Mumbai | by NS Madhavan

first published in Katha Prize Stories, Volume 6, in 1996.

translated from the Malayalam by Sharada Nair | nominated by K SATCHIDANANDAN

N.S. Madhavan received the prestigious Katha Award for Fiction, for this story. Sharada Nair was awarded the Katha A. K. Ramanujan Award for Translation.

Katha is a "profit for all" organiza?tion, working in the literacy to literature continuum, since 1988.

Memories from childhood helped Aziz to understand the world. Of course, that must be the case with everyone. Except for Adam. As the first man on earth, he had had no childhood. (No navel either. Ha, ha, ha, Aziz chuckled to himself.) Aziz easily took to anything that reminded him of his childhood. That is why he liked Bombay. If you flattened out Mattancheri, you would get Bombay. He also liked the old couple who owned the flat he lived in on Warden Road. If Shakoor Sahab with his luxurious, greying moustache and mischievous eyes made him think of the Air India Maharaja, Ammijaan with her large dimples reminded him of his favourite actress, K P A C Lalitha.

As always, on that day too, the freshly washed taxis of early morning filled Aziz with delight. Unlike in other cities, the taxis of Bombay were not heavy Ambassadors. They were Fiats, quite like tabby cats waiting to be stroked and caressed.

As soon as he got into the taxi, Aziz opened the newspaper. Barely glancing at the headlines on the front page, he turned to the stocks and shares section. Immersed in the columns of figures, he suddenly became aware of the pages flapping in the breeze and realized that they were travelling along the seashore. It was through the green sun-film stuck on the windscreen in front that Aziz saw the sea at Chowpatty. The green sea looked primordial, freshly created, as at the time of Genesis. It took Aziz a little while to decipher the Hindi sticker on the sun-film. On a leaping tiger was written in yellow letters, Garv Se Kaho Hum Hindu Hain – Say with Pride, We are Hindu.

As the taxi journeyed on, stopping at one red light after another, Aziz contemplated Bombay resting indolently after the elections. Hand, lotus, bow and arrow, boat, railway engine – the symbols on the walls had transformed the city into a first-standard primer. Any change in the government was first reflected in the Sensex, the Stock Market index. But for that, Aziz and his colleagues, the other sales engineers in the company, may not even have come to know of the new government. This thought had struck Aziz on the previous day, when Pradeep Pillai had announced during lunch, "The government has changed."

"So?" This was Jyoti Prasad Srivastava, another sales engineer.

"Many other things will change ..." Pradeep Pillai said.

"What do you mean? Will the new government reject the tenders we have managed to get with such difficulty?" Jayant Karmarkar, the oldest in the group, asked.

"Amongst other things ..." Pradeep Pillai said. Aziz had felt that Pillai was trying to sound deliberately mysterious.

By the time the taxi stopped in front of the multi-storeyed building at Nariman Point where he worked, Aziz had decided, after some serious reflection, that nothing was going to change. The suburban trains were still running, piercing Bombay through and through. The Sensex had revived. There were the usual hordes of commuters getting off at Church Gate, moving on without looking left or right, half of them scratching their genitals. (As usual, ha, ha.) Various lunch tables as their destinations, tiffin carriers were being ferried on the cycles of dabbawalas. And this was the time when those sleeping late after night shifts woke up and, if their wives were not at home, tried to embrace the Kantabais who arrived to do the chores.

As soon as he reached his room in the office, Aziz examined his passport-size photographs lying on the table. As all passport photographs, they looked alien, like the Aziz he saw in the mirror each morning. He started filling out his passport application form, making very slow progress through its blue pages. He was being sent to Frankfurt for the Industrial Exhibition as the representative of the company.

By the time he had sent off the completed form to the travel agent, his colleagues who had gone out for lunch were on their way back. When he heard them talking unusually loudly, Aziz guessed that the share prices of Reliance or ACC must have either risen or fallen sharply.

"Now tell me Aziz," Jyoti Prasad Srivastava demanded as soon as he entered the room, "This Karmarkar says that the new government's statement that they will drive out foreigners is cruel. What is wrong with their stand?"

"Nothing!" replied Aziz. "All countries repatriate foreigners who do not have visas. Why shouldn't we?"

"This is politics. None of you will understand it," Karmarkar retorted angrily.

"The only thing we understand is the stock market. Let's try to make some money through that, instead of wasting time on these political discussions ..." said Pradeep Pillai as he walked out of the room.

The others trooped out behind him.

Aziz shut his eyes for a while, to give them a rest. The travel agent's call came just then. "Mr Aziz, you must send us a photocopy of your ration card at once."

"But, I don't have one."

"Then get it. At once."

"The hardships one has to endure for a passport! You mean I have to eat that rice you get as ration?"

"No, you don't need to. But you have to attach a copy of the card with the passport application, as proof of residence."

