and teaches art at the Emmanuel College at Vazhichal, 43 kms from the capital of Thiruvananthapuram. On the evening of February 4, 2022, after returning from college, he complained of a headache to his wife, Chitra. So, he lay down on the bed. Suddenly, there were tremors on his face and blood shot out from his mouth. Chitra took him to the hospital. The hospital could not diagnose whether it was a stroke or a fit.

“Since it was during Covid, the doctor put him on a ventilator,” said Chitra, who works in a government office. After 15 days, the doctor took him off the ventilator and Sreelal became normal after a month.

“Through the next year, now and then he would have fits,” said Chitra. ‘Sreelal began slurring on some words. The hospital kept increasing the dosage. Sreelal became bedridden and slept a lot. He became absent-minded.”

Mathew, a friend, suggested that they consult Dr. Neshar.

“We were hesitant to bring him,” said Chitra. “I had not heard of Tibetan medicine earlier.”

But on July 5, this year, Chitra brought Sreelal to the medical camp in Kochi. When Dr Nasher inspected Sreelal, he was shocked at the high dosage of medicine that he had been taking. He reduced the dose and also provided Tibetan medicines. The tablets have to be grounded and immersed in warm water. Sreelal took the liquid three times a day.

Within days, there was a marked improvement. Sreelal is also doing physiotherapy. He can walk now. “He is eating with his left hand, even though he is right-handed,” said Chitra. “I don’t know what it is, but Tibetan medicine is amazing. I am sure Sreelal will make a complete recovery.”

Chronicling the Cochin Jews

Pramila Venkateswaran’s book of poems, ‘We are not a museum’, has won the best poetry award at the New York Book Festival

By Shevlin Sebastian

(Published in scroll.in:

https://scroll.in/.../meet-pramila-venkateswaran-winner...)

On the morning of July 26, when Pramila Venkateswaran opened her eyes, she saw it was dark outside the window of her house in Long Island. There was a steady pitter-patter of the rain. Pramila was glad that because of the summer holidays, she did not have to go to work. She is Professor, English and Women and Gender Studies at Nassau Community College 58 kms away.

She went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee.

After a while, her husband IV Ramakrishnan came in, carrying a black briefcase. He was wearing a blue shirt and black trousers. Pramila liked the way he kept his white beard so trim and proper. Ramakrishnan is Professor and Associate Dean in the Department of Computer Science at Stony Brook university. It was a five-minute drive away.

“Happy birthday,” he said, as he gave Pramila a peck on her cheek.

“Let’s go out for dinner today.”

“Okay,” said Pramila. “Hopefully, the rain will stop by then.”

“I think it will,” he said, as he headed towards the door.

Carrying her cup of coffee, Pramila went to her study, opened her laptop and checked her mails.

One email said she had won an award. She thought, ‘What is this? I don’t remember applying. This can’t be true.’

Anyway, Pramila clicked on the link. She realised she had won the first prize for poetry for her book, ‘We are not a museum’. This was in the competition held by the New York Book Festival.

Pramila had sent an entry over ten months ago. So she had forgotten about the event. Immediately Pramila thought, ‘What a perfect birthday gift!’

She sent the link to her daughters living in different parts of America and to her husband. She also posted the link of the award online. Soon, congratulatory messages rolled in.

The book is about the life and times of the Cochin Jews, a declining community. There are less than 15 members left. As a child, she spent a few years in Jew Town.

“I would run in and out of the Paradesi Synagogue,” she said.

Her father, R Venkateswaran, worked as a manager in Canara Bank. The management had transferred him to the Fort Kochi branch. “He became close to the Jewish community,” she said. “And especially with Satu Koder, a leading entrepreneur, who was the warden of the synagogue for over 40 years.”

Both worked together, in 1968, to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the synagogue. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was the chief guest. For several years after that, in her parents’ house, there hung a large black-and-white photograph. This comprised Indira Gandhi, Venkateswaran, his wife, Kausalya, and Satu Koder standing together.

What Pramila remembered was how entranced she was by the inside of the synagogue. She recollects the memory in this excerpt from her poem, ‘I was seven’ from her book.

Oh,

there is so much gold and red in this temple,

the tall lamps are lit and multicoloured glass dance

their hues on the windows. How strange

the objects in the room—the tall table, the big book,

the writing on the walls. I do not even know

what building we’re in until Amma explains,

“It is a synagogue, a Jewish temple.” I carry the sound

of my light steps, velvet in my eyes.

For the past 20 years, Pramila had been writing poems about her childhood. Inevitably, she wrote about her time in the synagogue.

