A Persona Non Grata

 

20. A Persona Non Grata

W

hile heading for the hotel, Mayank reflected on what he had gained from the meeting with the trio: Chandrahas, Suryabhan, and Mallika. Armed with a fresh clue, he felt he could retrace the chain of events and piece together a crime story. Earlier, while examining a dead railway ticket, he had uncovered a crucial detail: on 26 January 2012, Aarohan had been travelling from Udagmandalam to Mettupalayam aboard the Nilgiri Mountain Rail. Now Chandrahas had all but disclosed that Suryabhan and his associates had scandalously abandoned their mentally challenged nephew in a tiger-infested jungle in Karnataka twelve years ago. Considering the geography, Mayank tried to sift through the information. It seemed Aarohan was lingering around the Nilgiris, possibly near the train tracks, without a clear purpose. The mystery remained: who had helped him board the train to Mettupalayam, and how? Mayank, optimistic, believed that, in due course, he would find the missing link.

When Mayank reached the hotel, Aarohan was wide awake. He had taken a bath and was waiting for his buddy. A certain eagerness was evident in his expression, which Mayank could not ignore.

‘You’re late,’ Aarohan grumbled. He sounded fussy for once. Mayank tried to read his friend’s concern: maybe he was careful not to forget his hard-earned dream. Yes, that’s it!

‘Sorry, Aarohan, I couldn’t make it any earlier. An old friend of mine… you know, I bumped into him after so many years,’ Mayank lied.

‘And here you are. I’m ready with a dream, and I can’t afford to forget it,’ said Aarohan.

‘Right then. Go on—I’m all ears,’ said Mayank. Aarohan recalled his dream.  

***      ***      ***      ***

The place was a neighbourhood in South West Kolkata, off a narrow, nameless alley near Behala Chowrasta. There, I came across a beggar entreating in a desperate tone, ‘Babu, give me a rupee. I’m so hungry.’ It was barely half past six, too early for a beggar to start his day. 

I embody small-town sensibilities, where everyone I encounter must have a distinct identity—even a beggar. Before offering a coin, I feel compelled to address them by name. That is the minimum. If his name is unknown, I get creative and invent one for him that sounds endearingly appropriate. A visually challenged person is ‘Surdas’, a singing mendicant ‘Tansen’, and the moniker ‘Maharaj’ goes to one whose well-groomed pigtail prompts me to guess his bank balance! I hate to take the easy course of equating beggary with laziness!

There was something oddly conspicuous about the beggar’s face—a mole-like growth on his nose, resembling an obstinate fly perched there. He also sported a moustache with a thin, bald streak at its centre, as though his upper lip were split. A swirl of hair just above his forehead resisted all attempts to be tamed, and his chin boasted an unkempt goatee, contrasting with his hairless cheeks. Finally, his snaggleteeth were such that his upper lip barely concealed them, and his eyes were radiant with eagerness. I felt an overwhelming urge to touch the texture of his mole.

Slowly, my memory began to serve me well. The fellow before me was Lamboo, my neighbour’s son, who had strayed away some fourteen years earlier. It all happened on a dusty afternoon in 1989, when the summer was reluctant to recede even in July. Lamboo had accompanied his uncles to the town to do some shopping. By 9 p.m., when the group returned, Lamboo was not with them.

Good grief, what a night! A cold shiver ran down my spine when I got the news. It threatened to suck the happiness out of my lovely little village. Some lamented the shoppers' carelessness, while others tut-tutted out of pity. However, I could not help but suspect that there was a lot of murkiness surrounding the event.

Lamboo was a seventeen-year-old boy then.

If being mentally infirm were a crime, Lamboo would have been labelled a criminal. Not to mention the unkind urchins in the neighbourhood who always had something up their sleeves to torment him; even his family bore a grudge against him. It was a titanic resentment against God, which, over time, hardened into animosity towards Lamboo. He was already fatherless, and the emotional neglect from his family made his situation unbearably ghastly. While other children received their nourishment and developed their muscular physiques, Lamboo remained ever so underfed. Yet—God only knew how—he grew in height. Being the tallest in the brood, he earned the nickname ‘Lamboo’, meaning the tall one. ‘Lamboo, Lamboo, as tall as a Bamboo,’ everybody would chant the anthem of sadism. Thus, growing tall and anaemic, the mentally handicapped chap became the butt of jokes. Even Lamboo, the tallest, frequently banged his head against the door beams. His peers—or the bullies—used to poke iron nails or bamboo spines into his back and rejoiced as Lamboo winced in pain.

It is ever fashionable to brand a thief, a tame animal, and a mentally deranged person.

The game of prick-the-innocent continued. One day, a new oppressor, a tattoo artist, arrived with a needle between his fingers. The sight of a pointed instrument was enough to make Lamboo shake nervously. He tried to escape, but a ready-to-torment older cousin overpowered him. ‘Be merciful, brother, and leave me alone,’ cried Lamboo, pleading with everyone around. He wept bitterly for only a few minutes, then stopped suddenly. ‘That’s like a good boy, Lamboo,’ the tattoo scratcher said, and went on viciously pricking the innocent as if invoking the collective malice of the community of Lamboo-haters! Fortunately, the poor sufferer soon felt the hold on him loosen, so he got to his feet in a flash. Then he ran desperately and vanished; nobody knew where. He did not return home that night or the following day; instead, he returned only a day later, ravenously hungry. Before the tattoo session was forced to a premature end, he had received the first three letters of his name on his right arm, ‘LAM.’ Yes, they were all capitals in English, as if his relatives had the presentiment that Lamboo would stray into English-speaking land one day! Thus, the half-done tattoo remained permanently etched into his skin, like the hairy mole on the tip of his nose.

Today, I recognised the beggar in my dream. He was Lamboo, my lovely little country cousin, and I found a three-letter ambigram on his right arm.

Days passed after that sultry afternoon in July 1989. None brought any news of Lamboo, the runaway—not even an all-knowing crow. In time, the family forgot him, and the village rascals turned to other forms of cruelty, such as tormenting a cat or drugging a bull. They, too, forgot Lamboo, the object of their persecution. Then twelve long years passed just like that. With education, the bullies mended their ways and became gentlemen in society. The saplings along the fence grew into trees and became village landmarks. The crows and vultures we saw in large numbers while attending school vanished. The community's moneylender sensed the accumulated anger of his harassed borrowers, so he left the village for a cosy life in the town.

Yet Lamboo did not return.

People urged the devastated mother to forget her son and focus on the welfare of twelve other bright children in the extended family. Some even advised her to try opium to alleviate her agony. How could she? Lamboo was alive, and he would surely come back one day in flesh and blood—the belief buttressed her psychic self; it was the raison d’être of her existence. The police could accept that Lamboo was dead without locating the body, but no mother would ever do so. It would constitute the most un-motherly version of reality. To her, motherhood was a vow to suffer for a lifetime, not to abdicate it on any pretext. The mother would shed tears for her runaway son when the family cooked a special festive mutton pulao. Sometimes silently, but mostly in bitter wails, she would recall her son’s beautiful features. He was fair and handsome, and his exploits were unforgettable, such as holding a poisonous snake with his bare hand or jumping onto a hedge of thorns, which he would do just for a ladoo. She would accuse others of being selfish and forgetting a sibling so quickly. She, however, had not accused anyone of knowingly dumping her son, for she could not imagine that such an act of cruelty was ever possible on earth.

Nevertheless, she had to mouth those words twelve years later!

The day seemed unusual, with a sudden flurry of activity in the family. The village barber followed the priest, and the duo accompanied the family to the pond, carrying earthen pots and sundry ritual paraphernalia. Lamboo’s mother, now reduced to a tiny bag of bones, could make nothing of it. Only in the afternoon did a loudmouthed boy in the brood disclose the secret: the bustle was for giving Lamboo a belated funeral, for it was mandatory to do so after twelve years of one’s going astray. The rituals would propitiate the supernumerary soul!

The disclosure caused the old woman’s fragile frame to collapse. She died of a silent heart attack. When she breathed her last, the sun had not yet set, but the heat had waned. The event left the house blissfully quiet, with no one grieving a lost soul.  

Before death could offer solace to the miserable old lady, she had murmured her last words: You all have banished my son, and Narayan, the Almighty, will not be kind to you. Those who heard her mention God as she departed this mortal world had only words of praise for her:

‘Aha! How piously did the saintly soul chant God’s name as she breathed her last in daylight! She’ll go straight to Vaikunth, where Lord Vishnu awaits her. She’ll be the darling of all in the intoxicating domain of Soma and nectar, spending blissful aeons beneath a champak tree in eternal bloom.’

