Of Gods and People

A story

For a few years I have not written a kissa (tale) about our Asian-Indian community in Bergen 

County, because nothing was worth telling. But as I grabbed my pen and started to scribble the evening after the fateful day when words gushed from the tongues of Mrs. Sharma and Mrs. 

Tiwari in the hallowed air of our temple merging into a cesspool of confusion and mayhem, 

words rolled on the paper through streams of sentences into puddles of paragraphs, which, in 

turn, merged, into a big pond of a story. 

The kissa started over a mole hill but blew up into a mountain and was now tearing apart the 

very fabric of our temple which was the heart of our community – like Mahabharata that started over mere five villages that the Pandavas demanded of Duryodhana. The problems with 

problems is that their size does not depend upon their size but upon the perceptions of those 

who have them. To the president, there was no problem and to the two women it was a 

cataclysmic, almost life-threatening, problem of gargantuan proportions. The rest were caught 

in the whirlwind. 

Mrs. Tiwari had joined our temple six years ago with her husband Subhash and children Chinki and Titu. I vividly remember their debut in the temple – Subhash in a cream colored silk kurta 

pajama (An Asian Indian traditional dress) and Manju in a hand embroidered salwar kameez 

(An Asian Indian traditional dress) with a glittering gold colored bindi on her forehead, and 

Chinki in ghaghra koti (An Asian Indian traditional dress) and Titu in a kurta pajama that their 

grandma sent from Delhi with a visiting friend. A beaming Mrs. Sharma introduced the couple 

and the president welcomed the new members. Everyone clapped. Each new member was an asset especially those with children because they were likely to stay for the long haul. 

The friendship between Tiwaris and Sharmas grew along with their children. Chinki joined 

Rekha Sharma in every bharat natyam (A South Indian classical dance) practice and in every 

lip-synching Bollywood dance. They prepared temple prasad together, emceed in diwali

and holi (Hindu festivals) in tandem, and got religious values poured down the ears, if not in 

the minds, of their children, at Sunday school. The mothers came for their children’s sake - they wanted their children to learn Hindu values and culture. 

“Behnji(sister), see the Jews, Christians, and Muslims who make their children go to the 

Sunday schools. Only Hindus are ashamed of their religion,” Mrs. Sharma often said and everyone nodded. 

Fathers seldom came to the temple. They took care of the worldly matters of the family while 

their wives took care of the spiritual matters. The mothers showcased the service, the lectures, 

and the hymns to visiting relatives from India, particularly the grandparents, who watched in awe

the well-orchestrated religious service in an alien land. The grandparents thanked themselves 

for the good work they did in raising their children and God for letting them reap the fruits of 

past karma and sow the seeds of good karma for their next life. All was fine and dandy until thatfateful day.

As the secretary of education, Mrs. Sharma invited learned speakers who taught the Hindu 

concepts of selfless karma, of reincarnation, of God, of virtues, of yoga or union with God, and moksha (spiritual liberation). Touching upon Hindu history, some speakers full throatily declaredthat Hinduism was the oldest and most scientific religion of the world and many thumped the 

lectern with their clenched fists to wake up the devout to action against attacks from Christians and left wing secular Hindus. Many informed the credulous listeners that the Muslim namaz 

(Muslim prayer) was actually a form of yoga, that the stone of kaaba (Holiest shrine of Muslims) was a shivlinga - stone symbol of Lord Shiva), and the Christian amen was distorted om 

(The holiest Hindu sound). Firmly believing that Hinduism was the most tolerant and democratic religion, Mrs. Sharma invited speakers from all denominations of Hinduism – the Vaishnavites, the Shaivites, the Shakts, the tantrics, the devotees of Mata, the devotees of Rama, of 

Hanumana, of Krishna, of Kaali, of Balaji, of Venkateshwara, of Nataraja, of Dakshineshawar, of Ganesha, of Subramanium, of Kartikeya, of Radha, of Sai Baba, of Mehar Baba, of Sadhu Vasvani, of Murari Bapu, of Dayananda Saraswati, of MahaMayi, of Anandamyi, of 

Gopeshawri Devi,of Gayatri Pariwar, of Akshar Bhagwan, the Vedic, the Vedantic, the Arya 

Samajis, the Brahma Samajis, the Brahma Kumaris, the Ananda Margis, yogis, and the New 