She had no plans to write a book about the Cochin Jews, but as she reflected on the rich syncretic tradition in Kerala, where the mosque, church and the synagogue stood side by side and in harmony, Pramila felt she should do so.

In 2009, when she visited the synagogue, she saw tourists from all over the world. Pramila said, “I thought, ‘Oh my God, people are coming there to view it. But there are actual Jews who are living there.’ Hence, the title of the book came up, ‘We are not a museum’.”

And here is the poem:

We are Not a Museum

The whole world seems to have landed on our doorstep.

How did this happen? Yesterday a woman was peeping

into my bedroom. Now I close my doors and windows

to keep out nosy tourists creeping around Mattancherry.

A journalist called asking me about my life in Kochi.

I said it is like any other woman’s. I have a huge load

of laundry to wash, dishes to scrub, chickens

to pluck. I’ll rest only in the grave. So goodbye.

I don’t care if they think we are strange or important.

It is absurd. We’re like any other Indian in this town

struggling to make life better for our children. I want

the lot of them out of this town and out of our lives.

Pramila began researching the history of the Cochin Jews. She read books about anthropology, history, sociology and ethnographies related to Jewish women from Cochin and people who moved to Israel from Cochin.

When Pramila was studying at Bombay University, she came in touch with the Bene Israel Jews. Her English Professor, Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004), one of India’s well-known poets, was a Bene Israel Jew. “He was my mentor,” she said. “So, I felt very close to the community.” In New York, Pramila has befriended other Bene Israel Jews like the poet Zilka Joseph.

Not surprisingly, Pramila wrote about Anti-Semitism in ‘The Face of the Other’:

the face speaks to me and thereby

invites me to a relation…

Emmanuel Levinas, ‘Totality and Infinity’

Why do some see yellow stars

instead of faces, their marauding pens

marking the city’s walls with swastikas?

Hate clouds barrel down the ages

from the Black Sea and Ararat, from the Nile

and Babylon. It storms in

among starched shirts and rags.

Why is a Jewish child selected

to be erased? Philosophers say

to love is to see the other in oneself. But

the other blends into the unknowable.

I ask, doesn’t a child crying for his mom

on any street around the globe

make you wince?

Asked about the themes, Pramila said it was an emotional experience of what it is like to be a Jew in Cochin. “I was putting my imagination into the writing,” she said. So Pramila imagined the first immigrants coming to the Kerala coast.

One poem looked at the paintings of the Cochin Synagogue. A few poems talked about how persecuted Jews embarked on perilous journeys from Iraq and modern-day Palestine to India.

Another poem described the impact of the presence of the Portuguese, the Spanish and the English from the 15th to the 18th centuries.

“There was fighting between these European colonists,” said Pramila. “The Jewish community was caught in between. The Portuguese torched their synagogues in Cranganore and they fled by boat to the Cochin harbour.”

Pramila wrote a poem about the generosity of the King of Travancore.

Chorus: At the Palace of the Raja of Cochin

Rajadi Raja, your royal highness Ramavarma Kulashekara Perumal,

we bow before your blessed feet. The morning breezes bring

tidings of something new to our Keral coast. Men

and women with children arrive in boats, speaking a

tongue we have not heard before. They look like merchants

from Arabia, but are different. The men wear caps

on their heads and the women wear long, pale skirts,

have dark eyes like the apsaras in your court,

wear no ornaments in their dark brown and black hair,

and walk with a firm gait beside their men.

Rajadi Raja, the men are at the palace gates and ask

to pay their respects to you. They bear baskets of dried

fruit, dates, almonds, pistachios, apricots and olives,

saplings of plants that may or may not grow here,

seeds and coins. Their hands that bear the stain of labour,

lovingly hold their children. They speak words we

don’t understand, but there is grace in their speech

and beauty in the treasures they bear for your majesty.

We will open the gates for their visit, so they gather

in the shade of the palace courtyard and await your presence.

We bow to you, sire, lord of the Keral coast, master of our

blessed land of Parasurama who continues to bless us.

The King looked at them with sympathy.

“He felt they were worthwhile people who needed help,” said Pramila. “So, he gave them land to settle down. He allowed them to build a synagogue. And the Jews prospered. It was a very different engagement for the Jews with the outsider. It was so different from what happened in Jewish history in other countries.”

The surrounding communities were so varied. The Jews interacted with Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, members of the Gujarati community and the Konkanis from Goa. “I have written poems that bring out this varied culture,” said Pramila. “I also wanted to distil the historical record through poetry.”

There are 35 poems. And the book has been well received.