I had witnessed the sham funeral some three years earlier, and when I saw Lamboo in my dream today, my first reaction was to take him back to the village. But I had other tasks on hand. A high-profile researcher had invited me to collaborate, and his action research, ‘Justice for the Differently Abled,’ closely aligned with my interests. Lamboo was one of them; it was impossible to look the other way. Rescuing him would be the real action research!

‘Hey, do you recognise me, Lamboo? I’m Karamveer, your old buddy,’ I addressed the beggar.

‘Babu, give me a rupee…I’m so hungry,’ he repeated the words he had spoken when I first made eye contact with him. Indeed, he did not recognise me.

I went up to him, touched his hairy mole, and examined his tattoo. No, they were real, not optical illusions. I called out, ‘Come, Lamboo; I’ll give you a ladoo—my treat.’ Just in time, it occurred to me how Lamboo used to relish sweetmeats of that name! It worked precisely.

People in the eatery gawped at us. It was rare for a lunatic street beggar to share a table with someone who looked suave! But before anyone could ask, I ordered a plate of ladoos and waited for Lamboo to finish them. Then we left the city and headed for our, nay, Lamboo’s village. He did not bother me en route, as if I were a guide to him, coming from nowhere in the forest to lead him the way! Perhaps he remembered his past, not to articulate it but to cherish it in silence.

Lamboo’s relations were basking in the sunshine of bliss after calming the lost soul with a belated funeral. Now, each assured of a larger share of the property, they sat dreaming big. No wonder, then, that when Lamboo arrived, they refused to welcome him.

‘What’s this drama all about, man?’ the eldest of the uncles led the campaign for abdication.

‘He’s your dear little Lamboo, Uncle. Can’t you see the mole on his nose?’ I pleaded piteously.

‘Tut-tut! You seem too concerned about the world, I say. And cleverly, you’re dumping an urchin on us,’ another uncle alleged, endorsing the eldest’s stance.

It was a moment of unbearable frustration. The family’s reluctance to accept Lamboo reminded me of Kipling’s story, ‘The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes’, in which the so-called dead, upon returning to life at the cremation ground, are not permitted to return to their homes. Instead, the pallbearers push them into a crater on the riverfront, where they live on crows and sleep on straw.

Then, before frustration could push me away, I saw a woman come out. ‘Namaste, Aunty ji. I badly need your help, please. Look here at what’s on this poor chap’s arm. It’s ‘LAM.’ Can’t you recall how the boy fled home to escape the tattoo scratcher?’ I appealed to her.

The woman did not know the English alphabet. Then again, in that moment of truth, it did not matter which language she knew; it was only a matter of listening to her conscience. She said ‘yes,’ much to the chagrin of the whole household.

They all agreed, albeit warily. But how could they welcome a soul back? Had the funeral not propitiated him? He was a ghost—as if Kipling's story were being enacted here!

Now, the unanimous decision was that Lamboo would live with me. They authorised me to rehabilitate him and, for that purpose, gave me three hundred rupees.

Lost, I was taunted by one of Lamboo’s uncles, ‘Man, is it a small amount? The truckers take only 200 rupees to drop a lunatic off in the Simlipal tiger reserve. But here you get an extra 100 rupees for all the hassle you’ve been through to track down this poor nut. So, why the fuss?’

***      ***      ***      ***

On finishing his dream recountal, Aarohan lapsed into abrupt silence. Soon, his face crumpled, and he buried it in the pillow to sob.

Now, a connection between Aarohan’s dream and reality became evident. Was it fictional? Did he cryptically refer to his own exile to the tiger reserve in Karnataka while speaking of Lamboo’s exile to the forests of Simlipal? In his lucid moments, had he begun to remember everything about himself?

Uncannily, though, Aarohan seemed to have acquired mind-reading skills. The other day, Irving advised Mayank to take Aarohan to Manasi Sundari, the Recluse, who lived atop Mt Harriet, for treatment. Soon, Aarohan dreamt of a Sundari Kumari hypnotically wooing him as her follower. Was the Sundari Kumari in his dream the same person as Manasi Sundari, the Recluse of Mt Harriet? If so, how could Aarohan dream like that? He had absolutely no idea what had transpired between Mayank and Irving! Similarly, in his dream he deduced that Mayank—represented by an Inspector Daulat Ram—belonged to the rare Bombay Oh blood group. How come? Possibly, the dream of his lost-and-found pet dog, Aibo, morphing into its original avatar was the visualisation of that psychic process.

There was a catch, though. Not all Aarohans encountered in dreams were carbon copies of what existed in reality; instead, there were subtle differences. Sometimes names differed, yielding anagram-like correspondences, whereas in others the sequence of events was a veritable hotchpotch. Yet enough matched, rhymed, coincided, and complemented the flow of events. Sometimes they gave hints of upcoming incidents, such as their trip to Port Blair, and at other times they unveiled past events unknown to the world at large. For example, Mayank had sold his kidney, but Aarohan dreamt that his dream companion, Daulat Ram, had donated the organ. Was Aarohan’s blood group as rare as Mayank’s? Aarohan, as Mayank knew, belonged to the O group if the grouping test done at Netarhat High School was accurate. Then again, who could state the correct position? 

The last-mentioned doubt begged to be resolved first. Mayank thought he should have Aarohan’s blood sample tested afresh while simultaneously verifying his kidney count. The other day, when the latter was changing into a fresh dress, Mayank had glanced furtively at his body. There were no surgical scars, so nobody had deceitfully taken advantage of Aarohan’s mental unsoundness to steal his organ. Then why did he dream that Daulat Ram had only one kidney if the latter was not a proxy for Mayank, the possessor of the rare Bombay Oh blood group and of a single kidney?

After narrating his dream, Aarohan sometimes felt a maudlin fluidity come over him. The other day, he let out a bitter cry as he finished recounting a dream about his childhood miseries and his unsuccessful attempt to secure a job in Tatanagar. Today, for the second time, he sobbed after telling his dream. Why? Had he unwittingly divulged his private griefs, which he did not want to share? Yet a common thread ran through all the events: he was always cheated, outwitted, deserted, accused, vilified, misunderstood, short-changed, misled... even a monkey did not hesitate to slap him. His dreams had always portrayed him as a loser. Why so?

Now that both friends were sober, they were no longer averse to daylight. So Mayank pulled back the curtains to let the soothing view of the Bay of Bengal ease the gloom inside. It was already 4 p.m., and he thought they could stroll outside. But before that, he had to console Aarohan, who was still lying down, his face buried in the pillow.

Presently, Mayank moved closer to Aarohan. He would console him without suggesting that crying over a character who had been harassed in the dream was plainly absurd.

God! Aarohan had a temperature. He was severely indisposed yet reluctant to drop a hint! While feeling his friend’s body temperature, the first thing that came to Mayank’s mind was that they should not have boozed so immoderately. He overcame his guilt the next moment, thinking that a fever would not spare even a teetotaller! Aarohan also stated that he had mild abdominal pain. Hence, there was a need for a quick check-up.

A doctor came. Even before that, his lab technician arrived to take blood samples from Aarohan, who cooperated while being pricked. Fortunately, the dream character Lamboo’s fear of needles did not affect Aarohan’s actual behaviour. However, according to the doctor, there was not much to worry about, but he advised additional tests to rule out other common causes, including a routine ultrasound.

As he left, he warned Aarohan with an anticipatory smile, ‘No nightcap, eh?’

And Aarohan returned the smile with one of his own.

---------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 23-8-2026

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चलती बस का नाटक

सुबह का समय था। चारों ओर धुंध की चादर पसरी हुई थी और आसपास का दृश्य कुछ जादुई-सा लग रहा था। पिछली रात जैसा तय हुआ था, दोनों मित्र टहलने निकल पड़े। बीच-बीच में हवा के हल्के झोंके धुंध को हिला देते थे—मानो संकेत कर रहे हों कि वह अधिक देर टिकने वाली नहीं।

आरोहण कुछ क़दम पीछे, एकदम ख़ामोश चल रहा था। मयंक उसके बराबर आने का इंतज़ार करता रहा। हो सकता था, आरोहण फिर कोई सपना सुनाए और उसके अतीत के कुछ और टुकड़े सामने आ जाएँ। फिर भी मयंक चौकन्ना था—कहीं कोई पुराना, दर्द से भरा सपना लौट आया और उसका दोस्त फिर उसी पीड़ा में डूब गया तो? वह उसे उस पीड़ा से कैसे बचाएगा?

