ISSUE 37

Bhumi crossed her legs, left over the right and stretched her neck to peek at the sky far above. From the bottom of the well, all that she could see was a small portion of the openness beyond. The depth of this well was legendary, ‘six-hundred feet’, her father would say, though everyone knew that was a huge exaggeration. They had dug the well themselves. Rajaji Deshmukh gave them permission when a son was finally born to his wife in a middle of a dreadful drought that seemed to last forever. The parched land of their village seemed to be on permanent fire. People were dying from thirst. The upper castes had four very deep wells and somehow survived. But her people had walked miles every day, bare feet blistering, to get water. Many never returned; they either dropped dead on the way, or escaped.

The cloth that Bhumi had worn on her final day, had now become dust like the rest of her body and the rope that tied the stones around her ankle. The cloth was soiled, torn and bore stains of her dried blood. In her lifetime too, her clothes were soiled and often stained with the blood of the dead bodies from which they came. Puran Bhau, the village priest explained things diligently to them. Sometimes he quoted the Shastras. He explained why the black thread identifying their caste had to be worn, how the spittoon around the neck was indispensable because spit of a cursed body cannot touch the ground, and why the broom that the men had to wear could not be done away with either because it swept away their cursed dust. Puran Bhau said if they were obedient now, who knew, in the next life they could be born as a kunbi or even a Deshmukh.

Not everyone was that lucky. Bhumi had been stuck at the bottom of the well for many years. She wondered what happened to her mother, Prema Bai. Was she reborn as a beautiful Deshmukh lady? Did she finally live a dignified life?

Bhumi heard a sound of a dry scratching and looked up. Puran Bhau who stayed on the walls of the well, like a lizard, was crawling his way up, like he always did. His fat body was a shapeless shadow from all these years of crawling; especially his paunch, which had hilariously deflated. Bhumi laughed out loud, her usual shrieking cold laughter. Puran Bhau glared at her with contempt and disgust. ‘Mlechchh!’, he looked disdainfully down on Bhumi, quite literally, and angrily threw a fistful of dried moss from the wall of the well at her. Bhumi cackled and tossed a fistful of pebbles back at him. He crawled up and the stones rained back on Bhumi’s shadowy body. Puran Bhau, for probably the thousandth time, was aghast at the audacity of the Mlechchh and cursed the fate that got him stuck in the well forever with such a lowly creature.

Their own village, where Puran Bhau and Bhumi lived in two completely different worlds, had withered away a long while back and, in time, was filled by new villages and new people. But even they avoided the well. Not only was it completely dry by then, but on certain nights, shrieks and howls came out of it, which would chill the bones of even the most rational rationalists.Those were the nights when Bhumi rued her fate and relived the pain that her cursed body had to permanently bear. Those were the nights when she lamented going to shit in the morning, alone, in the outer field where Rajaji Deshmukh’s brothers and their sidekicks smoked opium. On some nights, Puran Bhau banged his head on the wall of the well and let out similar wails. Sometimes they synchronised their howling, and those were the most dreadful nights.

Since no one from their village survived to tell their stories, various folktales grew around the mystery of the well. Each carried a hidden message. One said Shivaji, while passing through the village with his cavalry, had tricked two Mughal warriors who claimed to be there to negotiate something but were really planning to assassinate him. He made them sit on a chatai that was cunningly placed on the mouth of the well. They fell in and died and Aurangzeb kept wondering where they had vanished. The story shored up legends about the intelligence of the Marathas that helped trumped their Mughal adversary even when the annals of history never recorded any such anecdote.

Another story claimed that a naive girl from a Bhonsale family was lured by a boy from a lowly Mang community, who used black magic to seduce her. They were eloping from the village one night, when the village deity, unable to allow such sacrilege, took the shape of a tigress and chased them. They jumped into the well to survive her wrath and have been stuck their ever since. This tale acted as a warning to all the upper caste girls to stay away from those lower caste boys.

The real stories of Bhumi and Puran Bhau got lost among these tales. The well, like their fates, remained abandoned for centuries.