Age Hindus. (Some of the Hindu denominations in the USA). To her God was everywhere andin everything – in people, in birds, in trees, in stone, in dust, in rives, and in air. Although He waseverywhere and in everything, He could take an earthly form as a he or a she, or as both, as a 

lion, as a turtle, or even as a boar, if need be. He could incarnate in one body at a time or many bodies at the same time. To Mrs. Sharma every sign, every symbol, and every ritual, and every story, and everything in Hinduism had a higher meaning – the pot belly of Ganesha, the linga 

emerging from the yoni, the blue color of Krishna, the snakes around the neck of Shiva, the five husbands of Drupadi, the assumed blindness of Gandhari, the infanticide of Ganga, the blood-drenched tongue of Kaali, and coming of Vishnu as turtle, as a dwarf, and the amorous antics 

of Radha and Krishna.(A few figures of Hindu mythology) The ancient Hindu seers had realized esoteric truths which they mystified and codified into exoteric signs, symbols, and stories for 

the common Hindus. Common folks need signs and symbols to learn the abstract concepts of 

love, compassion, tolerance, and focus on God. The signs, symbols, and stories were like 

locks on the kingdom of God, keys of which had been lost by the Hindus because of pseudo-

secularism of Pundit Nehru and left-wing Hindus. But thanks to Ramananda Sagar’s Ramayanaand K.C. Chopra’s Mahabharata, Hindus were waking up and our temple was a testimony to 

that awakening. And Mrs. Sharma was playing her part in that awakening by inviting Gurus fromall corners of India and abroad to open the gates of the kingdom of God, by explicating the 

signs, symbols, and stories. She catered to people of all types of temperament. She doused 

the Nachiketas (protagonist of Katha Upanishad) fire of curiosity of the knowledge mongers; 

arranged yoga classes for the action oriented, and arranged hymn singing and parable (katha) narration, particularly of the story of Satya Naraina (God of Truth), for those who didn't want to 

think or act, but just wanted peace. After all, in Hinduism there are many paths to God. Mrs. 

Sharma believed in all the paths. She could walk one mile on one path, go the next on another, 

the third on the next, and then go back on the first. She hoped to savor all the paths by the end 

of her day and desired that she could walk on all the paths at the same time or just cover the 

whole journey to God in three steps and be done with it, like Vishnu who covered the whole 

world in three steps. 

Things were going well in the material life as well, and why shouldn’t they after so much 

investment in the spiritual bank. Rekha was turning into a fine young lady. Adept in Bharat 

Natayam and Bollywood pop dances she participated in all the functions. She participated in 

cross cultural exchanges with other churches and volunteered for the Habitat for Humanity. All 

that would look so good on her resume. Raju too was not far behind. Because of the opportu-

nities he got to speak in the children’s program in the temple he shed his audience phobia and became a good orator. And last but not the least, both children had a bunch of Indian friends 

through the temple. She was scared of the American children – “drugs vrugs, kissing vissing,"

and are baba (colloquial Hindi figures of speech in which words are repeated in rhyming 

spoonerisms for emphasis) God knows what else these Americans do,” she used to say disdainfully, “and their families, divorces, no values, gaande chhi (immoral).” And then they had their 

own social life – the card parties, the picnics, the weddings, and wakes with the Tiwaries, the 

Guptas, and the Shahs. Everything was fine and dandy until that fateful day of the youth group 

havan. (Religious service in which fire is lighted in an urn and Vedic mantras are chanted collectively.)

It was one of the two havans that the children performed every year. The boys were dressed in white, off-white or cream colored kurta pajamas and girls in white or light colored salwar 

kameezes, with saffron colored Om/Rama sashes thrown across their shoulders. Their parents had prepared the Prasad (Sanctified food offered to the devotees after the service) -- a five 

course meal to be served in one course by the children after the religious service. The children had their lines typed or written on paper. Some had written their parts themselves and for some the parents or grandparents had written them. Anticipation was in the air – the hallowed air 

through which the smell of incense wafted and the rays of the spring sun traversed to make a 

latticework of light on the white sheets laid on the floor. Air that was soon going to resonate withthe divine energy of the Vedic mantras and was going to be purified by the herbs offered in 

oblation to the sacrificial fire. Titu, Chinki, Rekha, and Vijay took up positions around the

fire and took out the sheets on which the facilitator had transliterated the Sanskrit mantras for 

the children. Other children sat behind them in concentric circles. The facilitator sat in the back-ground and the children started chanting the mantras in their American accents. The parents 

smiled demurely, satisfied at the graduation of their children from the school of Hindu values; grandparents beamed in joy for having passed their cultural legacy to their posterity; cameras clicked and lights flashed; and videos were made. 

After the chanting ended, the children’s program got underway. “Lord Krishna loves a person 

who bears no ill-will toward anyone, is friendly, compassionate, forgiving, and free from attach-ment and self-conceit, and,” Rekha Sharma said. Everyone applauded. 

“Perform your duty selflessly, as a sacrifice, without any ulterior motives, and leave the results to God,” Chinki Tiwari explained the Hindu theory of Karma. Everyone applauded again. 