‘This is a sensitive and well-crafted collection. ‘We are not a Museum’ skillfully and thoughtfully blends two cultures into one with its unique juxtaposition of the two,’ wrote poet Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca. ‘The closeness and the shared bonds between the poet’s community and the Cochin Jewish community in her hometown in India become a timeless fabric of personal and universal history. The poet’s knowledge of the Jewish community is evident in each poem. I can almost smell the aroma of spices as the Jewish immigrants make their way to the Zamorin’s palace.’

Another poet Marjorie Agosin said, “An exquisite collection of poems, where history and lyricism dwell in the memory of the Jews of Cochin, where time and centuries of persecution have tried to erase them. Pramila Venkateswaran is a poet of resilience and of hope.

"Each of these poems engages the reader in the sensual landscape of Cochin, the smell of oranges and pomegranates as well as the poignant stories of those that lived in these places and those that return through memory and poetry. A poetry that moves your soul and enchants your heart.”

Pramila is an established poet. Her other books include ‘Thirtha’ (2002), ‘Behind Dark Waters’ (2008), ‘Draw Me Inmost’ (2009), ‘Trace’ (2011), ‘Thirteen Days to Let Go’ (2015), ‘Slow Ripening’ (2016) and ‘The Singer of Alleppey’ (2018).

Of course, the road to publishing has been difficult, because poetry has no market. For her first book, she approached around 50 publishers before she got Yuganta Press to publish it. The same thing happened for ‘Behind Dark Waters’, her next book. She approached publishers on three different continents. Finally, a publisher in Texas, Plain View Press, published it.

“The third and fourth were not that hard,” she said. “But my latest manuscript, tentatively titled ‘Walls’, I have been trying for the last two years, and have made no headway.”

Pramila said her win will not make any impact on the chances of publishing. “You are back to the drawing board all the time,” she said.

Asked about the poetry reading public in the US, Pramila said, “It is miniscule, when compared to the readers of the novel and short stories. This is the case with most countries, including India.”

Incidentally, the rain did stop and the couple enjoyed a celebratory dinner at Sagar Indian restaurant on Long Island.

Podcast Interview regarding writing

One of America’s pre-eminent authors of the 20th century, John Updike (1932-2009) once wrote, “In America, one of the wealthiest countries in the world, less than 100 people have been able to survive by writing alone.”

In India, thanks to the OTT boom, many writers are earning their living by working as scriptwriters.

One of them is K Hari Kumar. He has been the screenwriter for three films, a script consultant for multiple web series and is the author of seven books, mostly in the crime and horror genre.

Three books are in the pipeline.

Now Hari Kumar is venturing into the audio and video space.

I was happy when Hari Kumar interviewed me for his new podcast called ‘The Story Vault’. In it, we discuss the nuts and bolts of writing a non-fiction book and a host of other topics.

Thank you Hari.

Please listen on these links:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/5g7lvcNWOLevJKe4dU8JsT

https://eplog.media/.../the-stolen-necklace-carving...

https://podcasts.apple.com/.../the-story.../id1708607132

 

Frontlist Magazine interview

Many thanks to Frontlist Magazine for this interview: 

https://www.frontlist.in/magazine/32
 

Short Story: 'Slow Turn Of The Weel'

 My short story, 'Slow Turn of the Wheel' is the 'Editor's Pick of The Week' in the Singapore-based http://kitaab.org

https://kitaab.org/2023/09/17/short-story-slow-turn-of-the-wheel-by-shevlin-sebastian/…

Trigger warning: Graphic Sexual Violence

Slow Turn Of The Wheel

By Shevlin Sebastian

Devi Manjhi leaned against the thatched wall as she sat on the mud floor. She cupped her face in her palm, while her elbow rested on an upraised leg. The room was in semi-darkness. Devi had placed a kerosene lamp on a low stool. She faced the door. Outside, moonlight lit up a section of the small courtyard. 

It was 9 pm. Her husband Dilip has not yet arrived home. He worked as a gardener in the house of a Brahmin landlord. Devi had every right to be concerned. Anything could happen to the lower castes. The men were subject to random acts of violence; the women bore a substantial risk of being raped suddenly and without provocation. 

‘What has happened to Dilip?’ she thought. She knew that on a Saturday night, after work, he sometimes stopped at a shed where they sold country liquor. But usually, Dilip informed Devi in the morning before he set out for work. 

Devi was childless. Her husband was the only anchor she had in this world. Both her parents had died. The neighbouring women looked down on her because she had been barren. They were also busy looking after their children and husbands. So, she was reluctant to go across and ask the menfolk to go in search of her husband. 