लेकिन जल्द ही उस ख़ामोशी में रूखापन नहीं, बल्कि आत्मीयता घुली हुई जान पड़ी। दोनों आगे बढ़ते रहे और सन्नाटे में आरोहण की रबर की चप्पलों की थाप सुनाई देती रही। धीरे-धीरे वही मामूली-सी आवाज़ मयंक के मन में कोई अर्थ रचने लगी।

“सुनो, एक बात याद आई,” आरोहण ने चुप्पी तोड़ी।

“क्या? सचमुच कुछ याद आया? क्या याद आया, आरोहण?” मयंक ने अधीरता से पूछा। उसे दोस्त की अगली बात से बड़ी उम्मीद बँध गई थी।

“मुझे अपने बचपन का एक सपना याद आया,” आरोहण बोला।

मयंक समझ नहीं पाया—वह सपना आरोहण ने बचपन में देखा था, या वह हाल का कोई ख़्वाब था जिसका संबंध उसके बचपन से था।

बिना किसी भूमिका बाँधे, आरोहण अपना ख़्वाब सुनाने लगा।

***      ***      ***      ***

कुछ यादें कभी नहीं मिटतीं—बस दिलो-दिमाग़ की किसी गहरी तह में उतरकर रह जाती हैं। जब नुक़सान हो ही चुका हो, तो अतीत को कौन दोबारा बना सकता है? और पीछे लौटकर इंसाफ़ भी कैसे पाया जा सकता है? काश, ऐसा मुमकिन होता!

उस वक़्त मैं तेरह साल का एक देहाती लड़का था—झिझक से भरा और आत्मविश्वास से ख़ाली। कौन-सी किताब पढ़नी है, कौन-सी फ़िल्म देखनी है, कौन-सा खेल खेलना है, किन लड़कों से दोस्ती करनी है—यह सब मेरे बड़े-बुज़ुर्ग ही तय करते थे। ‘क्या करना है और क्या नहीं’ की सूची अंतहीन थी—किसी पवित्र पेड़ पर मत चढ़ो; तैरने की कोशिश मत करो; वाद्ययंत्रों को हाथ मत लगाओ; वग़ैरह-वग़ैरह। बच्चे को बड़ों की बराबरी नहीं करनी चाहिए—आख़िर यही उस दुनिया का उसूल था।

कभी कोई बड़ा लड़का रहम खाकर समझाता भी, तो यही कहता, “अरे बेवक़ूफ़! पहले सीखो, फिर करके दिखाओ, समझे?”

बात अपनी जगह ठीक थी, मगर उसमें एक साफ़ विरोधाभास था—अगर कोई काम शुरू ही न करे, तो उसे सीखेगा कैसे?

ऐसा नहीं था कि मैं इस लगातार दबाव से दुखी नहीं था। मगर मेरा विरोध न तो सही समय पर सामने आता था, न उस रूप में जिसे बड़े बर्दाश्त कर सकें। नतीजा यह होता कि वह हर बार सज़ा की बारिश बनकर मुझ पर लौटता।

सज़ा? जी हाँ। मुझे सताने वालों का यक़ीन था कि बच्चे इसी तरह सुधरते हैं। असल में वे मेरी मासूम जिज्ञासाओं को कुचल रहे थे—जानने, पूछने, खोजने, सुधारने, सँजोने और अपने लिए कुछ चुनने की इच्छा को।

ख़ैर, अब और नहीं भटकूँगा। सीधे अपने ख़्वाब पर आता हूँ।

उस दिन मेरे सब्र की सारी हदें टूट चुकी थीं। गाँव का साहूकार महाजन अपनी अपमानजनक हरकतों से मुझे भीतर तक तोड़ चुका था। वह मुझसे यह क़बूल करवाना चाहता था कि मैंने उसके पेड़ से अमरूद तोड़े हैं। उसका सबूत बस इतना था कि उसने मुझे एक बार बाँध की मेड़ पर खड़े बरगद पर चढ़ते हुए देख लिया था। मानो बरगद पर अमरूद फलते हों—या वह महाजन का कोई जादुई बरगद रहा हो!

फिर उसने मुझे एक तमाचा जड़ दिया—चोरी की भरपाई के लिए नहीं, बल्कि यह जताने के लिए कि गाँव के बच्चों को अनुशासन में रखने का अधिकार उसी को है। उस वक़्त कोई राहगीर ज़रा-सी भी हमदर्दी दिखा देता, तो महाजन उसे ज़रूर समझाता, “बच्चा है तो मार पड़ेगी ही—जितनी ज़्यादा, उतना अच्छा।”

मगर अफ़सोस, वहाँ मेरी मदद करने वाला कोई नहीं था।

मैंने उस तमाचे को झटककर भुलाना शुरू ही किया था कि गालियों की दूसरी बौछार आ गई। इस बार मेरे संगीत-उस्ताद की बारी थी। अपनी तीखी, नाक से निकलती आवाज़ में उन्होंने मुझे ख़ूब कोसा।

ज़रा ठहरिए! अब मंच पर मेरे बाप का प्रवेश हुआ—ढाढ़स बँधाने के लिए नहीं, बल्कि उस दिन का आख़िरी और सबसे सख़्त प्रहार करने के लिए। उन्होंने मुझे बेरहमी से पीटा।

फिर भी मैं अपने पिता को माफ़ करने को तैयार था। मैं जानता था कि वे महाजन के क़र्ज़दार हैं और उसके सामने उनकी भी ज़्यादा नहीं चलती। वैसे, गाँव में उसका क़र्ज़दार कौन नहीं था? चमकते गंजे सिर वाला संगीत-उस्ताद; छड़ी और नाक पर लटकते चश्मे वाला हेडमास्टर; चोटीधारी पुजारी; कंधे पर थैला लटकाए घूमने वाला लापरवाह हकीम—सब अपने-अपने क़र्ज़ और उस पर चढ़ते सूद के बोझ तले दबे थे।

मेरे और मेरे बाप के बीच खड़ी दीवार भी आख़िर पैसे की ही थी—कुछ हज़ार रुपए की एक दीवार, जिसे चुकाकर गिराया जा सकता था।

मैंने ठान लिया था कि अब क्या करना है—घर छोड़ना है, रोज़ी-रोटी कमानी है और फिर लौटकर उस नीच महाजन को ललकारना है—“ले, अपना मनहूस पैसा और हमें चैन से जीने दे।”

यह नामुमकिन नहीं था। कहीं न कहीं कोई ऐसा शहर ज़रूर होगा जहाँ मेहनती और ईमानदार लोगों के लिए काम की कमी न हो। मैं जी लगाकर मेहनत करूँगा, ईमानदारी से काम करूँगा और सबकी नज़र में अपनी अलग जगह बनाऊँगा।

रात भर ख़ुद को समझा-बुझाकर मैंने उस बड़े अभियान की तैयारी कर ली थी। मैं उतावला था। “जो होगा, देखा जाएगा”—यही मेरा नारा बन चुका था। ज़िंदगी की पहली नौकरी में मैं पूरी लगन से काम करूँगा, ताकि बाद में किसी बात का पछतावा न रहे।

पूरब में सुबह की पहली किरण भी नहीं फूटी थी। घर में किसी के जागने से पहले ही मैं निकल पड़ा। एक छोटे-से थैले में तीन बासी रोटियाँ और गुड़ की कुछ डलियाँ रख ली थीं। रास्ता सुनसान था; दूर तक कोई नहीं मिला। कुछ देर बाद क्षितिज पर उगते सूरज ने ही मेरा साथ दिया। मैं ठीक समय पर निकल आया था—किसी को मेरे जाने की भनक तक नहीं लगी।

ओस से मेरे पाँव तर-बतर थे और रबर की चप्पलों से उछलती गीली मिट्टी निकर तक पहुँच रही थी। मेरी निगाह रास्ते पर थी और चप्पलें लगातार एक-सी थाप बजा रही थीं—ठीक वैसी ही, जैसी अब तुम सुन रहे हो। मगर मैं आने वाले कल की फ़िक्र में इतना डूबा था कि उस आवाज़ पर ध्यान ही नहीं गया। हवा में हल्की ठंडक थी और मैं लंबे, हौसले से भरे डग भरता चला जा रहा था।

इस तरह मैं घर से भाग निकला था—इस इरादे के साथ कि जल्द ही पैसा कमाकर लौटूँगा और साहूकार को ललकारूँगा। माँ ने न जाने कितनी रातें जाग-जागकर ईश्वर से प्रार्थना की थी। एक बार मैंने वजह पूछी तो उन्होंने बताया कि हमारा गिरवी पड़ा घर साहूकार की दया पर टिका है। बेचारी माँ! दिन भर जी-तोड़ मेहनत करने के बाद क्या उन्हें रात को चैन की नींद भी नसीब नहीं होनी चाहिए थी?