“Hail Lord Ganesha whose mother is Parvati and father, the great Lord Shiva,” a toddler 

mumbled bashfully and haltingly as his mother prompted him. The audience said oooo and how cute. 

The Patel children sang a hymn, “Lord! Give us mental strength so that we may win ourselves 

before we win others.” Applause again! When no other child came forward, the president 

asked for a big round of applause for the young speakers and the audience complied 

thunderously.

The children got up one by one and received their certificates of participation from 

octogenarian Uncle Taneja. The parents and grandparents applauded again.

Then came the fateful moment!   

The outgoing president of the youth group invited nominations for the coming year’s team. 

Someone nominated Rekha Sharma for the position of the president. A few children and their 

parents applauded. When the applause died down, although it died down slowly because 

Mrs. Sharma and Titu were too elated to stop, someone got up and proposed the name of 

Chinki Tiwari for president. 

“But there’s only one position of president, “Mrs. Sharma interjected, “You mean president or 

vice president.” 

“No, for president,” the nominator insisted. 

“How can you do this? I am a founder member of this temple and Rekha has been attending 

every function and every class of this temple. She is the most suited to be the president of the 

youth group,” a piqued Mrs. Sharma said loudly.

“What founding of the temple has to do with youth group elections? Chinki has also been 

attending all the classes and participating in all the functions and the byelaws call for elections” Mrs. Tiwari retorted. “Mrs. Sharma, temple is not your hereditary property. We too have been 

paying our dues and preparing prasad,” she continued. 

The candidates and the voters stayed quiet. It’s impolite for children to talk when elders talk, even if they are talking about them. Mothers, especially, could even talk for children - that is what Hindu family values are all about, love of children. 

Suddenly the Brahman, the One and only One, shattered into many individual souls clamoring 

for their rightful, hierarchical to be exact, place in the universe. Mrs. Sharma metamorphosed 

into Chandi,(The wrathful form of Mother goddess) the Wrathful, ready to stake her place at the 

top by killing the demon of ungratefulness. 

“Don’t not forget that I introduced you to this satsangi temple, Mrs. Tiwari. You’re not even a 

born satsangi. I was born into a satsangi family. Mrs. Sharma screamed angrily.

“Behnji, don’t be angry. Lord Krishna says in Gita that anger destroys intellect,” the priest 

advised.

“Do not preach about anger-vanger to me, Punditji (priest). I also know dharma. Didn’t lord Shiva become angry when Ganesha forbade him to enter his own house,” Mrs. Sharma turned on 

the priest. “I’m not beheading anyone’s head like Shiva did. I’m just fighting for my daughter’s 

rights.”

“Behnji, why are you bringing Ganesha and Shiva into this worldly fight? That story must have some higher meaning that you and I don’t know.”

“Punditji, be quiet and mind your business of doing puja (religious service) and don’t forget that I hired you,” Mrs. Sharma chided the priest.

“Why can’t we have four presidents? After all democracy means equal opportunity for all,” a 

past president and elder of the temple advised. “Four children will have the presidency on their resumes instead of one.” 

“But the byelaws will have to be changed for this,” the current president of the temple replied.

Others jumped in pulling the ropes from either side like the mythical churning of the sea by 

demons and gods as if the youth group presidency were the mythical nectar. Older children 

watched in shock and dismay, while the younger ones clutched their moms’ saris; a few even 

cried and were taken out by their mothers. Some adults requested Mrs. Tiwari to ask her

daughter to withdraw her name. 

“No, why should she. It doesn't matter if my daughter becomes the president or not, but it’s is a matter of principle,” Mrs. Tiwari rejected the suggestions. “Every child should get equal 

opportunity.” 

“Equal opportunity, my foot! I know your politics. You’ve been doing favors to the children in the

cultural programs to obtain more votes for Chinki,” Mrs. Sharma snarled. 

“Manju! You’re also not milk-washed. You've been showcasing Rekha’s oratory in educational 

programs to make her more popular,” Mrs. Tiwari countered instantaneously.

“Behnji, too much moha (attachment) for children is not good. Lord Rama had to go jungle 

because Kaikayi, deluded by moha, demanded that her son, Bharata, (Stepmother and step 

brother of Lord Rama in the Hindu epic of Ramayana) be made the king instead of his rightful

older brother Rama,” the priest brought out another arrow from his quiver of Hindu mythology.

“Punditji, you stay out of it,” both women simultaneously turned on the priest, “What do you know

about raising children in Amrika?(Hindi pronunciation of America)” The priest had been 

imported from India.

