The Gandhian and a Naxalite

It is not always that you eavesdrop into a conversation, or even be a passive participant, that has potential to change your worldview in an instance. It so happened that I was once travelling in a train from Lucknow to Delhi. It was around the time when the city had just witnessed the onslaught of festivals, that left it drained and traumatized, and now eagerly enveloping itself in the coziness of winter. A thick layer of haze settled on the city, the days struggle out, sometimes the fare was so brief that you think it is still dawn. I had settled down on my berth, having secured the luggage under the seat, and was flipping through a newspaper that seemed to have been left by an earlier occupant. It was an old newspaper but you could never tell as it carried the news of daily violence, corruption, political insinuations, and sometimes stray acts of kindness –as redemption for the sake of humanity of sorts. As I was reading I had constant sense of having read this before but I kept dismissing it since these events were happening at regular rate and so could be the latest. It was when the incidents were getting eerily similar that I glanced at the date on the top corner. It was three days old. Ah. An elderly man in white khadi had occupied the opposite window seat. He had a pleasant demeanor. He smiled. I smiled back, but he very effortlessly detached himself and ran his eyes through me. I became conscious and straightened my shirt that had crumpled as I sat. His bearing suggested that he prided in his austere self, neatly parted grey hairdo, gold tinted spectacles that shone as it caught the passing glint. His cloths were freshly starched and seemed remarkably immune to surrounding grime and rush. His slippers well polished and clean, as if it was never worn or indeed was not meant to be worn and kept in the showcase. His frugal belongings were neatly stacked on the rack. Evidently he, or most likely an assembly of people, had taken immense effort to keep him impeccably clean. He looked almost unreal in the bleak surrounding of the second class compartment. Presently a man appeared at the window with an exaggerated servility towards the man in khadi, he seemed to be asking his permission to leave or something of that sort. The elderly man acknowledged his presence with a barely interested glance and seemed to have accidently caught the nuance that was being played out for him. He gave a light sideway flick to his head that was seen as a nod by the acquiescing man who instantly bend and retraced his steps without turning his back and vanished into the crowd. As we settled down and the train was about to depart a man in grey full sleeves rushed in, he had a bag hung around his shoulder. He took out his ticket, checked, confirmed and reconfirmed and sat next to the window seat opposing the elderly man. He had a rather unkempt beard, his attention turning to me and asked “So are you also going all the way to Delhi?”

“Yes, yes”, as I said the train had started to move, distracting our attention. Outside people who had come to see off their relatives had varying degree of sadness playing on their face. Some waved as they wiped their tears, while others hid their face. The train gained momentum blurring the people and other sights, very soon it was out of the platform. The cloistered platform and the reverberating echoes of the train was replaced by open scenes from the rapidly moving city, we were randomly eavesdropping into people’s life. One moment it was inside the passing car, where an infant was being consoled by its mother, and next moment we were in the balcony of multistoried apartments where a woman in her nightdress tried to clip the wet cloths against the breeze. The cool gust had rejuvenated stagnant interiors of the compartment. The two men had started to interact. Tired from hectic night before their conversation droned in my ears finally I was in slumber. I was woken by the sudden jerk, the train had stopped, I could smell the metal. We were in some open paddy field, on the rear next to the mound I glimpsed a Sarus pair. Presently the two men seem to be in some kind of argument.

“…but sir violence cannot be the means. We will have to sit down and discuss things and find solutions in an amicable manner. That is what bapu said and that is the need of the hour” said the elderly man in khadi, who as I gather, was a renowned Gandhian. He called himself Sitaram Chaturvedi, effortlessly became Chaturvediji. While the bearded man called himself Manohar Kumar, somehow Kumarji took some effort. Kumar, from his talks seem to be a Naxal sympathizer but he made every effort to hide this, he knew he could be in trouble, it could even be sedition.

“Bapu practiced these in the worst period of oppression, when the colonial power was unleashing its atrocities. Now we live in a free country” Chaturvediji elaborated, he seemed to be relishing this talk and had acquired a patronizing demeanor. He sagged and placed one leg over the other, while his hand massaged his thighs.

“It is a good talk, and I must admit you speak well” Kumar said, Chaturvediji’s response was a sheepish smile that acknowledged the praise. “What do you mean by free country, are we free? Is the voting rights end and all? Wasn’t it more of a transfer of power among the elite? Why wasn’t land reform given priority, if not why isn’t inheritance taxed heavily? You have usurped all the benefits that feudalism extends and now you take high moral grounds” Kumar was agitated, he pause to suck in his breath and continued “Britishers needed Gandhi so they treated him nicely, even pandering him. He was part of their gameplan. Here the government and the corporate don’t need the tribes, they are nuisance for their profit intent that is why they are pushed out with force and threat. They are oppressed that is why they are killed and nobody asks. Why is that only some sections asked to sacrifice for the good of the country? When killers are around how do you even start to take the steps of non violence? When was the last time you faced any sort of violence or threat to your life?”.