उस रास्ते की पहली बस समय पर आ गई और मैं उसमें चढ़ गया। जेब में इतने ही पैसे थे कि टाटानगर की टिकट ले सकूँ—वही इस्पात नगरी, जो मुझे रोज़गार का वादा करती जान पड़ती थी।

सफ़र दस घंटे का था और उसमें दिन का अधिकांश हिस्सा बीत जाना था। रास्ता झटकों से भरा था, लेकिन दोनों ओर हरियाली फैली हुई थी। खिड़की से बाहर झाँकते हुए जंगल और गीली मिट्टी की ख़ुशबू को साँसों में भर लेने पर सफ़र की थकान कम महसूस होती थी। मेरे लिए तो यह सब बिल्कुल नया था। मैं इससे पहले अपने ज़िला मुख्यालय से आगे कभी नहीं गया था, और वह भी गाँव से मुश्किल से तीस किलोमीटर दूर था। पहली बार मुझे लगा कि मेरी जानी-पहचानी धरती अचानक फैल गई है। वह पहले से कहीं अधिक विशाल और ख़ूबसूरत दिखाई दे रही थी—उस गाँव से बिल्कुल अलग, जहाँ बेदख़ली का डर हर समय हमारे सिर पर मँडराता रहता था।

कुछ ही देर में रास्ते और उसके दृश्यों से एक अनजाना-सा अपनापन महसूस होने लगा। उससे मन की घबराहट कुछ कम हुई, फिर भी भीतर एक सवाल बना रहा—टाटानगर पहुँचकर मैं करूँगा क्या?

“रेलवे स्टेशन पर ही डेरा डाल दूँगा,” मैंने सोचा।

इस ख़याल ने अचानक मेरे भीतर नया आत्मविश्वास भर दिया। जब आगे का कुछ पता न हो, तब “जो होगा, देखा जाएगा” का भरोसा ही सबसे बड़ा सहारा बन जाता है—यह बात उसी समय मेरे दिल में उतर गई।

दोपहर के क़रीब बस खाने के लिए थोड़ी देर रुकी। सड़क किनारे कई ढाबे थे। ज़रा आगे, सड़क के दोनों ओर ऊँचे-ऊँचे सेमल के पेड़ कतार बाँधे खड़े थे, जिनकी जड़ें बाहर को उभरी हुई थीं। मुझे अब भी वहाँ की मिट्टी की लाल रंगत याद है—मेरे गाँव की धरती से बिल्कुल अलग। और याद है वो हवा, जो इपोमिया की झाड़ियों से होकर आती थी—एक तीखी, मदहोश कर देने वाली ख़ुशबू लिए हुए।

“जिन्हें खाना है, उतर जाओ, वरना अंदर ही रहो। मैं बाहर से बस लॉक कर दूँगा,” दरवाज़े पर खड़े कंडक्टर ने ऐलान किया। यही उसका सुरक्षा इंतज़ाम था—चोरी से बचाव के लिए ज़रूरी।

सारे मुसाफ़िर एक-एक कर उतर गए—बस मैं ही अंदर रह गया। ढाबे पर जाकर कुछ खाने लायक पैसे भला मेरे पास कहाँ थे? अपने थैले को ऊपर-ऊपर से टटोला—रोटियाँ और गुड़ जस-के-तस! मेरे भीतर का भगोड़ा घर से भाग सकता था, मगर थैले में पड़ी रोटियाँ भला कहाँ भागतीं!

मुझे सीट से चिपका देख कंडक्टर कुछ हैरान हुआ।

“खाना नहीं खाओगे?” उसने पूछा।

“नहीं,” मैंने कहा।

“अच्छा, जैसी तुम्हारी मर्ज़ी।”

उसने दरवाज़ा पटका, बाहर से ताला लगाया और चला गया।

मैं उसकी तेज़ चाल देखता रह गया। शायद उसे भी भूख लगी थी। उसकी भूख का अंदाज़ा लगाते-लगाते मेरे पेट ने भी खाने की माँग शुरू कर दी।

मैंने सोचा—अगर सँभालकर खाऊँ तो ये रोटियाँ दो दिन चल सकती हैं। एक साथ खा गया तो कल क्या करूँगा?

बस वहाँ आधे घंटे से कुछ ज़्यादा रुकी रही। ड्राइवर लौटा और मुसाफ़िरों को बुलाने के लिए दो बार हॉर्न बजाया। कुछ गपशप में डूबी औरतें सबसे आख़िर में चढ़ीं। सबके चेहरों पर तसल्ली झलक रही थी। शायद ढाबा सचमुच अच्छा रहा होगा, मैंने मन ही मन सोचा।

“मेरी अंगूठी… हे भगवान! मेरी सोने की अंगूठी कहाँ गई?” सामने वाली सीट पर बैठी औरत अचानक चीख़ पड़ी। बस अब चलने ही वाली थी।

उसके साथ आया शख़्स—शायद उसका पति, या फिर पति जितना ही दब्बू और आज्ञाकारी कोई—झटके से उठ खड़ा हुआ। पैरों के पास सामान बिखरा पड़ा था; ऐसे में गिरी हुई अंगूठी ढूँढना आसान न था। फिर भी वह झुककर टटोलने लगा, मगर अफ़सोस—उसकी कोशिश नाकाम रही।

“ठीक से याद करो, कहाँ गिरा दी अंगूठी?” उसने पूछा।

“पता नहीं…” औरत ने अनमने लहजे में कहा, और उसकी निगाहें सीधी मेरी तरफ़ आ टिकीं।

“तुमने मेरी सोने की अंगूठी देखी क्या? जब हम सब बाहर गए थे, तब तुम यहीं बैठे थे न?”

उसके स्वर में सवाल कम, शक़ ज़्यादा था। मैं झुँझला उठा—“नहीं! मुझे क्या मालूम आपकी अंगूठी कहाँ गई?”

“हम सब बाहर थे और बस में तुम अकेले थे, है न?” उस आदमी ने सीधे मुझ पर सवाल दागा।

मेरे माथे की नसें तन गईं। समझ नहीं आ रहा था कि लोग मुझ पर इल्ज़ाम लगाकर इतना सुकून क्यों पाते हैं। अभी कल ही गाँव का महाजन मुझ पर बरगद पर चढ़कर अमरूद चोरी करने का इल्ज़ाम लगा रहा था, और अब, सफ़र के बीच, यह शख़्स अपनी बीवी की खोई हुई अंगूठी के लिए मुझ पर शक़ जता रहा है!

“तो क्या हुआ?” मैंने पलटकर कहा, “बस का दरवाज़ा कंडक्टर ने बाहर से बंद किया था न? ये बात आप कैसे भूल सकते हैं?”

“तो फिर अपना थैला दिखाओ। मैं उसकी तलाशी लूँगा,” उसने हुक़्म दिया।

“मेरा थैला क्यों?” मैंने अपनी जगह से हिले बिना कहा। “क्या आप यहाँ सबके थैलों की तलाशी लेंगे, सिर्फ़ इसलिए कि आपकी अंगूठी नहीं मिल रही?”

अब तक कई लोग उस आदमी के पक्ष में आ खड़े हुए थे। मैं हैरान था—आख़िर उसमें ऐसा क्या था जो लोगों को अपनी ओर खींच रहा था? मालदार लोग अक्सर अपने आसपास दोस्त और हामी जमा कर लेते हैं। ऐसे लोग केवल फ़ायदे की उम्मीद में ही उनकी ओर नहीं खिंचते; कभी-कभी अपनी हीनभावना के कारण भी उनसे प्रभावित होते हैं। वे उनकी दोस्ती पाने को लालायित रहते हैं और बदले में उनकी बदसुलूकी तक सह लेते हैं।

उस आदमी के नए-नवेले हमदर्दों को उसकी अमीरी का एक प्रमाण भी मिल चुका था—उसकी बीवी की सोने की अंगूठी। ऊपर से उसका वह अधिकारपूर्ण अंदाज़, मानो किसी पर शक़ करना और उसके सामान की तलाशी लेना उसका जन्मसिद्ध अधिकार हो। लोगों को यक़ीन हो चला था कि यह उसी क़िस्म का आदमी है जिसकी तरफ़दारी करने में फ़ायदा है।

मेरे भीतर एक चीख उमड़ रही थी। सब्र तो पहले ही जवाब दे चुका था। तभी कोई मुझ पर झपटा—मानो “चोर” को पकड़ने की होड़ में सबसे आगे निकलने का तमगा उसी को मिलने वाला हो। मैंने थैला सीने से चिपका लिया। मैं उसे किसी भी क़ीमत पर छोड़ने को तैयार नहीं था। थैला खुलते ही उसमें रखी बासी रोटियाँ और गुड़ देखकर सवालों का सिलसिला शुरू हो जाता। फिर राज़ खुल जाता कि मैं घर से भागा हुआ हूँ। मुझे वापस भिजवा दिया जाता—और तब मैं ढेर सारा पैसा कमाकर अपनी माँ का चेहरा कैसे रोशन करता?