Fearing that the tongue fight may evolve into a fist fight, the president decreed that the electionsmust go on. And they did. In the backdrop of long faces and cavils of their parents, the thirteen members of the youth group voted by secret ballot. Chinki Tiwari won by one vote.

“I bet on my mother, I haven’t seen people more ungrateful people in the whole world,” Mrs. 

Sharma ranted as she stomped out with Rekha and Vijay in tow, leaving a few grumbling 

supporters to boo the president. 

Everyone chipped in with an opinion. A pandemonium was about to break out when the 

president declared an end to the service and called upon everyone to sing the aarati (the 

parting hymn) and chant the peace mantra. The mothers scrambled to bring their tiny tots to the mike and every one sang the aarati in chorus. The priest then led everyone in the unity prayer, “Let us live in harmony and love one another. Let us make a strong community with a common 

resolve.” The service ended with the peace invocation. “Let there be peace in the brighter 

regions of the galaxy, in the midregions between the sun and earth, on earth, in water, herbs, 

vegetation…….let there be peace all around, peace, peace, peace!” 

No sooner than the peace invocation service was over, the floor was divided in two camps, onerepresenting the old establishment that opined that Mrs. Sharma, a veteran of the temple, was 

treated unfavorably, and a younger progressive one, who wanted to celebrate the victory

of democracy and change over tradition. Angry words were exchanged and supporters of Mrs. Sharma angrily confronted the president to declare the election null and void. Not making much headway, the supporters of Mrs. Sharma left huffing and puffing without taking the blessed 

prasad.

Mrs. Sharma hasn’t been seen in the temple for many years now. It’s rumored that she started ahymn singing group of her own that summer. “There is no religion-viligon in the Satsangi 

temple, only politics” she has been heard to say. Her daughter, Rekha, became the founder 

president of the nascent youth group of the nascent organization and went to an Ivy League 

school. She is going out with an American guy these days.

Mrs. Tiwari, too, is rarely seen in the temple now. Both her children are off to college, and she 

has founded a teen patti (Game of three cards, also called Flush) party. “What is in religion, old weather-beaten tales? We went for our children’s sake – to teach them some Indian values and for Mummyji and Papaji – they had good time,” she has been overheard to say. Chinki went to a state school after a successful year as the youth group president. She never returned to the 

temple and knitted her eyebrows if anyone asked her why she didn’t go, “Are you kidding, 

temple and me?”  

Chotu Ki Kahani (Story of a Child Domestic Servant)

“What else is new, Didi” I asked my sister when I called her from the United States.

 “Chotu died in a bus accident last week,” my sister told me perfunctorily.

Choking with emotion I could not continue the conversation as Chotu’s innocent face flashed before my eyes. I remembered my last stay in India when he had polished my shoes almost every day, dusting them with a rag, applying and spreading shoe polish with his fingers, shining the shoe with side to side and front to back strokes of first a brush and then a rug, putting white cream and brushing top, sides and heel again and finally putting a few drops of water and shining the shoes with side to side strokes of a rag held tightly against the shoes and handing them to me with a flourish after cleaning the sole.  He even wanted to put them on my feet and tie shoelaces but it was beyond my American sensibilities to accept such obsequiousness from another person, let alone a child.  

“Bete where did you learn shoe polishing,” I asked him.

“Bauji, I used to go the railway station with a bunch of kids from the jhoper patti (shanty town) to polish for Bhaiji, a dada (don) at the railway station. I got two rupees out of ten for one polish, while Moti, our leader from the jhoper patti and Bhaiji took the rest. One day there was a scramble for money when a gora (white man) gave us a ten rupees bakshsish; the police came after the ruckus and beat us. Next day my father took me to the Behnji from a school who used to come to the jhoper patti to tell us to go to the school.”

I did not know his real name for many years and wondered if he had any. Everyone in the joint family called him Chotu. Chotu’s uncle worked on a construction site near my brother– in-law’s factory. He gladly offered Chotu when he heard that my brother-in-law was looking for a servant. Chotu was perhaps ten-year-old when I first saw him.  Gaunt faced, lean, swarthy, frozen with anxiety and fear, dressed in a tattered shirt and pajama with a few rags rolled under his arm pits and head buried in his chest, he sat on his haunches on the floor of my sister’s mother-in-law’s bedroom. 

“What work can you do?” my sister’s mother-in-law asked him.

“Everything, Mataji” he mumbled softly.

“Don’t you have a tongue,” the old lay screamed?”

“Everything,” my sister’s mother-in-law said cynically, “do not lie to me, this little baby who has not even left his mother breast can do everything. How old is he?”

“Mataji he looks small but he is ten years old. He can dust, broom, sweep and mop, polish shoes and fold clothes. He would do any other errand you will ask him to do,” his father came to his rescue as Chotu choked with fear after the old lady’s growl.