Devi worked in the rice fields, planting paddy saplings during the day. 

Both Dilip and Devi earned enough to live comfortably. 

Devi knew their marriage was stagnant. A couple of children would have brought Dilip closer to her. But the doctors said she was physically okay. Yet, no baby was born. She wondered whether the problem was with Dilip. But then he got an erection all the time.

Devi bemoaned her lack of education. She studied only until class three. There were so many things about which she did not know. Time was passing.

Devi was 40. Dilip was 52. They did not make love as often as when they were trying for children. She wondered whether Dilip was losing interest in her. 

Devi stood up and scratched her butt. When she felt nervous, she always did that. Then she moved to the door and stared into the darkness. There were a few stars in the sky. She could hear the shouts of mothers scolding their children. But in her hut, it was quiet. Smoke rose from the mud stove of a nearby house and passed through a window. There was the ubiquitous sound of crickets. 

So, what had happened to Dilip? To live life without a man beside you in this caste-ridden and violent society would be dangerous for her.  

Dilip had indeed stopped at the shed to have a couple of pegs of India Made Country Liquor. It was there that he met a man who told Dilip he had become a father. Dilip frowned, as he wondered whether the man had mistaken him for somebody else. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 

The man stared at him, and said, “Last year, you raped a young woman in a

paddy field. She got pregnant and gave birth to a boy.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. Dilip had only a couple of pegs, so he was in his senses. He knew grave danger lay ahead, and he was thinking at top speed. 

Again, the man stared at him. Like Dilip, he was 50 years old, specks of grey in his hair, with a trim moustache. Dilip guessed he was the girl’s father. Otherwise, why would he be interested in finding out who raped the girl?  

“I did not do it,” Dilip said. “On what basis are you accusing me of rape?” 

There was a clinking of glasses and loud guffaws. This was the place where only Dalits came. So, they felt free to be themselves. Beedi smoke hung in the air. The odour was of fried masala. Middle-aged and elderly men occupied most of the tables. Dilip had been drinking alone when this man came and sat opposite him. 

“She is my daughter,” he said. “She had said she had noticed a scar on the man’s throat. Which you have. I travelled to all the neighbouring places. And then today I saw you.” 

He asked the man from which village he came from. The man mentioned a village about 50 kms away. 

Dilip said, “Don’t you think you should look closer to your village than here?” 

The man said that they were visiting his sister in the next village. His daughter had stepped out to urinate when the incident happened. She mentioned nothing until she was four months pregnant. By then, it was too late to do anything. Now the boy is a year old.

“You can imagine how she is being treated in our village,” the man said. “Few people believe her story of rape. I am desperate to find the boy’s father. Nobody is interested in marrying her now.”  

Dilip shook his head and said in an even tone, “You have made a grave accusation against me, based on flimsy proof. You know I could end up in jail for years. The authorities might even hang me. You know the impact this will have on my wife and family. I assure you I did not do such a thing. Do I look like a rapist?” 

The man stared at Dilip. 

Dilip stared back.  

“It is a mistaken identity,” continued Dilip. “In this district there are many people with scars, because there is a lot of violence.”

The man blinked and said, “I am sorry. I think I have made a mistake.” Then he stood up and left without another word. Dilip watched him leave, his head bowed, and exhaled softly. 

He wondered whether he was in the clear. Or whether the man would come back again. He had a feeling he would have to stop drinking in these public spaces for a while. 

He left the bar after taking another peg. 

On the way, Dilip recalled the event clearly. It was also a moonlit Saturday night.

He had been returning home, quite high. Near a paddy field, he had seen a young woman who had come out of the house to urinate. There were no bathrooms in the thatched huts. That was when he grabbed her from behind, clamped her mouth, and dragged her to a row of trees nearby. Then he pushed her to the ground. She tried to push back, but he was far stronger.

Dilip estimated she must have been about 20 years old. He lifted the skirt with his other hand, untied his pyjama strings, and entered her. The girl’s eyes opened wide as she shook her head from side to side. She let off a smell of sweat mingled with talcum powder. 

It was a high-risk activity. The duo would have been clearly visible to anyone who appeared near the trees.

Anyway, within a few minutes, it was over. Dilip slapped the girl so hard across her face, she fainted. He looked around. There was nobody around. He was lucky. 

He pulled his white pyjamas up, stood up, and walked in the opposite direction from his home. He would take a detour and go back. 