मैंने थैले को अपने शरीर से ढक लिया और उसे भीड़ के हाथों से बचाने में जी-जान लगा दी। मगर वे उसके भीतर झाँकने पर आमादा थे। साथ ही गालियों की बौछार भी होने लगी—

“लगता है, पक्का चोर है! छोड़ना मत!”

“देख लेना, यही आगे चलकर डकैत बनेगा!”

मुसाफ़िरों की भीड़ ने मुझे बस से घसीटकर बाहर कर दिया। मैं किसी तरह सँभला और थैले को सीने से दबोच ही पाया था कि एक ज़ोरदार धक्के ने मुझे पेट के बल ज़मीन पर गिरा दिया। फिर लातों की बारिश शुरू हो गई। पहली लात उसी आदमी ने मारी। उसके जूते की एड़ी में नाल ठुकी हुई थी। दूसरी लात किसी की नुकीली एड़ी वाली चप्पल से सीधे मेरे कंधे पर पड़ी। लगा, कोई औरत भी इस ज़ुल्म में शरीक हो गई थी। किसी ने कान पकड़कर मुझे उठाने की कोशिश की; सफल नहीं हुआ तो दूसरे ने बालों से खींचना शुरू कर दिया—मानो मैं कोई इंसान नहीं, अखाड़े में पड़ा पुतला था, जिस पर हर कोई अपना दाँव आज़मा सकता था।

उस हिंसक भीड़ के सामने मैं पूरी तरह बेबस था—और बिल्कुल बेक़सूर भी।

आख़िरकार थैला मेरे हाथ से छूट गया। किसी ने उसे उलट दिया और मेरी अनमोल रोटियाँ ज़मीन पर लुढ़क पड़ीं। वे पहले ही सख़्त हो चुकी थीं, मगर अब भी साबुत थीं। आह, उनकी वह बासी ख़ुशबू! काश, मैं उन्हें रसोई से उठाकर न लाया होता। तब दोपहर में मेरे घरवाले उन्हीं रोटियों के निवाले तोड़ रहे होते। ओह नहीं! शायद अब वे भूखे होंगे।

तभी मेरी आँखों के सामने किसी ने गुड़ की डलियों को बेरहमी से जूतों तले रौंद दिया—थैले से निकली मेरी आख़िरी पूँजी। मैं असहाय नज़रों से उन्हें कुचलते देखता रहा।

मगर अंगूठी उन्हें फिर भी नहीं मिली।

भीड़ केवल ज़ालिम नहीं, बल्कि चालाक भी थी। वह अपने बेशर्म ज़ुल्म पर पर्दा डालने की तरकीब जानती थी।

“वह अंगूठी निगल गया होगा! इसे दोबारा बस में मत चढ़ने देना,” किसी ने आवाज़ लगाई।

सड़क किनारे खेले जा रहे उस नाटक का यही चरम दृश्य था—एक ऐसा नाटक, जिसमें हर कोई बिना किसी लिखी पटकथा के पूरे जोशो-ख़रोश से अपना किरदार निभा रहा था। इसे क्या कहूँ—सड़क-नाटक, नुक्कड़-नाटक या उसी क्षण रचा गया फ़ौरी रंगमंच? न कोई पूर्वाभ्यास था, न परदे के पीछे खड़ा कोई सूत्रधार। यहाँ तक कि कंडक्टर की चुप्पी भी उस नाटक की अदाकारी का हिस्सा लग रही थी—उसकी भूमिका लिखी हुई नहीं थी, मगर वह हर अत्याचार पर मौन सहमति दे रहा था। उसके पास खोने को कुछ था भी नहीं; मेरा किराया वह पहले ही वसूल कर चुका था।

और इस तरह, जैसे किसी अनचाहे पात्र को नाटक के बीच ही मंच से हटा दिया जाता है, उन्होंने मुझे वहीं छोड़ दिया—अपनी रोटियाँ और कुचली हुई गुड़ की डलियाँ समेटने के लिए। मानो वे भी इस तमाशे के मामूली-से प्रॉप भर हों।

***      ***      ***      ***

आरोहण चुप हो गया। उसकी आँखें आँसुओं से भरी थीं। मयंक हैरत से उसे देख रहा था—उसका दोस्त अभी तक सपने में सहे ज़ुल्म का किस्सा सुना रहा था, मगर अब सचमुच उसी टीस को जीता दिखाई दे रहा था। क्या ख़्वाब की तस्वीरें नींद से निकलकर उसकी जागती चेतना तक उसका पीछा करती चली आई थीं? क्या सपना ख़त्म हो जाने के बाद भी उसका भावनात्मक बोझ दिलो-दिमाग़ पर उतनी ही शिद्दत से बना हुआ था, मानो वह अब भी जारी हो?

“क्या बात है, आरोहण? तुम रो रहे हो?” मयंक ने धीमे स्वर में पूछा।

आरोहण ने कोई जवाब नहीं दिया। शायद अल्फ़ाज़ उसकी सिसकियों में उलझकर रह गए थे। वह सड़क किनारे पड़े एक बड़े पत्थर पर बैठ गया। कुछ देर तक यूँ ही बैठा रहा—ख़ामोश, ग़मगीन और गहरी सोच में डूबा हुआ। फिर उठ खड़ा हुआ और दोबारा चलने लगा। भावनाओं का सैलाब ऊपर से थमा हुआ जान पड़ता था।

मयंक असमंजस में था कि क्या कहे। वह जानता था कि आरोहण अपने बचपन की जो दास्तान सुना रहा है, वह हक़ीक़त से मेल नहीं खाती। उसका दोस्त बंगले, गाड़ियों और सोने-चाँदी के गहनों वाले एक अमीर घराने से ताल्लुक़ रखता था। यहाँ तक कि उनके पास बछड़े जितना बड़ा एक ख़ूँखार कुत्ता भी था। एक बार कुश्ती करते हुए मयंक ने ख़ुद महसूस किया था कि आरोहण के गले की सोने की चेन बिजली के खंभे को सँभालने वाले स्टे-तार से भी ज़्यादा मज़बूत थी। फिर भला उसके परिवार को महाजन से क़र्ज़ लेने की क्या ज़रूरत पड़ती? विशाखापट्नम में उनकी शहरी ज़मीनों की क़ीमत करोड़ों में थी। ऐसे में मयंक उसे उस मुफ़लिस लड़के के रूप में कैसे देख सकता था, जिसका परिवार साहूकार के क़र्ज़ तले दबा हो?

जहाँ तक परवरिश का सवाल था, मयंक को कैप्टन बृजभान देव याद थे—सख़्त, मगर इंसाफ़पसंद और दिल के उदार पिता। हाँ, बचपन में बिस्तर गीला कर देने पर आरोहण को कभी-कभार डाँट ज़रूर पड़ती थी, मगर कुल मिलाकर वे बेहद स्नेही थे। उनका एक ही सपना था—अपने बेटे को आई.ए.एस. अफ़सर बनाना। फिर आरोहण उनकी इकलौती औलाद था, माँ-बाप की सारी मोहब्बत और लाड़-प्यार का स्वाभाविक हक़दार।

लेकिन मयंक ने ख़ुद मुफ़लिसी देखी थी। वह बहुत छोटा था, तभी उसकी माँ शालिनी और पिता श्रीकांत का रिश्ता टूट गया। उसके बाद माँ-बेटे विशाखापट्नम में मामा सुदर्शन के पास आ गए। वहीं एक अंग्रेज़ी माध्यम के स्कूल में उसका दाख़िला हुआ। पिछले स्कूल में वह दूसरी कक्षा में पढ़ रहा था, मगर नए स्कूल में उसे एक दर्जा पीछे, पहली कक्षा में डाल दिया गया। उसे फिर से वर्णमाला से शुरुआत करनी पड़ी। वहीं उसकी दोस्ती आरोहण से हुई थी।

मयंक को याद था कि उसने अपने दुखद अनुभव नए दोस्त के साथ बाँटे थे, मगर उनमें वह यातना नहीं थी जिसका वर्णन आरोहण अब कर रहा था।

सुदर्शन मामा दौलतमंद नहीं थे, फिर भी उन्होंने मयंक के प्रति असाधारण उदारता दिखाई। उनकी आर्थिक हालत साल-दर-साल बिगड़ती गई, लेकिन वे अपने भांजे को अच्छी-से-अच्छी तालीम दिलाने की कोशिश करते रहे। इस कोशिश में उनकी अपनी दोनों बेटियों की पढ़ाई भी कहीं न कहीं उपेक्षित रह गई। कई बार मयंक के मन में आया कि पढ़ाई छोड़कर कुछ कमा ले, ताकि मामा का हाथ बँटा सके। एक बार उसने यह बात ज़ुबान पर ला दी तो मामा सन्न रह गए। उलटे ख़ुद को कोसने लगे कि शायद वे अपने भांजे की उम्मीदों पर खरे नहीं उतरे।