One day, when they heard a noise near their well, after many years, they were curious. It sounded like someone was digging with unimaginable force. It was a digging machine, something beyond the imagination of these two phantoms.

When they heard human voices near the rim of the well, Bhoomi stretched her neck as much as she could and Puran Bhau climbed up as high as he could. ‘Saheb, everyone in the village knows this well is haunted. We have heard noises from here since we were little children. It is best if you let it be.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said another. This one, with its tone of authority, reminded Puran Bhau of Rajaji Deshmukh. ‘This land has been allotted for a chemical fertilizer factory and the well falls right in the middle. The factory is going to provide jobs, and once you start on the BT cotton, you will soon realise that ordinary fertilizers won’t work.’

‘Saheb, we are not against the factory, but this well…’

‘Shut up. We know these are stupid excuses for not letting us go ahead with the factory. Who believes in ghosts in the twenty-first century, anyway?’

Bhumi and Puran Bhau listened in amusement as the human voices echoed down their empty, abandoned, dry well.

*

Puran Bhau pressed his shadowy face to the damp walls of the well and wondered, what now. He had the misfortune of first, getting killed, and then being dumped in the well of the untouchables, of all places. That too with an untouchable chudail always looking and laughing at him with contempt and disrespect. He must have committed terrible sins in his past lives to be punished like this. In this last life, he had been such a pious Brahmin, diligently offered his prayers and studied the shastras from his guru, Gopalji Agarkar, a Chitpavan Brahmin. Puran Bhau, a mere Karhade Brahmin, was fortunate to get his blessings and his tutelage. The added bonus was the occasional glance that Puran Bhau was able to sneak at Gopalji’s beautiful daughter Sushila. Of course, he would never commit the sin of marrying or fornicating or impregnating a Chitpavan woman, who was also his Guruji’s daughter. He had been riddled enough with guilt when she entered his night-time fantasies.

In the village, Puran Bhau had done his duty, quelling any insubordinate tendencies of the untouchables or other lower castes, and kept Rajaji Deshmukh informed about everyone. His hut was by the outer field, just beside the village temple. Along with his wife Pavani, he kept an eye on everyone who entered, left or stayed in the village. He venerated Rajai Deshmukh, not for his caste, which was two rungs lower than Puran Bhau’s own, but for his power. The Maratha landlord’s wealth and power were growing by leaps and bounds. By the time Puran Bhau ended up in the well, Rajaji had usurped almost all the agricultural land of the village.

Puran Bhau accepted his authority with awe as well as fear. The fear was greater. He never questioned Rajaji Deshmukh even when the body of Kantaram Patil, the small peasant, who was mysteriously murdered and whose land was subsequently acquired by Rajaji, was brought to his doorstep. He did not intervene when the Mahar girl Bhumi was being ravaged by two of Rajaji Deshmukh’s brothers and three of their sidekicks, at the break of dawn, in the outer field. He kept quiet when her mutilated body with stones tied to the ankles was thrown into the well of the untouchables. He did not say anything when the untouchables could not understand the gradual change in the taste of the water nor, when after a few deaths and then an epidemic, they abandoned the well which they had so proudly dug.

Puran Bhau endured everything. At the most he would lament about the growing power of Marathas and their swelling audacity to his Guru Gopalji Agarkar. On such occasions, both Brahmins would sombrely discuss the perils of kaliyug. And then came that dreadful night.

It was a moonless night. Puran Bhau had gone to the outer field to look for his recently born male calf that often escaped by pulling off its rope. In the field, he saw two bodies, half naked and entangled in lust. Puran Bhau generally avoided scenes of such scandalous activity. Silently taking note of who the deviants were, he would usually walk away without revealing his presence. Inevitably, it was the Deshmukh boys at their night-time escapades with women from different castes.