That was quite a simplistic take on Gandhi’s role in freedom movement but yes his take on corporate greed for natural resources and how the government was playing the role of facilitator was right on. I could see a creeping discomfort in Chaturvediji, clearly he wasn’t confronted like this, but to his credit he came back quite rejuvenated. “A man is the product of his thoughts. In a gentle way we must shake the world, awaken the spirit”. He was quiet, a beatific smile played on his face, in the passing daylight a glow lit his face. He looked resplendent. Meanwhile a vagabond with a deep festering wound on his legs had negotiated his way through the compartment and had placed himself in front of Chaturvediji. Chaturvediji almost startled from his seat, he cringed an intense dislike played on his face. He moved his body away, more as an instinct, then as thoughts dawned on him, he gathered himself alertly, a benevolent smile had instantly covered his face. I must add all this happened in matter of few seconds, if you weren’t observant you would miss it altogether. In the context of things it was like missing a chapter in a crime thriller!. He without delay dipped his hands into the pocket and took out few currency coins, he then dropped it onto the fellow’s extended palms, taken out of circumstance it would seem he was throwing it, taking every care not to touch the wretched fellow. He reminded me of the priest of south Indian temples, the way they granted offering from the god to the devotee. He rotated his hand in some ritual and folded it in silent prayer. When things had settled in his little world –that seemed to have seen some cataclysmic event recently, he relaxed and offered “As Bapu said, when in confusion think of the poorest, the god in the poorest. The daridhranarayan”. Somehow I thought he missed the human being, and the predicament of the wretched and oppressed, in the search for god in them. Chaturvediji was seeking solace. Whether this was solace for the poor man or was it for the sudden turmoil that had potential to destroy his inner world, I wasn’t sure.

Kumar wasn’t sure either. He asked “Are you all right Chaturvediji? It seems you need some water” and extended him bottle of water taken from his bag. Chaturvediji baulked, it seems the outside world was pursuing him relentlessly. Sharing water was something that was not in his terms of experience with truth. It was an awkward moment. Recent happenings of thugs sharing laced intoxicant in food with the intent to steal, and strictures to public against sharing food or water from strangers came to his rescue. He gallantly refused and took out the flask –that seemed to have been wiped clean few times more as reason of some obsessive affliction than any concern for hygiene, poured warm water and relished it. Meanwhile he managed to utter “Harmony is what brings in happiness”.

Kumar wasn’t impressed he decided to take the bull by the horn “Tell me Mr. Gandhian why are you using a casteist surname? That too the one that has history of atrocities written all over it? Why are you carrying this as your identity?” His tone was stern and he meant answers.

The turn of event was much more than Chaturvediji could handle, I could see signs of stress but he still managed to wrest the initiative with some humbleness in a characteristic ease, so unique that I propose a study need be conducted on this trait. This included dilation of pupil, quivering of muscles around the lips, hunching forward as if he intended to lick and a general demeanor of agreeability that compelled anyone to pat him.  He said “Patience is worth more than preaching”

Kumar retorted “That doesn’t even attempt to answer my question”.

Chaturvediji paused and after moment of contemplation said “My life is my message”

“Really and what pray is the message?”

“We must cherish our diversity and learn to live in our differences. We must be the change we seek”

“You create the deviance that has oppressed people and then you safeguard these deviances as diversity” Kumar laughed “And now you preach you pontificate. I must say that is truly wonderful. I haven’t seen anyone as hypocritical as you”. I was in agreement with him. These words had a kind of benevolence that could trigger deep consciousness but as Kumar was aware these were high brow words intent to cover amazingly crass world. It was a mask to appear civilized in a crude outfit.

In the last many decades people with oppressive identities move around as if nothing is amiss. The moral preaching is what is taking it bit too far. The non-violent nonsense, that is insisted, as coming from wonderful people with peace in their heart. The irony being that the insistence of non violence while placing oneself in a primitive social conception is nothing but asking to be irresponsible, and taken out of this reality into an egalitarian worldview these are quaint and carries deeper meanings. That probably is the leeway through which the Gandhian was drilling his calling.