पढ़ाई छोड़कर कमाने का मयंक का वह विचार कुछ-कुछ वैसा ही था, जैसा आरोहण ने अपने ख़्वाब में टाटानगर जाकर नौकरी करने का फ़ैसला करते समय महसूस किया था। मगर सहयात्रियों के हाथों आरोहण ने सपने में जो ज़ुल्म सहा, उसका मयंक की हक़ीक़त में कोई मेल नहीं था। उसने कभी मामा का घर नहीं छोड़ा था।

इन सबके बावजूद मयंक इस ख़्वाब और हक़ीक़त के टकराव के बारे में उससे कुछ पूछने की हिम्मत नहीं जुटा पा रहा था। थोड़ी ही देर पहले उसने आरोहण को रोते देखा था। इतना तो साफ़ था कि सपने की घटनाएँ उसके दिल की गहराइयों तक उतर गई थीं। यह सब असम्भव भले ही लगता हो, बनावटी बिल्कुल नहीं था।

मयंक ने बातचीत को दूसरी दिशा देने की कोशिश की।

“मैं सोच रहा था, आरोहण—क्या तुम्हें विशाखापट्नम की कोई बात याद है? सचमुच कुछ भी नहीं?”

आरोहण को इस नाम से पुकारे जाने पर कोई एतराज़ नहीं था। फिर भी हर बार यह नाम सुनकर उसके भीतर एक अनकहा सवाल सिर उठाता था—अगर वह आरोहण नहीं है, तो फिर कौन है? अभी वह उस सवाल का सामना करने के लिए तैयार नहीं था।

“विशाखापट्नम की? नहीं, कुछ भी नहीं। बस उम्मीद करता हूँ कि आज रात विशाखापट्नम का कोई ख़्वाब मुझसे होकर न गुज़रे,” आरोहण ने कहा।

उसके होंठों से एक गहरी आह निकल गई।

 

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar / / 9-8-2026

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China Through the Eyes of R. N. Prasher

 

China Through the Eyes of R. N. Prasher

A review of R. N. Prasher's Revisiting the Chinese Screen

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For a reader like me, whose knowledge of China has until now been little more than a collection of scattered impressions, the country's name evokes a curious assortment of images. It is one of the world's oldest civilisations, renowned for customs that often appear exotic—even bizarre—to outsiders. Politically, it represents the paradox of an ancient civilisation ruled by a modern communist state. Economically, it is the spectacular success story of the last four decades, having transformed itself into the world's manufacturing powerhouse through market reforms, technological adaptation, and an export-driven economy. At the same time, contemporary reports leave one with the impression of a society where personal liberty is heavily curtailed, and digital surveillance permeates everyday life.

Reading R. N. Prasher's Revisiting the Chinese Screen convinced me that these impressions were neither entirely mistaken nor remotely sufficient. The book greatly expands a reader's understanding of China by placing its present realities within a broad historical, political and cultural context.

In the foreword, the author modestly expresses the hope that readers who cannot devote weeks to studying China will nevertheless derive "reasonable satisfaction" from the collection of editorials. The aspiration is understated. Prasher has produced a work that is remarkably comprehensive and authoritative. The book is carefully organised, beginning with China's earliest history before moving through its social structure, political evolution, economic transformation and contemporary challenges. By the end, the reader possesses not merely a collection of facts but a coherent framework for understanding one of the world's most consequential nations.

One of the book's strengths lies in explaining the complexity of Chinese society beyond the familiar stereotypes. Prasher examines the relationship between the Han majority and several minority communities—including the Uyghurs, Tibetans, Manchus and Falun Gong practitioners—and argues that successive governments have pursued policies aimed at assimilation or suppression. Extensive references to historians, economists and political commentators lend scholarly weight to the discussion without making the narrative cumbersome. The author's observations on the distinctive social psychology of the Chinese people, their inward-looking cultural disposition and the historical roots of many contemporary attitudes are particularly engaging.

Although classified under Social Science and Cultural Studies, the book often reads with the immediacy of a travel narrative. One feels less like a student consulting a textbook than a traveller being introduced to an unfamiliar civilisation. The reader encounters the stark contrasts between prosperous metropolitan China and its neglected countryside, the widening gap between the rich and the poor, and a surveillance apparatus that, according to the author, has become deeply embedded in everyday life. Prasher also discusses a range of social issues—from demographic anxieties created by the former one-child policy to controversial state interventions in family life, public health and urban development. Whether describing the functioning of the chengguan, the extrajudicial municipal enforcement squads, or recounting stories of dispossessed farmers driven to desperation, the author consistently seeks to reveal the human consequences of political decisions.

The book devotes considerable attention to the evolution of communist rule. Mao Zedong's disastrous policies receive detailed treatment. Prasher recounts the elimination of intellectuals during political campaigns, the destruction wrought by the Cultural Revolution, the failure of collective farming and backyard steel production, and the infamous campaign against sparrows, all of which, in the author's assessment, contributed to one of the deadliest famines in human history. Deng Xiaoping's economic liberalisation is acknowledged as transformative, yet the author also reminds readers of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, arguing that economic reform never translated into political liberalisation.

Xi Jinping's administration receives equally close scrutiny. Prasher discusses the government's uncompromising COVID-19 lockdowns, the tightening of state control over private enterprise, the regulatory assault on the online gaming and private tutoring industries, and the broader consolidation of political power. Whether or not readers agree with every conclusion, the analysis presents a consistent argument: economic modernisation in China has not been accompanied by a corresponding expansion of civil liberties.

Perhaps the most disturbing chapters are those dealing with human rights. Prasher describes an authoritarian system in which political dissent is met with intimidation, arbitrary detention and public confessions. He also examines allegations concerning organ harvesting from prisoners of conscience, particularly members of persecuted groups such as Uyghurs and Falun Gong practitioners. Throughout these discussions, the author's objective is not merely to shock but to argue that authoritarian governance inevitably erodes both legal safeguards and human dignity.

Another significant contribution of the book is its analysis of China's rise as a global economic power. Prasher argues that Western democracies, particularly the United States, underestimated the long-term strategic implications of integrating China into the global trading system. He traces the diplomatic thaw initiated by President Nixon's visit in 1972, the gradual normalisation of economic relations, and China's accession to the World Trade Organization in 2001. According to the author, these developments accelerated China's industrial ascent while exposing Western economies to intense competition. The discussion extends to allegations of intellectual property theft, reverse engineering and strategic acquisitions of foreign companies, all of which are presented as elements of China's broader developmental strategy.

Prasher is equally willing to venture predictions. Drawing historical parallels with the collapse of other authoritarian regimes, he speculates that China's ruling elite may one day attempt to safeguard their accumulated wealth abroad should the political system unravel. He also argues that mounting psychological stress within Chinese society could become a significant long-term challenge. Whether these forecasts ultimately prove accurate remains to be seen, but they illustrate the author's willingness to look beyond present events and consider their possible historical trajectory.

What makes Revisiting the Chinese Screen especially rewarding is its ability to combine meticulous research with accessible prose. Prasher writes with clarity, confidence and the advantage of first-hand familiarity with China. The book succeeds in balancing historical narrative, political analysis and cultural observation without overwhelming the general reader. Even those approaching the subject with only a superficial knowledge of China, as I did, will finish the book with a far deeper appreciation of the country's complexities and contradictions.

Overall, Revisiting the Chinese Screen is an illuminating and thought-provoking work. Whether one agrees with all of the author's conclusions or not, the breadth of his scholarship and the coherence of his argument make the book an engaging introduction to contemporary China. It deserves a wide readership among anyone interested in understanding one of the defining powers of the twenty-first century.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswr: : 6-8-2027

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A Show on the Wheels

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The duo set out on their morning walk as planned the previous night. A mist veiled the landscape, creating an ethereal atmosphere, though the gentle breeze hinted it would soon dissipate. Aarohan, walking just a few steps behind, remained resolutely silent while Mayank waited for him to catch up. Perhaps Aarohan would narrate another dream, revealing pieces of his past. Yet Mayank was cautious; a vivid recollection of past misery through a dream could push his friend into a fresh paroxysm of agony. How could he prevent that eventuality?

However, the silence proved companionable, and as the duo kept walking, it was punctuated by the sound of Aarohan’s rubber flip-flops. Before long, the wearer of the onomatopoeic footwear began to discern its meaning.

‘Tell you what, I remember something,’ Aarohan broke his silence.

