“Attention, attention! Two people from each jhopdi must get on the bus! In five minutes — no delay. Otherwise, you will be arrested for trespassing on municipal property!”
People protested: how could they be trespassing when rent had been paid in full? The hutment dwellers went in search of Navalkar, the one who collected the rent, but his shack was empty.
“I wonder if the Prime Minister knows they are forcing us,” said Ishvar.
“She only knows important things,” said Rajaram. “Things her friends want her to know.”
The policemen began rounding up the busloads. The double-deckers filled slowly, looking redder now with the dust and mud washed off by rain. Arguments in some shacks were easily settled when the policemen raised their lathis to emphasize the importance of complying.
Monkey-man was willing to go, but wanted to take his monkeys too. “They will enjoy the ride, they have such a good time on the train when we go to work,” he explained to a party-worker. “And I won’t ask for extra tea or snack, I’ll share mine with them.”
“Don’t you understand plain language? No monkeys. It’s not a circus or something.”
Behind him, Rajaram whispered to his friends, “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Please, sahab,” implored Monkey-man. “The dog can stay alone. But not Laila and Majnoo, they will cry all day without me.”
Sergeant Kesar was called to arbitrate. “Are your monkeys properly trained?” he asked.
“Police-sahab, my Laila and Majnoo are beautifully trained! They are my obedient children! Look, they will give you a salaam!” He signalled; the monkeys raised their paws to their heads in unison.
Sergeant Kesar was greatly amused, and returned the salute, laughing. Monkey-man slapped the leashes against the ground, and the monkeys genuflected. Sergeant Kesar’s delight overflowed.
“Actually speaking, I see no harm in allowing the monkeys,” he said to the party-worker.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the party-worker, taking him aside.
“The problem is, the monkeys might be seen as some kind of political comment, and the enemies of the party could use it to ridicule us.”
“It’s possible,” said Sergeant Kesar, swinging his megaphone. “But it could also be seen as proof of the Prime Minister’s power to communicate not only with humans but with animals too.”
The party-worker rolled his eyes. “Do you want to take responsibility for it in writing? With a memorandum in triplicate?”
“Actually speaking, that is not part of my jurisdiction.”
Sergeant Kesar returned sadly to Monkey-man and broke the news. “I’m sorry, this is an important meeting for the Prime Minister. No monkeys allowed.”
“Wait and see,” said Rajaram softly to the people in line. “The stage will be full of them.”
Monkey-man thanked Sergeant Kesar for trying. He locked Laila and Majnoo in the shack with Tikka and returned looking miserable. The buses were almost full now, and the convoy was ready for departure as soon as the few remaining stubborn cases were persuaded with caning and slapping to climb aboard.
“I have seen nothing so unfair,” said Ishvar. “And what will Dinabai be thinking?”
“We cannot help it,” said Om. “Just enjoy the free ride.”
“Right,” said Rajaram. “If we have to go, might as well have fun. You know, last year they took us in lorries. Packed like sheep. This bus is more comfortable.”
“At least a hundred people in each one,” said Ishvar. “Over two thousand altogether. What a big meeting it will be.”
“That’s only from our colony,” said Rajaram. “Buses must have been sent everywhere. The meeting will have fifteen or twenty thousand people in all, wait and see.”
After travelling for an hour, the buses reached the outskirts of the city. Om announced that he was hungry. “I hope they give us our tea and snack when we arrive. And the five rupees.”
“You’re always hungry,” said Ishvar in a falsetto. “Do you have worms?” They laughed, explaining the joke about Dina Dalai to Rajaram.
Soon they were on rural roads. It had stopped raining. They passed villages where people stood and stared at the buses. “I don’t understand,” said Ishvar. “Why drag us all the way here? Why not just take these villagers to the meeting?”
“Too complicated, I think,” said Rajaram. “They would have to visit so many villages, with people scattered all over — two hundred here, four hundred there. Much easier to get them wholesale in the city jhopadpattis.” He broke off excitedly, pointing. “Look! Look at that woman — at the well! What beautiful long hair!” He sighed. “If only I could wander the countryside with my scissors, harvesting what I need. I’d soon be rich.”
They knew they were nearing their destination when the traffic increased and other vehicles passed them, also ferrying the Prime Minister’s made-to-measure audience. Occasionally, the buses moved over to allow a flag-flying car filled with VIPS to sweep past in an orgy of blaring horns.
They stopped near a vast open field. As the passengers alighted, an organizer told them to memorize their bus number for the return journey. He directed people to their seating area, repeating applause instructions for each batch. “Please watch the dignitaries on stage. Whenever they begin to clap, you must also clap.”
“What about the money?”
“You will get it when the rally is finished. We know your tricks. If we pay you first, you crooks run off halfway in the speech.”
“Keep moving! Keep moving!” called an usher, helping the new arrivals along with a pat on the back.
“Don’t push!” snarled Om, sweeping the hand off his back.
“Aray Om, stay calm,” said Ishvar.
Bamboo posts and railings divided the field into several enclosures, the main one being at the far end, containing a covered stage at an elevation of thirty feet. In front of the stage was the area for prominent personages. This was the sole section furnished with chairs, and arguments were in progress to determine their allocation. The chairs were of three types: padded, with arms, for WIPS; padded, but without arms, for VIPS; and bare metal, folding, for the mere IPS. Invitees were bickering and wrangling with the ushers, pressuring them to add a v to their status.
“Try to stay near the edge of the field, near that tent,” said Rajaram. “That’s where they must have the tea and snacks.” But volunteers wearing round tricolour cloth badges herded the arrivals into the next available enclosure.
“Look at that, yaar!” said Om in awe, pointing at the eighty-foot cutout of the Prime Minister to the right of the stage. The cardboard-and-plywood figure stood with arms outstretched, waiting as though to embrace the audience. An outline map of the country hung suspended behind the head, a battered halo.
“And look at that arch of flowers!” said Ishvar. “Like a rainbow around the stage. Beautiful, hahn? You can smell them from here.”
“See, I told you you’d enjoy it,” said Rajaram. “First time, it’s always fun.”
They made themselves comfortable on the ground and examined the faces in their vicinity. People smiled and nodded. The soundman went on stage to check the microphones, making the loudspeakers screech. A hush of anticipation descended on the audience and dissipated almost instantly. Buses continued to disgorge passengers by the thousands. The sun was hot now, but Ishvar said that at least it wasn’t raining.
Two hours later the enclosures were full, the field was packed, and the first casualties to fall to the sun were carried away to be revived under the shade of nearby trees. People questioned the wisdom of holding a rally at the hottest time of the day. An organizer explained there was no choice, the Prime Minister’s astrologer had charted the celestial bodies and selected the hour.