That night, as he was moving away after scowling, he suddenly froze. Something about the lustful moan of the woman seemed familiar; Puran Bhau knew the voice of Sushila too well. A few times when she had asked him to take home extra rice, her honeydew voice had rung in his ear till late at night. He could not stand the thought of a Chitpavan girl’s body being sullied by a lower caste lower touch. But more than that, he felt an acute stab of jealousy. Sushila was like a goddess, a deity, who commanded his patronage and also demanded his protection. She was the only unmarried daughter of his venerated guru Gopalji Agarkar, who in Puran Bhau’s opinion could even converse with Brahma himself. His daughter, a poor soul who had lost her mother in the childhood, had been lured into sinful ways by a bloody Deshmukh, drunk on pomp and power.

He growled and ran at the man and leapt on him, trying to throttle his neck from behind. Sushila shrieked and somehow hurriedly draping her sari ran towards her home. Puran Bhau felt relieved. At least she would not have to witness the sight of her fornicator being killed. That would leave a lasting impression on her fragile Chitpavan mind.

Sambhaji Deshmukh, the youngest brother of Rajaji Deshmukh was caught off guard. He could not have anticipated the attack, because he never imagined that anyone would ever dare to do such a thing. He fell on his face at first, but with a little effort, shook Puran Bhau off his back and kicked him down. ‘Paljaddya’, run fatso, he said, while spitting on the ground. Frustrated, he furiously started walking towards their haveli. He saw no reason to engage any more with the fat priest, who had interrupted his fornication. But Sambhaji Deshmukh was not aware of the depth of Puran Bhau’s feelings for his goddess, and could not imagine that the fat priest would, once again, attack him, this time the back of his head with a stone.

When Sambhaji realised Puran Bhau’s homicidal intention, he was left with no choice but to kill him. Sambhaji then dragged his fat body and dumped it in the well of the untouchables. Being contaminated with Bhumi’s corpse months ago, the well was, by that time, abandoned. The cluster of huts belonging to the untouchables were also almost empty. Most of them had died because of the epidemic that spread through the infected drinking water. The rest who survived could not withstand the water crisis and fled.

*

Puran Bhau was remembering Sushila and a feeling of warm fuzzy affection rose from his shadowy navel up his shadowy chest. Suddenly, the solid ground in front of him split open as huge chunks of soil were dug out by the machines. The wall of the well was demolished and suddenly, Puran Bhau, after almost two hundred and eight years, emerged from his dark, desolate abode along with clouds of dust into the flooding sunlight. None of the workers could see his fat, shapeless, shadowy body. They were wearing strange clothes and yellow crowns. Puran Bhau felt lost and scared. He squinted in the sunlight and looked around and recognised the one who had sounded like Rajai Deshmukh. He was moving around and talking to another human being. Puran Bhau took a close look and realised the other one could be female. He felt up her breasts, just to be sure. She was also wearing those weird clothes and the yellow crown. Which world is this, Puran Bhau wondered, where men and women wear same kind of clothes? And where are the untouchables, with their black threads and spittoons and brooms? How would he know if one of them accidentally tread his sacred path? This was definitely not their village, it had to be hell. Puran Bhau let out a desperate wail and floated away. His wail was suppressed by the noise and ruckus that the drilling machines made, and nobody even noticed him.

Bhumi climbed out of the well with much calm. She also squinted at the sunlight and took some time to get accustomed to it. She looked around in all directions with awe and surprise, taking in the huge machines, the workers who manned them, their clothes and yellow helmets and the concrete structures that stood beyond the construction site. This must be heaven, she thought.

It had been centuries since she had moved, so had first to crawl and only then, with some effort, could stand up and start taking baby steps. She could feel the wind on her shadowy hair and it felt liberating. She walked out of the construction site and looked around. She too could not recognise her village and looked with awe at the tarred road outside and the passing trucks and the concrete buildings in the distance. Everything has changed, she thought. In the ground before the construction site, a water tanker was parked, and a crowd gathered near it. There were some angry exchanges going on between a group of men and a young woman flanked by two other men. Bhumi was curious. She stood on the road and tried to see what was going on.

‘We will take the water first, you people, can take the water later, after we are done,’ said a man angrily, to the woman.