“Has he ever been to a school?” my sister’s mother-in-law asked his father.

“Mataji, I sent him to a school, but he did not have any place to complete his homework. We do not have light in the jhoper patti.  I and his mother don’t know how to read and write and couldn’t help him. One day he went to the dhaba (roadside eatery) to read and the owner threw him out saying that his dhaba was not his father’s or municipality’s property.  I had to pull him out when his teacher spanked him for destroying the books given by the school.   Actually the books were drenched when rain broke the roof of my jhoper (hut). He was learning little and was being insulted and spanked by the teacher while other children of the jhoper patti were flying kites with their own money. He lost interest. Mataji, studying is not in our destiny,” his father said.

I was cynical about father’s story.  All his boys were in servitude.

“This is what happens when crow tries to walk like a swan,” my sister’s mother-in-law remarked.

No one asked his name.

I wondered if going to school really mattered to him. Like many other children of poverty he was starting his career as a chotu and would grow up to become an adult still working as a chotu and finally would bequeath his chotudum to his children. Formal education was not necessary for this career.

Chotu was born in a hut in a shanty near Raj Nagar, Ghaziabad. He was the fifth child of his parents. His two older brothers died during an epidemic of cholera. Shanti, his mother, worked as a day laborer on the same construction site where his father worked, carrying bricks on her head when she was pregnant with him.  They had migrated from Bihar a few years ago. His father talked nostalgically but bitterly about his village, nostalgic about his parents and relatives but bitterly about how the police, goondas and councilors treated them.  He often said that they will go back when he will have enough savings and conditions will be better in their village. 

There was no celebration when Chotu was born. His father was at work. His mother asked Bhullan, his older brother, to call the dai , an old lady from the jhoper patti who helped women in childbirth. Shanti started working a few days after he was born, taking him to sleep in a makeshift hammock at the construction site, while she carried the bricks on her head. His days were spent in the hammock under the sun, and nights on the floor mat in the hut.

“Where has this fucker brought me,” he often heard his mother curse his father, while she cooked food in the jhoper. They had arguments, even shoving and pushing when he came home walking wobbly and started cursing and hitting the children.  The children would huddle together crying while the parents withdrew behind the dhoti, a makeshift cloth wall in the one-roomed hut.

Chotu’s work began immediately after the initial interview when my sister’s mother-in-law ordered him to make a cup of tea.  A cup of tea was an elixir of life for her and no servant was good enough for her until he could offer her that as soon as she opened her mouth which she did quite often when it came to servants. Servants should be chastised periodically lest they get spoiled, was her motto.

He rose quickly and accompanied my sister to the kitchen. But my sister made him wash his hands and explained to him how to make tea. While he handed tea to the old woman my sister went to get him a “new” set of clothes, a discarded shirt and short of her son. As he was changing, my sister’s mother-in-law demanded more milk, “donkey does not even know how to make tea,” at which he darted back to the kitchen with his half worn short slipping down. But my sister, a kinder woman, handed the milk pot to her mother-in-law while he pulled his pants up. Having quick reflexes augured well for his career.

He was a quick study and soon settled in the house carrying out everyone’s commands from sister’s ten year old son to her seventy-year-old mother-in-law. My sister was generous to him with food and clothes, both new and left over both of which he relished. He gained some weight and his cheeks filled up.  In the evening when everyone watched TV, he sat on his haunches on the living room floor and watched too, intermittently getting up to fulfill others commands. He even learned diplomacy to request my sisters’ children to let him watch till the ads came before he carried out their commands. Occasionally my brother in law would yell, “Abe! Do we pay you to watch TV the whole day? Do some work, son of a pig.”

“Let the kid watch a little TV, there is no work at present,” My sister would admonish her husband. 

I wondered if yelling, cursing or even some spanking fazed him for he would just hide his face, run and do what he was asked to do- no protests, no expression of resentment or hurt. Rarely did I see a tear in his eyes. Sometimes he would hum a Bollywood song soon after he had been yelled at and after doing what he was asked to do or not to do he would again sit glued to the TV if a Hindi movie was on, especially if Amitabh Bacchan was the hero. Thickening the skin is an essential skill of chotu trade. He slept well and often my sister had to call his name many times to wake him up.