Meanwhile, as he walked on the bund between the paddy fields, Dilip thought, ‘How could this stranger conclude I am the father? She might have had other lovers. It was not 100 percent sure I was the father.’ 

He wondered why he did it. Devi rarely said no to his sexual advances unless she was having her period. She was always keen to try, in the hope she would get pregnant. It was just an impromptu act; he realised. Dilip felt regret that she had gotten pregnant and ruined her life. But he was helpless in this matter. There was no way he could come forward and claim paternity. The police would jail him for years.

Dilip felt regret that his son was growing up somewhere without the presence of a father. Even if the girl got married, the boy would only have a stepfather.

Dilip had forgotten about the rape completely. Many months later, it felt like a dream. After all, it lasted a few minutes… 

Devi finally sighed loudly, as she saw Dilip appear in the distance. ‘He is fine,’ she thought. ‘Thank God for that.’ 

As soon as Dilip saw her strained face, he said, “I am sorry I did not inform you. But it was a sudden decision on my part.” 

Devi nodded and headed to the kitchen to make chapattis. Later, she cut an onion into small pieces and sliced a cucumber. 

Later that night, lying next to each other, he had sex with her. Devi was happy. It meant he still had some desire for her. But for Dilip, he wanted to take out the stress of what had happened at the bar and the memories that had awakened in him. 

For the next few days, Dilip always looked around when he walked. But he did not see the man who accused him again. 

The months and years rolled by. 

Slowly, Dilip relaxed. He asked God for forgiveness. He had done a grievous wrong. But in his life, that was the only error that he made. Surely God can forgive him for that. No man is infallible. ‘We all make mistakes,’ he told himself.

Dilip did not pay any price for that mistake. While the victim paid a steep price. 

Unable to bear the ostracism she faced, Mouna travelled to Patna with her son, Mahesh. There she got a job in a convent as a servant girl. She told the nuns that a train ran over her husband while he was crossing the tracks. The nuns did not ask which train and on which track. They believed her. She worked sincerely. The nuns enrolled her son in an English-medium school run by the Catholic Church. In the evening, when Mahesh returned from school, the sisters tutored him. He did well in his studies. 

But now and then, Mahesh would ask about his father. Mouna would speak about his tragic death. When he was younger, Mahesh listened silently. But as he grew older and entered his teens, the questions became sharper: Where did his dad stay? Which village? What did he do for a living? How many brothers and sisters did he have? How did Mouna meet him? Was it an arranged marriage? 

Mouna knew if she started answering these questions, she would have to tell a lot of falsehoods. So, she suggested a compromise. She would tell the full story a day after he graduated.   

Mahesh was a stellar student. Thanks to his education, he spoke fluent English and graduated with a BA in economics. He intended to pursue his masters. Mouna was so proud of him. 

And Mouna kept her word. A day after the results were out, she sat him down in her bedroom and told him the story from beginning to end. She saw the cheerful look on her son’s face gradually turn to sadness and then to anger. He narrowed his eyes and bit his lips. A frown appeared on his forehead.

According to Mouna, it may have been a mistake, a moment of madness on the man’s part. She mentioned the scar that he had seen on the man’s throat. “But we still do not know who the person is. All my father said was that he saw a man with a scar on his throat in Shakarpur village in Munger district,” she said.  

Mouna could no longer ask her father for clarifications because he had died of renal cancer a few years ago. 

Mahesh immediately googled to know the distance from Patna to Munger. It was 175 kms. Shakarpur was just three kms from Munger. 

Early one morning, he boarded the Intercity Express, which had a stop at Munger. 

As Mahesh travelled across the Bihar countryside, Dilip, now 69 years old, was sitting on a cot placed outside his hut. Devi, as was her wont, came out and gave him tea in an earthen cup. It was a chilly December morning. Dilip had wrapped himself in a shawl. His hair was completely grey now. But he continued to work as a gardener. He was listening to the morning news on All India Radio. 

Little did he know that retribution was travelling towards him on an Indian Railways train. 

Mahesh was planning to file a FIR. Then he would take this man with a scar to Munger for a DNA test. If no test were available, he would take Dilip to Patna. Finally, Mahesh would get the answer of whether this man was his father. 

Even if he was, Mahesh would ensure he got the punishment he deserved. But, of course, things would not be that simple. Once Mahesh met Dilip, he would fall into a dilemma. Should he send this man to prison? After all, he was his father. Should he forgive or not?

It would all depend on Mouna’s reaction. If she insisted on revenge, most probably, Mahesh would go along with it.

All these possibilities lay in the future, as Mahesh calmly read news snippets and watched YouTube videos on his mobile phone.