The Walls of Delhi by Uday Prakash Read Free Book Online Page B

quarrelling. It seemed there had been nothing but trials and tribulations for husband and wife – things that either strengthen or weaken a union between a man and a woman.
    Devdas is one of the two remaining people, and Sharda the other. Mohandas and Kasturi had two offspring. One was eight, the other six. Devdas went to primary school in the village; after school he worked as a helper at Durga Auto Works on the town bypass road, where he put air in tires, fixed flat ones, and did minor repair work on scooters and motorcycles. For this he earned a hundred rupees a month. In other words,Mohandas’s son Devdas, through his own hard work, took care of feeding himself while he was at school; he was self-sufficient. The teachers at his school said he was one of the brightest kids in fourth grade.
    But something caught Mohandas’s eye when he was told this, and his gaze wandered. Maybe he noticed something far off in the sky. The wrinkles tensed on his face and the sparkle vanished from his eyes. A gruff voice emerged as if out of some deep cavern: ‘I finished my BA, with honours. Studied day and night. Look where it got me.’
    And then the twinkle would return, and his cracked lips broke into a smile. ‘I’m learning computers now. I go to the Star Computer Centre near the bus stand. Shakil owns the computer centre, he’s the son of Mohammad Imran who runs the building supply and hardware store, and he told me, “If you can learn how to type well, do layout and printing, I’ll pay you more than six hundred a month.”’ Mohandas continued, ‘This month I’m up to thirty words per minute. I’m working a few small typing jobs, but the thing is that it takes a lot of time to correct the mistakes, and I make a lot of them.’
    But this was old news. A serious calamity had now befallen Mohandas, who kept repeating:
    â€˜My name isn’t Mohandas. I’m ready to go to court and sign an affidavit. Whoever wants to be Mohandas, let him be Mohandas. Please, do whatever you can to help! I beg all of you!’
    What sort of dire straits was Mohandas in?
    But before getting into that, I’d first like to finish describing the fifth member of Mohandas’s family, his six-year-old daughter, Sharda. Six-year-old Sharda goes to school in the governmentprimary school in the village, and is a student in the second grade. After school, she sets off for Bichhiya Tola, another village that’s two-and-a-half kilometres away, crossing two ponds on the way. She doesn’t get back home before half past nine or ten at night. In Bichhiya Tola she looks after the one-year-old son of Bisnath Prasad, and does household chores like sweeping and cleaning. In exchange for her services, she’s fed supper and given thirty rupees a month.
    Nagendranath was one of the major farmers of Bichhiya village. He was also a manager in the life insurance company; his connections reached everyone from the district collector to the local MP. He’d been head of the local panchayat twice and the district director once. Bisnath Prasad, whose one-year-old was looked after by Sharada, was one of the sons of Nagendranath, one of the village elders. Even though his real name was Vishwanath Prasad, everyone in the village called him Bisnath, and said behind his back, ‘He’s a real viper, a first-rate poison pusher. One squirt from his mouth and the show’s over! The father’s Cobranath and the son’s Vipernath. If he spies you and starts to smile, words dripping with honey – better watch out! That means he’s ready to strike.’ Of all the things Bisnath possessed, honour was not among them. Sometimes he’d get drunk and say, ‘Pull the wool over someone’s eyes? That’s fun, but what’s more fun is pulling down the skirt of your wife and finding her wool, ha!’ No gentle words were ever spoken about the people he consorted with, either