Or for him it was the best of all worlds, a roof that did not leak, a floor that was not water-logged, and a durrie (cheap Indian rug) to sleep on and a blanket to cover, a TV to watch, and even left over puries and sweetmeats. He was better off than Bhullan, his brother who worked at the grocery store from 6 AM until 10 PM, grinding spices and carrying loads for customers and the Lala (trader) without any TV or radio, and often berated and even beaten by the Lala and some customers. And then went back at night to sleep in the hut to be cursed at and hit by his alcoholic father. But Bhullan had the satisfaction of living with his mother and his sister and play with Moti. Bhullan and Moti played with dhibris (discarded bottle caps, making a hole in the ground and aiming to throw the cap in the hole. Sometimes they mimicked curse words they heard from adults say and laughed. Moti even smoked left over cigarette stubs and puffed smoke through his nose like the Lala.

Chotu wondered why his older sister did not work at someone’s house. She sometimes accompanied her mother to work but never alone. Bhullan had told him that girls who are sent to work as live-ins sometimes became bad girls. He did not understand what he meant by becoming bad but sensed that it was something really bad and never asked about it again.

Chotu lived his life vicariously, watching other kids in the house wistfully as they went to the school, played, celebrated birthdays and festivals, sister tying Rakhi and the brother giving her money. He stood close by with a gaping mouth ready to carry out any errand, sometimes being admonished, saale kya dekh raha hai, jaa kaam kar. He saw the father give hugs and kisses to his children and the mother dressing them and combing their hair.  He would carry the heavy book bag of my sister’s son to the car. Sometimes he would even peep into the book bag at which my sister’s son would remark, “saale what are you looking at. You wouldn’t understand a thing, first learn to read.” He was excited on birthdays as if they were his own. He would find some excuse to hang around and wait to get a crumb of cake. He hated it if he had to stay in kitchen helping (mais) maid servants during the birthdays; but sometimes he didn’t have a choice.

I can’t guess what he felt, thought, wished or dreamed.   Did he wish he had a birthday party too, did he wish to be with his family for his Munia to tie Rakhi to him? Perhaps he dreamt to be like Munna baby, to be readied for school by his mama, wearing the navy blue school jersey and white pants and donning a blue tie, served breakfast and then dropped in the car to the school. Or to be a superman like Amitabh Bacchan?  Or perhaps he didn’t because chotus from jhoper can’t dream; dreams are for those who can achieve them, not for those who cannot. Didn’t mataji say that a crow will suffer if he walked like a swan?

Luckily no one was cruel or mean to him. He was well fed, well dressed and not overworked. Over the years became self conscious about how he looked. When alone or with other servants he mimicked “happy birthday to you” and laughed. Sometimes he would swing his arms like Sunil Gavaskar hitting a sixer. At others he repeated Bollywood movies’ dialogues. Once in a while he would imitate the swagger of villain or  hero. 

TV has opened a whole range of possibilities for everyone, a panoramic vista as long as they can access the screen. One can choose his/her goals and role models. One can visit the fantasy land and weave his dreams – or choose and pick dreams already woven. One can even ride on the rich men poor men romances, the staple of Bollywood for many years.  Putting wings to the soaring desire and aspiration is another matter. Bollywood, nor the soap operas, provide wings to the soaring desires. The latter have almost excluded the poor from their storylines or show them as imbecile comic characters. Rarely one sees stories in which short of villainy, wizardry and providential help an actor achieves vertical movement instead of the traditional ways of education and legitimate enterprise.

In phagun (beginning of spring) he went home. His father came to pick him up. He was very excited because he had many things to brag about to them. He saved a few rupees to buy bindis and bangles for his mother. His father told him that he was taking him to Madipur instead of instead of Raj Nagar. Their hut had been bulldozed by the municipality and they had been forcibly moved to Madipur on the outskirts of Delhi. He felt sad because he liked Raj Nagar. Raj Nagar was abuzz with activity, children playing cricket, old people laughing together in the parks, marriage bands blasting music, TV shops where one could catch a glimpse of Shah Rukh Khan or Madhuri Dixit or of a cricket match. And the bustle of the vegetable market! With vegetables and fruits of so many colors spread on the floor and hucksters calling the buyers, one kilo fresh apples for 100 rupees; a dozen bananas for fifty rupees. Once in a while when Bhullan worked at a vegetable stall he gave a banana for free to him.

Madipur was not an unplanned jopper patti but one-room brick tenements allotted by the Municipality to everyone. No more dripping roof, no more soggy mud floor. But it was a lonely place, far away from the houses of the sahibs and the noises and lights of the city. His father had to take a bus to work. Bhullan lost his job with the lala. The municipality opened a school in the basti where Bhullan went one day but he was ashamed not to be able to read while children much younger than him could read and even write. He would need a miracle to be able to read and write. He couldn’t catch up, and lost interest. He could do many other things, such as open a tea stall or sell fruits in the sabzi market or drive a scooter. What he needed was money, not education.

It was dark by the time they reached Madipur. Bhullan appeared very skinny and gaunt. His mother was pregnant again. She looked so frail and tired as compared to the women in the other house. Munni’s nose was dripping as usual and her hair unkempt and matted.