‘What? You finally remembered? And what did you remember, Aarohan?’ stuttered Mayank impatiently, expecting a lot from his friend’s upcoming disclosure.

‘I recalled a dream from my childhood,’ Aarohan shared. Mayank could not guess if it referred to a dream Aarohan had as a child or a dream about his childhood.

Without further ado, the dreamer began recounting the dream.

***      ***      ***      ***

Some memories, you know, refuse to dissolve. Given that damage has already occurred, how can we recreate the past and institute justice ex post facto? I wish I could do that!

Then, I was a thirteen-year-old rustic with little or no aplomb. Need I say in as many words that I wasn’t smart? Well, was there any need? My seniors used to select my books, the movies to watch, the games to play, and the boys to befriend. The list of dos and don’ts remained open-ended: don’t climb a sacred tree; swimming is patently sacrilegious; avoid handling musical instruments; and so forth. A child should not act like an adult, which was the rule. If a senior bothered to explain on a good day, he would say, ‘Hey! You poor thing! You ought to first learn and then apply a skill, right?’ That’s fine, but didn’t it contain an apparent contradiction? If one were not to start a trade without learning, how would he learn it without starting?

Not that I didn’t resent such a state of endless suppression, but my protests were neither well-timed nor socially correct, so they were sure to recoil with loads of punishments. Punishments? That’s right. They’re to have a cleansing effect as my perpetrators ever believed. They’re meant to temper my childish yearnings to learn, question, explore, amend, cherish, and choose.

Ok, no more waffles. Let me relate my dream first.

That day, I had reached the limits of my endurance. An instance of humiliating treatment at the hands of Mahajan, the moneylender, proved to be the proverbial last straw on a camel’s back. He demanded that I own up to stealing guava from his tree because he had once seen me climbing a banyan tree on the embankment. That was his unassailable proof—as if I had plucked guava from a banyan tree, Mahajan’s magical banyan tree!

Then he slapped me—not to recover his imaginary loss, but to assert his authority as the community’s self-appointed disciplinarian. ‘A guilty child should receive a thrashing—the severer, the better,’ he would have pontificated had a bystander offered even a gesture of sympathy. But alas, there was none to come to my rescue. A second wave of abuse followed before I could even begin to dismiss the excess. This time, my music teacher took his turn, showering me with verbal abuse in his piercing nasal tone. Hold it! Now it was my father’s turn to enter the scene—not with any empty package of comfort, but to deliver the final blow: a wild, unrelenting thrashing.

Despite his insensitiveness, I was ready to excuse my father because he was indebted to the usurer for all I knew. In that case, who was not? The music teacher with a gleaming scalp, the headmaster with his ruler sticks and dangling specs, the pigtailed priest, the slovenly quack with his shoulder bag—all used to worry about their unpaid loans and the ever-burgeoning interest. Therefore, money was the answer; it stood between me and my father’s love. A few thousand was enough to liquidate his liability.

Thus, I made up my mind what I must do. I must leave home to earn money and return with wads to dare the lousy usurer. ‘Take your blessed money and leave us alone,’ I thought aloud. It was possible. There must be a place on earth, a town abounding with employment for sincere people. I would be honest and hardworking, and I would stand out!

The nightlong self-encouragement prepared me for the big job ahead. I was eager; ‘come what may’ was my mantra. I should perform with finesse in the first job of my life, so I would have no regrets later.

It was well before the first flush of the morning on the eastern horizon. Waking up before anyone else in the house, I left with a small bag containing three stale chapatis and a few jaggery chips. I met none except the rising sun on my way. So, the departure was well-timed, ensuring that my exit remained a secret. The morning dew soaked my feet as I walked, and my rubber flip-flops splattered the wet dust up to my knickers. I concentrated on my footfalls even as my footwear gave out a series of monotonous taps, as you hear them now. Thinking about what lay ahead, I ignored the sound. A chill was in the air, and I took long, determined strides.

Thus, the runaway I left home resolved to return soon with a bagful of money so I would avenge myself on the moneylender. How my mother had been spending sleepless nights praying to God! Once, I begged her to tell me the reason for her insomnia. She confided in me: our mortgaged homestead was at the mercy of the moneylender. Poor Ma! She deserved a good night’s sleep after a hard day’s labour.

The first bus on the route arrived on time, and I got on. I had just enough money to buy a ticket to Tatanagar, the steel town that promised employment.

Covering a ten-hour journey would take the better part of the day. The road had its bumps, but greenery lined the way. Those who looked out of the windows and breathed in the intimate sylvan fragrance didn’t mind the rough ride. As for me, I had never ventured farther than my district headquarters, barely thirty kilometres from my village. This was a brand-new experience—the earth I knew expanded, growing grander and lovelier than I could have imagined, staying in the hamlet under the constant threat of eviction. A feeling of belonging soon overcame me, easing my sense of uncertainty. Even then, I wondered what I would do upon arriving in Tatanagar, where I had no one to shelter me. ‘I’ll just squat on the railway platform,’ I thought, gaining an instant sense of confidence. In the face of uncertainties, adopting a carefree approach seemed best—a realisation that struck me profoundly.

It was about noontime when our bus halted for lunch. The place had a few roadside eateries. A little ahead, many lofty silk-cotton trees with buttressed trunks were standing in a row on either side of the road. I remember the red texture of its soil, very different from the earth that shaped my village. And I remember how a breeze wafting across the coppices of ipomoeas brought a heady scent.

‘Those who want to take lunch come out or else stay inside. I’ll lock the bus from outside,’ announced the doorkeeper. It was his security drill, a must to prevent possible theft.

All but me elected to leave. I needed money to venture out and order food in the eatery. Rustling my bag from outside, I ensured the chapatis and jaggery had remained the same! The vagrant in me could disappear from home, but not the chapatis inside my bag!

Seeing me stuck to my seat, the doorkeeper felt slightly foxed. ‘Won’t you take your lunch?’ he shot the question at me. ‘No, I won’t,’ I replied.

‘Fine, as you wish,’ the doorkeeper said, slamming the door, locking it, and leaving. I looked at his speeding steps. Maybe he was hungry. My stomach rumbled as I tried to gauge his hunger.

My chapatis would last at least two days if I could ration them judiciously. Otherwise, they would not be edible for much longer.

The bus halted for a little over half an hour. The driver returned and had to hoot the horn twice to hurry up the passengers. A couple of waffling women were among the last to enter. Everybody had a contented face. The eatery must be a place worth visiting, I concluded wistfully.

‘My ring, oh God, where’s my gold ring?’ grumbled the lady sitting beside me across the aisle. The bus was about to rev.

The man who accompanied her—he could be her husband or somebody as docile—stood up from his seat with a jerk. Finding a small object, like a dropped ring, amid their baggage jamming the leg space was challenging, yet the faithful chaperon knelt and groped around. But, alas, his efforts were in vain.

‘Where did you lose it?’ the man enquired.

‘Not that I know of,’ she said tentatively and looked at me. ‘Have you seen my gold ring? You’re in the coach while we all went out, right?’

I could easily sense that she had pointed her accusing finger at me. So indignantly, I replied, ‘Nope! How do I know where you lost your gold ring?’

‘You only stayed here when we all went outside, didn’t you?’ alleged the man.

Shocked, my facial muscles twitched. I couldn’t explain to myself why people took pleasure in blaming me. Only yesterday, the mahajan of my village accused me of stealing guava. Now, at a new location, a man unreasonably devoted to his lady baselessly suspected me of taking his lady’s gold ring!

‘So? Didn’t the doorkeeper lock the bus from outside? How can you forget that?’ I countered him.

‘Then show me your bag. I’ll check it,’ the man demanded.

‘My bag? Why should I show my bag to you, mister? Will you ask everybody here to do the same because you lost your blessed gold ring?’ I maintained my bold front as I retorted.

By now, others had joined him. What was it about this man that attracted friends to his cause? I wondered. Perhaps his affluence drew in those who saw an opportunity—an advantage that had even taught his lady to lose a gold ring without a second thought. I felt a scream building up inside me, but my poise had long since faltered.

Someone lunged at me, eager to be the first to apprehend the “thief.” I clung to my bag, unwilling to let go. If they opened it, they might discover I was a runaway, interrogate me, confirm their suspicions, and ultimately send me back. How would I earn piles of money to make my mother happy?

I held onto my bag, shielding it from the prying pack of self-appointed enforcers. Yet, they insisted on searching its contents, all the while escalating their verbal abuse. ‘He seems to be a seasoned thief; don’t let him off. He’s a dacoit in the making!’