‘Nothing will be left after all you people have taken water. I reached the tanker first and I will take water before any of you,’ the young woman retorted. ‘Yesterday also the water got over. I have been waiting since morning and will not return without taking water.’

‘The mahars will get water after we are done,’ said the man with a tone of finality, raising both his hands. He was no longer talking to the woman but addressing the rest of the crowd, which instantly agreed with him. The crowd was preparing to form a line with their buckets and pots, and the angry woman, flanked by two other men, stood isolated at a corner. But she was not ready to give up.

‘Ehhh,’ she shouted in a shrill voice, ‘This is a sarkari tanker, how dare you bring in caste here? You want me to report you to the DM sahib?’ Even from a distance, Bhumi could see the veins of her neck swell as she shouted. Is this mahar girl Bhumi herself? She looks a lot like me, Bhumi thought, with faint memories of how she used to look. But no, she was wearing such clean clothes and even shoes. Moreover, she is so feisty and look how she is talking back at the upper castes, without fear. This could not be her. Everything has changed, Bhumi thought again, but unlike Puran Bhau felt good about it.

The men who were supervising and setting the rules of water distribution, now charged at the girl menacingly. ‘You bloody slut, don’t fly too high. If you want to take water then, wait here in silence. After everybody your turn will come. That is the rule.’

Something struck Bhumi. These were the same Deshmukh boys and their sidekicks. The ones who ravaged her and then threw her in the well and contaminated the only source of water for their community. She shrieked in desperation. Her voice was also drowned in the noise of the commotion and the sounds of the machines behind.

‘Leave it Priya,’ one of the two men, who flanked her pleaded. ‘Let us not create trouble with them.’ The man reminded Bhumi of her father. He looked as scared and docile. But Priya stood her ground.

‘You guys leave if you have to. I am not leaving without water. There is a rule of law in the country. These goons cannot be allowed to have it their way every time.’ She now turned to the Deshmukh boys and screamed, ‘There is a constitution in the country you know. You cannot stop me from taking water.’

‘Constitution! You slut, you will flaunt the constitution now? You got through the college with a quota and imagine yourself as Ambedkar, now? Come we will show you the constitution.’ The men charged at her, pushing and punching her. The two other men tried to put up a feeble resistance but realising that they were grossly outnumbered, they started running away. ‘Let us go and inform the villagers,’ the younger one huffed while running past Bhumi. ‘Let us go get some more people.’ Their voices faded as they ran. Bhumi looked after them in disgust and slowly turned towards the field again. Priya was running desperately, chased by at least ten men, who soon caught her and pinned her down. They showered blows and kicks on her frail body, dragged her by her hair and kept punching her on the face.

Two labourers from the construction site ran out in alarm. They were about to go to the field, when their supervisor came running from behind. ‘Hey, hey where are you two going?’ he demanded.

‘They are going to kill her, Saheb,’ one of them shouted in desperation.

‘So how does it matter to you? Is she your wife or what?’ the supervisor sneered. ‘Look, it is an internal matter of the village. We are outsiders. As such not all of them are happy with the factory, let us not complicate things by poking our noses in their conflict. Go back to work.’

One of the two workers went inside. The other one was still hesitant. ‘Oye, you will lose your job if you step out,’ the supervisor threatened and closed the temporary gate.

So, in the backdrop, around fifty workers with JCB machines and drills, wearing yellow helmets, kept working to build a chemical fertilizer factory, while Priya was being lynched on the grounds by a crowd that kept swelling.

Bhumi stood in the middle, on the metalled road.

So much has changed, she thought, and so much hasn’t. She watched as the men tore Priya’s clothes and clawed into her flesh. She was shrieking at the beginning, but then she fell silent. Bhumi felt Priya’s pain in her own body. Her memory of being mutilated like this came back afresh, but for the first time she did not wail in desperation. She was identifying each and every one who mangled Priya’s body.

Bhumi breathed deeply. She smelt their bones, blood, flesh, sweat and semen. She smelt their murderous avidity and their cowardice alike. She now believed she had been stuck in that well for so long to witness this very day.

Now her hunt would begin.