Soon after he settled his father asked, “How much money you have brought home." Chotu gave all his savings to him. “Behnji has given a few clothes for mother too,” He said. 

“Only forty rupees! Abe saale, what happened to the rest." His father went out angrily to buy his tharra, (home-brewed liquor) and came back drunk as usual calling everyone, especially chotu, names. Trembling with fear Chotu withdrew, his knees and elbows folded  like a fetus with head buried on his knees,  in a corner of the brick room that they called home, pleading with his father not to beat him.

"I could not save more money, baba."

"Son of a pig, why did you squander the money? Are you son of a Seth that you bought a kite, bangles and ate chaat," he growled when Chotu gave him the account.

“Baba, all children were flying kites on the Independence Day,” he said timidly.

His father lashed out at him with punches and buffets.

“Saale you think you have become independent. They, the rich, have become independent, not we, the poor" he said.

When his mother intervened to protect Chotu, "our baby has come after a long time. Don't beat him," his father pushed her aside with a long swipe of his outstretched hand and threatened to hit her too. “Born of adultery, you spoil these brats," he cursed her.

Cringing with fear Bhullan lay on the floor with his head covered in the sheet. Munni started crying. Chotu sobbing and with tears rolling down his eyes, pulled down the lobules of both his ears and folded his hands seeking forgiveness. He wished he had not come ..... “Baba, I will be careful next time."

He returned to my sister’s house on Monday.

“Chotu take a bath scrubbing yourself well and change your clothes before you start working.” My sister-in-law wanted him to get rid of all the dirt and filth he might have accumulated in his jhoper. No one asked him how was his house, how his parents, brothers, sister were and what he did at home, or how he got the bruise on his face.  Many orders were ready for him.  He quickly fell into the old routine, getting up; getting ready for breakfast by setting the table, bringing the dishes, announcing to children in the house that breakfast was ready and then stand next to the table to take orders.

One day my sister noticed that he was too quiet. “Chotu, you are too quiet. Is something wrong?”My sister asked him, sensing that he was not his usual peppy self.” “Behnji, there is nothing,” he replied. “Go to sleep if you are not feeling well,”

“Why you are spoiling the brat,” my brother-in-law yelled immediately. “He is malingering, sala kaam chor ho gaya hai.”

 My sister felt his skin. He had fever. She gave him crocin and asked him to go upstairs. But before he went up he quickly removed the dishes from the table and cleaned it. 

Two years passed by. I Immigrated to the United States and returned to India four years later for a vacation. My wife brought my children’s discarded clothes for him and my daughter, thinking that he was still a young child, brought a few illustrated alphabet books and Crayola pencils and markers for him, but he had metamorphosed into a teenager with a silky moustache and a broken voice. He did not show much interest in an old discarded pair of my son’s Levy jeans which did not fit him well.  His hair was neatly parted and he donned a well-benefitting pair of pants and shirt. But he was still called Chotu. 

Even after four years he knew what we liked and disliked. “Sahib, should I shine your shoes? Sahib, should I bring a Hindi movie for you from the video store? Katrina Kaif is the heroine. Sahib, will you take tea?”He hung around us ever willing to please us. He was curious about America which he had seen on the TV in My Name is Khan, a Bollywood movie. “Sahib, is it true that every house in America has a garden like Mughal Garden?”

On day I asked him, “What is your name?”

“Ashok Kumar, Sahib.”  He replied coyly. He was surprised that anyone asked his name. “Do you know who Ashok Kumar was?” “He was a famous movie star of our times,” I told him.  He blushed. Since then I started calling him Ashok.

My teenage daughter, who was very vocal about child labor and his illiteracy, used his services the most.

“Chotu, did you keep shampoo in the bathroom? Did you iron my clothes?” she ordered him around.

She distributed pencils and alphabet books that she had brought for Chotu to younger Chotus of the neighborhood. My sister told me that many did not even look at them after she left, but kept them as trophies. Could they have looked at them without the ire of the employers like my brother in law? Could the Chotus get time and coaching that every middle class child gets from his or her parents since birth? Such isolated gestures of altruism (truly attempts to placate the conflicted, guilty and hurt egos of middleclass children who are exposed to liberal western reports) cannot make any difference unless a whole infrastructure is put in place to educate domestics with protected and mandated time in a day with formal schooling funded partly by the employers and partly by the state. Books alone are not enough. One needs teachers, and place and time to learn and practice. Outlawing child labor without supports will not achieve much, just as emancipation of slaves did little for them at least for one century.  Mandating employers to pay for this education may result in fewer jobs for domestics. The nouveau riche of Delhi are not willing to dismantle the system of Chotudom as yet - availability of cheap labor is the key of their luxury. 