"So, what do I have to do?" "Go to the Supply Office and fill out an application form. After a few days, an inspector will come to your house. Their rate nowadays is one Gandhi. You will get the card in two days. Simple."

 As on any other Sunday, that day too, Aziz was sitting in front of the VCR, watching old Raj Kapoor films. It was through Hindi films like this that he conducted his archaeological research on Bombay. Through the portals of these films, he entered a Bombay of three, four decades ago. As he watched the Fort, Fountain, the cricket-pavilion-like Bandra Station, the Metro cinema, Taj Hotel and so on in the flashes on the black and white screen, Aziz felt a sense of respite from the anonymity of present day Mumbai with its thousands of faces at the other end of the telephone.

On holidays, it was Ammijaan's punctual knocks on the door at mealtimes that functioned as his clock. But, on that day, Ammijaan knocked softly on the door at eleven, earlier than usual.

"Somebody has come to meet you. Says he is from the Supply Department," she said. "On a Sunday?"

"Yes. And with him is one of the dadas who hustles votes for the ruling party."

As soon as Aziz opened the door, the Supply Inspector, who was much younger than Aziz had expected, asked, "You have applied for a ration card, yes?"

"Who is this with you?" Aziz asked in turn.

"Ramu Dada. I brought him with me to show me the house."

"Hmm ..."

"You must meet Madam Gokhale tomorrow at the Supply Office. Pramila Gokhale. I wanted to inform you in time. That is why I bothered you like this on a Sunday."

When he opened the half-doors of Pramila Gokhale's office, he hadn't expected her to be this petite. Though at a glance, she appeared young, her eyes gave away her age as being thirty or more. She had made two plaits like a schoolgirl and tied them up with white ribbons. Her blue kameez with a white salwar and white dupatta had the innocence of a school uniform. Her thin pointed red lips and brown eyes, made smaller by thick lenses, gave her the delicate look of a white mouse. Aziz hoped fervently that he wouldn't be tempted to reach out and pat her in the course of this meeting. A half-read copy of the Dynaneshwari lay face down in the half-open drawer of her table.

"Mister Aziz?" Pramila asked softly, very softly. Like a beloved murmuring out her nascent love.

"Yes."

"Father's name?"

"Beeran Kunju."

"Mother?"

"Fatima."

"Are they still alive?"

"No. The year before last ... they died within a month of each other."

"Do you own any landed property?"

"No. They had to sell all their land to send me to IIT, and to get my brother a visa to Abu Dhabi."

"Then you must be having old tax receipts for the land?"

"No."

"So, you have no proof of owning any property in India?"

"No. My ration card ..."

"These investigations are for that. First, you have to prove that you are an Indian. Only then can we consider the issue of a ration card."

"This is a nice game. Suppose you were woken up from sleep one night and asked to prove that you were an Indian, what would you do, sister?" Aziz's voice rose.

Suddenly he heard the sound of innumerable feet on the other side of the half-door. There was a crowd of faces at Pramila Gokhale's office window. Aziz saw a wave of anger darken these faces momentarily.

"I will just tell them my name. That's all. My name is both my history and geography. Pramila Gokhale. Maharashtrian. Hindu. Chitpavan Brahmin. Do you understand?" Even as she said all this, her voice remained like the whisper of a beloved. The softness of her voice filled Aziz with fear.

"What should I do?"

"You can leave now. You will be called again. Then, you will have to come, brother." She stood up.

 When Aziz met Pramila Gokhale two days later, there was no change in her attire. Her room too appeared the same except that she seemed to have read a few more pages of the Dynaneshwari in her drawer.

"Mr Aziz, we have called you to find out some more things."

"Such massive inquiries for a ration card? What is this? Deliberation over a marriage proposal?"

"Where were you born?" she asked, with even more patience.

"In Kerala."

"Where in Kerala?"

"In Malappuram district."

"Which village in that district?"

"Paang."

"Paang? What Paang?" Her voice rose for the first time.

An ominous rumble spread amongst the many feet visible on the other side of the half door.

"Paang. That is the name of my native place."

"A name like that? No, it's not possible. There can't be a village with a name like that in India."

"Madam, why should I lie?"

"I don't know. Anyway, let it be. What does Paang mean in Malayalam?"

"I don't know whether it has any meaning."

"A word without meaning? Don't insult words. Isn't it clear now that there is no Paang?"

"Paang exists. It certainly does. You can send a telegram to the Collector of Malappuram and check if you want."

"Can you point out Paang to me on a map of India?"

"No."

"Of Kerala?"

"I am not sure."

"Then there is no such place in India. You can go. My enquiries won't take much longer now."

When Aziz came out, the crowd which had collected in the verandah parted to let him through. He was reminded of how the seas had parted for Moses in Cecil de Mille's The Ten Commandments. Moses is returning this time. Later, he will walk back as Adam. Innocent, first-born Adam, without a childhood. (And without a navel.)