“Violence is the final step, the final statement of people who are the most subdued and socially marginalized. The marginalization that is sanctioned and sustained by your identity. It is people like you who give credibility to these biases and prejudices” Kumar was insistent “This absence of violence by systematically violated masses is my concern”

“But eye for an eye will make whole world blind” Chaturvediji contested. I somehow agreed with him, if violence was the way then things could easily go out of hand. Naxal infested region are quite violent and the stories of human right violations has become quite common, they even seem to be using children. 

Kumar read my thoughts “Let it go out of hand. Let there be violence. It is a revolution. There is no respite otherwise, the oppressive system is too ingrained. And the people who should know better have been playing double game for their own benefit. This primitive society gets more emboldened in its own invincibility. The society is already blind to the violence in its very nonviolent way. They refuse to see the plight of people as they pride in their deviant culture”

Chaturvediji had answer for this “Yes. Yes we must speak for the minority. Haven’t you read muslim’s representation is going down”. He displayed his trump card. It showcased him in rarified region of communal harmony and minority rights. That it was restricted to elite section of muslims, and that the traditional oppression followed the lower sections of muslims (with brutal patriarchy) too was not his immediate concern nor was he any concerned about the narrow definition of minorities as muslims. He was adept in his game and knew which button to press, how to extract benefits from seemingly hopeless situation. This was also an attempt to secede from his traditional hindu brethrens, who are seen as uncouth, classified as fundamentalist, and thus showcasing this distancing as hint on liberal. They keep pushing each other, and this is how policies are negotiated, common people are incidental in the scheme of things. Before Kumar could contemplate on this the Ticket checker arrived. He ticked against the name after scrutinizing the ticket. Handing back the ticket to Chaturvediji he expressed camaraderie “Everything comfortable Chaturvediji. Do let me know if you need anything”. This amity was not expressed to anyone else, and my hunch is that he took cues from the name, Chaturvedi was obvious choice. Chaturvediji in return was back into his humble self, acknowledging the camaraderie with a complicated gesture that I had difficulty deciphering but the ticket checker read it fully in all its intent.

Kumar was speaking “Unlike Gandhians we don’t take high moral grounds. We also do not seek to secede from the Indian union to establish a sovereign state. We only want to capture political power through armed struggle to restructure society”

“But you can contest election. You can be part of democracy”

Kumar’s reply was vehement, I traced a rising anger in him “Oppressed people don’t have the means nor the nuances to match the Machiavellian politicians. Congress party’s enduring legacy to Gandhi has been converting Gandhi cap into symbol of corruption. They are the ones who over the decades bulldozed marginalized and exploited natural resources among themselves. This system is adapted as model of development and now BJP is asserting it. They are no different. People in power are always same. We will make our struggle more violent”. He stopped short of declaring himself a Naxalite. Though I had my reservations I couldn’t however disagree with his emotions and compulsions.

Chaturvediji had closed his eyes and detached himself, he had assumed a posture of meditation, the kind one see in temple, the priest in front of the idol. He was muttering something, maybe he was invoking some higher force to bring peace to the world, a feat only likes of him could muster, I wouldn’t know. He refused to interact hence forth but insistently carried his beatific self through the rest of the journey.

Early next morning the train anchored into the Delhi railway station. There was a small crowd waiting for Chaturvediji, they raise slogans, garland him and touch his feet. Chaturvediji had ensconced himself in his comfort zone, he blessed them with brief pat. It didn’t matter that other passengers were facing discomfort as the people jostled to find their way out. I decided to walk to the bus stop than pay a ransom for the taxi. As I walked I got a glimpse of Chaturvediji in his luxury car followed by a cavalcade. He gazed through me as he passed. My attention was drawn to an emaciated rickshaw puller, he seemed severely malnourished. He was pulling the rickshaw with some effort, the passenger was oblivious of this as he busied himself over the phone. It took me some time to come in terms with the sight of Kumar. Never mind, did India’s well fed freedom fighters ever gave second thought to handpulled rickshaws as they rushed from one conference to another with a mission of freeing the nation? Or for that matter did the pretentious comrades in Bengal ever felt the pain and humiliations, that existed until few years back. Next morning as I flipped through the newspaper I came across the picture of Sitaram Chaturvedi, he was being awarded as a torchbearer of Gandhian values by the establishment. The minister made a special mention of his travelling in second class trains so as to be in touch with the plight of the common people. Chaturvediji was showing signs of humbleness, pupil dilated, hunched back…let’s leave our godforsaken fellow to negotiate his petty life and ambitions. There was another news report that caught my attention, it read that the Minister has called Naxalism the greatest threat to nations unity and integrity and pledged to wipe them out with iron fist. I looked out of the window the sun was peeping out of morning haze, it was going to be another tough day.