Children of the rich in India do not think about these issues like the children of masters on the plantations. The servants are just different people, they do what any employee does, work for a wage. Age does not matter.  In fact some have a feeling of moral rectitude for protecting a poor child from the vagaries of slums, giving him a roof, clothes and good food. “Uncle, Isn’t he better off here than in his hut with no electricity and clean water,” my sister’s son would argue?”

My sister’s mother in law was very upset at all the attention that Chotu was getting. One day Chotu spilled a glass of milk that he was taking for her. She lashed out him with her can. “gadhe ka baccha. Sahib ban gaya hai.” My wife came to Chotu’ rescue, but my sister’s mother-in-law cautioned her, “Bahu! Never spoil the servant. Don’t bring your American values to India. One cannot trust a servant in Delhi.”

Chotu’s recollections occupied my mind for one day. After I regained my composure, I called my sister again to ask her what had happened.

She was surprised at my curiosity about the dead Chotu, because she was already in the process of hiring a new one.  “He was overrun by a DTC bus when he was crossing the street after buying pastry for breakfast.  You know that no one honors traffic lights in Delhi. We have given 5000 rupees to his father.”

 “Was the bus driver arrested? Are you suing the driver and DTC,” I asked.

“No, there is no need. It was the will of God, so be it” He, too, was always in a hurry, crisscrossing among moving cars never waiting for the traffic signal. The bus driver was arrested but released on bail. Vishal, Meenu auntie’ son, is engaged and marriage has been fixed for May 5^th.”  My sister changed the subject abruptly as if irritated by so much ado about Chotu.

“Didi, did you go to his funeral,” I persisted

“Talk of something else. How are your children?” she evaded the question again.

He lived in their house for over seven years. He had served them food, had cleaned their dishes, ironed their clothes, escorted their children to school, for seven years, but like a car that is totaled in an accident is forgotten and replaced he was forgotten and replaced.

Any Colored Child Can be Trayvon Martin

In the wake of Zimmerman verdict I have been musing on the issue of race and ethnicity and how does it affect me and other browns. Biologically all humans are Homo Sapiens and hence essentially similar at the core. However, people do not interact based upon science or ethics but according to perceptions and heuristics. Perceptions, in turn, are affected by historical, social and cultural experiences among people of different races and ethnicities. United States has a very traumatic history of persecution of Blacks through slavery and discrimination through Jim Crow and discrimination and persecution of new immigrants through xenophobia.  Whites in this country looked down upon colored people, black, brown and yellow as inferior. Although things have improved after civil rights legislation and outstanding progress made by the African American community, tensions and suspicions remain on both sides; a few Whites still lament the loss of their hegemony and continue to harbor stereotypes that associate blackness with crime and depraved lifestyle and a few Blacks harbor a persistent feeling of persecution that makes them more sensitive to even 'usual' altercations of life. The white racists look down upon browns and yellows too, but Blacks bear the brunt of Zimmerman type attacks because they are the most visible minority and crime statistics, whatever may be the reasons, are stacked against them. However “rolling up of car windows and accelerating pace when a colored person, particularly a bearded or turbaned person”, although more common with blacks, is not unique to them. Being surrounded or followed by an unfamiliar person in an unknown or unfamiliar environment at an unfamiliar time may evoke a similar response from anyone irrespective of race and ethnicity and the racial question in America has become multicolored: there have been racist incidents between blacks and yellows (1992 LA riots between Blacks and Koreans) and Hispanic and blacks and browns (1987 Jersey City Dot buster hate crimes against Asian Indians). Each group has its own stereotype of who is more aggressive and a threat. Some of these stereotypes are based upon personal experiences, some on the basis of crime statistics, some on the basis of media reports and some on group tales that pass from person to person often getting a mythical character to them. The outcome is overgeneralization.

In the face of such ubiquitous prejudice and stereotyping, vigilantism of people like Zimmerman becomes dangerous for all people of color. Even if Zimmerman had felt threatened, he should not have gotten out of his car, especially when he was advised by the police. He violated the civil rights of a young American of free movement and provoked the youngster to have an altercation. While there may be reasonable doubt about the altercation there is no doubt that the young man was denied his right to move freely on public property. To prevent such loss of young lives, we need a multipronged approach with sociological, legislative and judicial action involving all races and ethnicities.

We should study honestly and openly, these perceptions, stereotypes and their origin and heuristics that operationalize them into serious and fatal outcomes as in Trayvon Martin case. First and foremost we should become familiar ad knowledgeable about one another. Asian Indian community has to begin getting involved because one day an Asian Indian child could be victim of vigilantism.