The mob of passengers dragged me out of the bus. I leapt and covered the bag with my body. Before long, I was on the ground, lying flat on my belly. People started kicking my back. The first kick was by someone with equestrian nails on his heels, followed by another whose stiletto hit my shoulder. So, a woman joined them, too. Someone tried to lift me from the ground, taking my ears, but failed, and then another grasped my hair as if they were the two weightlifters, practising their jerk in turn!

I was pathetically powerless against a determined mob. No wonder my bag went out of my possession in minutes. Then someone upended it, and my invaluable chapatis bounced on the ground. They were already hard but remarkably in shape as they touched the soil. Aha! Their musty fragrance! Had I not stolen them from our kitchen, they would have fed my family at noontime. Oh no! They must be starving now. Before my eyes, someone pitilessly trampled the chips of jaggery, which were the last to fall out of the bag. I wistfully looked at them.

However, they did not get the gold ring.

The mob was not without wit. It had the cheek to cover up its unabashed persecution.

‘The rogue has hidden the ring inside? So, don’t allow him inside,’ suggested one.

It was the exciting denouement of the drama enacted on the road. Should I call it a roadshow, a street performance, or an improv theatre? There was no rehearsal nor back-of-the-screen promptings. Even the bus conductor’s silence was unscripted, bespeaking his concurrence. He had little to lose, for I had already paid him the fare. Hence, they left me there to salvage my chapatis and the chips of jaggery that lay trampled out of shape.

***      ***      ***      ***

Aarohan concluded and fell silent, his eyes tear-filled. A puzzled Mayank noted his friend’s real-life sulking over his in-dream persecution. Were the dream images following him to his conscious state? Was it a case of oneirophrenia?

‘What’s this, Aarohan? You crying?’ asked Mayank.

Aarohan did not reply. Perhaps his words could not struggle through the tangle of sobs. By now, he had chosen a wayside rock to sit on. He sat there for a few minutes, silent and pensive. Then he stood up to resume his walk. He was out of his emotional spike.

Mayank was not sure how to react. All that Aarohan claimed to be his own childhood experience was not true. Mayank knew his friend’s family possessed bungalows, vehicles, and gold ornaments. Even they had a ferocious dog as big as a year-old calf! Once, Mayank had wrestled with Aarohan, and he remembered the strength of the latter’s gold chain. It was even sturdier than the stay-wires of an electricity pole! So, why should they borrow? At Visakhapatnam, they had sufficient urban lands worth hundreds of millions. So, how could Mayank take him to be a poor boy who endured exploitation by moneylenders?

As for Aarohan’s upbringing, Mayank knew Captain Brijbhan Dev as a sedulous father and a liberal soul. Save for the instances of sternness that he adopted to wean his son away from bedwetting, he was, by and large, a loving father. He had nurtured the only ambition to make his son an IAS officer. Otherwise, Aarohan was the only child, the natural claimant to all his parental love and affection.

However, Mayank had seen hardships. His mother, Shalini, and his father, Shrikant, broke up when he was a child. Then, he and his mother left home in Berhampur for Visakhapatnam to live with his maternal uncle Sudarshan. He was admitted to a school with English as the medium of instruction. The school admitted him not to class two, where he was studying in his old place, but to class one, where he was taught alphabet lessons. Aarohan became his fast friend there, and Mayank remembered sharing his grief stories with his new friend. However, it was not to the extent Aarohan related to now. Despite not being rich, Uncle Sudarshan had been remarkably generous to Mayank. He got poorer by the year yet toiled hard to give the best to his nephew. He even neglected to educate his two daughters in the process adequately. Sometimes, Mayank would consider dropping out of school to earn and help his uncle financially. Once, when he broached the topic, it came as a shock to Sudarshan. He cursed himself for his inability to meet his nephew’s expectations. That event in Mayank’s life rather matched Aarohan’s in-dream resolve to seek a job in Tatanagar. But how his co-passengers treated him was not Mayank’s story—the latter had never fled his uncle’s house!

Despite all these, Mayank feared confronting his friend with the dream-reality dichotomy. Just a while ago, he saw how Aarohan was in tears; it meant the narratives had a grip on the narrator. But, by no stretch of the imagination, his was an attempt to shed crocodile tears!

Mayank changed the topic.

‘I was wondering, Aarohan, if you remember Visakhapatnam. Do you?’

Aarohan would not mind if one addressed him as such; he was not ready to face the following quiz—Well, if you’re not Aarohan, who are you?

‘Remembering Visakhapatnam? Nope. Hopefully, a Visakhapatnam dream will pass me by tonight,’ replied Aarohan while a sigh escaped him.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar: : 3/8/2026

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A Review of Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief

 

A Review of Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief

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I wanted to write this review immediately after finishing Megha Majumdar's A Guardian and a Thief, before the details of the plot faded and the exhilaration of having read a genuine page-turner wore off.

The novel's plot is not built on labyrinthine twists. Instead, it moves in a remarkably straightforward manner, sustained by the author's skill in tying up loose ends until the very last page. Every seemingly incidental detail eventually finds its place in the larger design.

The story follows Ma, her father Dadu, and her two-year-old daughter Misti, who are preparing to leave Kolkata for Michigan, where Ma's husband works as a scientist. Their plans are shattered when a thief breaks into their home and steals their passports. Recovering the documents becomes the novel's central pursuit, drawing the characters into an exhausting sequence of bureaucratic and personal ordeals.

Running alongside this is another thread. Kolkata is gripped by famine, and Ma, who manages a non-profit shelter, secretly steals food to feed her starving child. The thief, Boomba, witnesses this act and uses it to blackmail her. His demands gradually escalate until he attempts to occupy Ma's house after she leaves for the United States. The novel culminates in a violent confrontation in which Ma falls to a blow dealt by Boomba's father.

The first aspect of the novel that challenged my understanding was its temporal setting. A famine in Kolkata—or Bengal more generally—belongs, for most readers, to history. Yet the novel is filled with CCTV cameras, mobile phones, social media, and solar panels. The contradiction puzzled me throughout my reading. Only after finishing the novel did I notice the jacket copy, which describes the story as being set in "a near-future Kolkata beset by flooding and famine." It is a clever narrative choice, though also a demanding one. The reader must grant the author the freedom to define the story's fourth dimension—the time in which it unfolds.

One endorsement on the back cover praises the novel for having "no villain." That strikes me as an overstatement. Boomba is certainly not portrayed as an innately evil man. His theft, blackmail, kidnapping, and attempted squatting are shown as the desperate acts of someone trapped by circumstance. Likewise, Ma steals food because her two-year-old daughter is starving. The novel repeatedly places its characters in situations where desperation pushes them beyond accepted moral boundaries. In such circumstances, easy ethical judgments become difficult.

Yet the narrative itself seems to benefit from a more conventional device. However morally complex the characters may be, it ultimately channels the conflict through a single identifiable antagonist. The climax, in that sense, owes something to the familiar logic of popular cinema: moral ambiguity gives way to a recognisable villain around whom the final confrontation can be organised.

I also sensed a stereotype underlying the novel. The family's desperate quest for a climate visa to the United States echoes a familiar third-world aspiration, while the novel simultaneously presents America as increasingly unwilling to admit climate migrants. Since the story is set in the near future, the implication is striking: Kolkata remains a city devastated by hunger and climate catastrophe, whereas the United States continues to represent security and opportunity. One may reasonably ask whether this reflects an unexamined acceptance of a familiar hierarchy between the developed and developing worlds—perhaps even a lingering inferiority complex.

A comparable stereotype appears in the depiction of the police. Although the officers are shown to be kind to little Misti—offering her a Good Day biscuit, for instance—the broader portrayal remains recognisably conventional.

What impressed me most, however, was Majumdar's precision as a storyteller. While reading the novel, I was repeatedly reminded of Chekhov's Gun. A window left slightly ajar in one chapter later enables the thief to enter the house. Similar narrative seeds are planted throughout the novel, each blooming naturally in later chapters. Nothing important appears arbitrary.

The pacing is relentless. The novel reads almost like a detective thriller, carrying the reader forward with such momentum that there is scarcely any opportunity to pause and anticipate where the story might go next. If I have one reservation, it concerns the episode involving the peddler of forged documents. At that point, I expected the narrative to branch into a more substantial subplot. Instead, the story ends soon afterwards, making that episode feel somewhat underdeveloped. Perhaps it serves merely as a realistic detour in the protagonists' ordeal; perhaps the author chose to conclude the novel quickly to keep it within its compact length of about 200 pages.

Despite these reservations, A Guardian and a Thief is an absorbing novel. Its greatest strength lies not in ingenious plot twists but in the assurance with which every narrative thread is gathered together. It is a fast, compelling, and emotionally engaging read that keeps the pages turning while leaving the reader with questions that linger long after the story has ended.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar, 27-06-2026

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