 Aziz did not go to the office for a few days after that. He stayed in his room with the radio on most of the time – very loud, to avoid listening to his thoughts. A naval friend of his at Cuffe Parade had given him a tape of K A Abbas' Shahar aur Sapna. Even though he sat and watched that old film many times, he was not able to excavate any bygone memories of Bombay from it.

One evening, the Supply Inspector and Ramu Dada came over and asked Aziz to come along with them in their jeep to meet Pramila Gokhale. As he was closing the door of the flat behind him, he caught a glimpse of Ammijaan and Shakoor Sahab standing silently in front of the ornately written, glass framed "Bismillah."

Bismillah, which looked like five candles flaring out at the peak, was also Aziz's favourite word in Arabic.

This time, there was an even greater crowd at Pramila Gokhale's office. The windows were filled with a whole gallery of faces. Pramila Gokhale seemed to have almost completed her reading of the Dynaneshwari.

"Were you in India in 1970?" She started her questioning in a gentle voice.

"Madam, I was not born then."

"In '71?"

"I was born that year."

"So you admit that you were not in India in '70?"

"This is really absurd. Madam, I was not born then."

"Shall I record that you were not in India before the infiltration from Bangladesh started?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I was not born then?"

"Answer the questions with a yes or no."

Pramila Gokhale raised her voice a little, and it sounded like a thunderclap to Aziz. The faces at the windows grew menacing and there was an increased commotion amongst the feet outside the half door.

"Tell me. Before the infiltration from Bangladesh, that is, in '70 and before that, were you in India?"

"No."

"During the period of the infiltration? After '71?"

"Yes."

A few moments of silence followed.

Resisting despair, Aziz asked, "My ration card?"

Pramila Gokhale smiled.

In response, the people outside roared with laughter.

"I have completed my report. I will send it tomorrow itself," she said.

"Are you suggesting that I am an infiltrator?"

"Didn't you admit that yourself?"

Pramila Gokhale stood up. As an acknowledgement of their acquaintance, developed over the many meetings, she shook his hands briefly.

When he got home, Aziz saw two policemen standing guard outside the building. He went into his room and closed the door.

As he was about to pull back the curtains and open the window, he felt that the other side would be stacked with innumerable human faces with loveless eyes, as on a peacock's tail. Gripped by uncontrollable fear, Aziz crept under the bed and, with his face pressed to the floor, lay motionless, like a stillborn child.

.............................

KPS 6 REVIEW in India Today:

"At a time when being Indian and being published abroad spells big money, big fame and bigger media hype, this series shows something remarkable: qualitatively, contemporary Indian writing in regional languages is just as good as Indian writing in English ... In translation, the [Katha] stories retain their vibrancy and their subtleties without forsaking the refinement of narrative technique.

"... This anthology of 14 stories is no exception. Painstakingly selected and translated into English, the collection offers an insight into an India progressing towards 50 years of independence, an India which is going through social, political and cultural upheavals.

"N.S. Madhavan's Mumbai, translated by Sharada Nair, tells the frightening story of a man who is branded as an infiltrator because he does not have a ration card. It's a Kafkaesque vision of a faceless, ruthless bureaucracy which strips a man of his identity"

 — https://www.indiatoday.in/magazine/society-the-arts/books/story/19970215-book-review-of-katha-prize-stories-vol.-6-832809-1997-02-15

CONTRIBUTORS' NOTES

N. S. Madhavan is an Indian writer of Malayalam literature. Known for his novel, Lanthan Batheriyile Luthiniyakal (Litanies of the Dutch Battery) and a host of short stories such as Higuita, Thiruthu, Chulaimedile Shavangal and Vanmarangal Veezhumpol, Madhavan also writes football columns and travel articles. He is a distinguished fellow of Kerala Sahitya Akademi and a recipient of several major awards including Odakkuzhal Award, Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award for Story, Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award for Novel, Muttathu Varkey Award, Mathrubhumi Literary Award, Crossword Book Award and the Katha Award. He won the Katha Award for this story, Mumbai.

K. Sachidanandan (Malayalam: ?? ????????????) is a noted Indian poet[1] and critic, writing in Malayalam and English. A pioneer of modern poetry in Malayalam, a bilingual literary critic, playwright, editor, columnist and translator,[2] he is the former Editor of Indian Literature journal and the former Secretary of Sahitya Akademi.[3] He is also social advocate for secular anti-caste views, supporting causes like environment, human rights and free software and is a well known speaker on issues concerning contemporary Indian literature. He is the festival director of Kerala Literature Festival.[4][5]

Sharada Nair teaches at Lady Shri Ram College For Women, New Delhi. She received the Katha A.K. Ramanujan Award for Translation, that year.