extra vigour to make up for his silence.
“What is it, what’s bothering you?”
“I was just thinking that… thinking how nothing changes. Years pass, and nothing changes.”
Dukhi sighed again but not with pleasure. “How can you say that? So much has changed. Your life, my life. Your occupation, from leather to cloth. And look at your house, your — ”
“Those things, yes. But what about the more important things? Government passes new laws, says no more untouchability, yet everything is the same. The upper-caste bastards still treat us worse than animals.”
“Those kinds of things take time to change.”
“More than twenty years have passed since independence. How much longer? I want to be able to drink from the village well, worship in the temple, walk where I like.”
Dukhi withdrew his foot from Narayan’s lap and sat up. He was remembering his own defiance of the caste system, when he had sent his little sons to Ashraf. He felt pride at Narayan’s words, but also fear. “Son, those are dangerous things to want. You changed from Chamaar to tailor. Be satisfied with that.”
Narayan shook his head. “That was your victory.”
He resumed massaging his father’s feet while the dusk deepened around them. Inside, Radha was lost in happy preparations for her son’s arrival the next day. By and by, she brought a lamp to the porch. Within seconds it attracted a cluster of midges. Then a brown moth arrived to keep its assignation with the light. Dukhi watched it try to beat its fragile wings through the lamp glass.
That week, parliamentary elections were being conducted, and the district was under siege by politicians, sloganeers, and sycophants. As usual, the assortment of political parties and their campaigning antics assured lively entertainment for the village.
Some people complained that it was difficult to enjoy it all properly, with the air hot enough to sear the lungs — the government should have waited for the rains to come first. Narayan and Dukhi attended the rallies with their friends, taking Omprakash along to see the fun. Roopa and Radha resented the time stolen from the boy’s brief visit.
The speeches were crammed with promises of every shape and size: promises of new schools, clean water, and health care; promises of land for landless peasants, through redistribution and stricter enforcement of the Land Ceiling Act; promises of powerful laws to punish any discrimination against, and harassment of, backward castes by upper castes; promises to abolish bonded labour, child labour, sati, dowry system, child marriage.
“There must be a lot of duplication in our country’s laws,” said Dukhi. “Every time there are elections, they talk of passing the same ones passed twenty years ago. Someone should remind them they need to apply the laws.”
“For politicians, passing laws is like passing water,” said Narayan. “It all ends down the drain.”
On election day the eligible voters in the village lined up outside the polling station. As usual, Thakur Dharamsi took charge of the voting process. His system, with the support of the other landlords, had been working flawlessly for years.
The election officer was presented with gifts and led away to enjoy the day with food and drink. The doors opened and the voters filed through. “Put out your fingers,” said the attendant monitoring the queue.
The voters complied. The clerk at the desk uncapped a little bottle and marked each extended finger with indelible black ink, to prevent cheating.
“Now put your thumbprints over here,” said the clerk.
They placed their thumbprints on the register to say they had voted, and departed.
Then the blank ballots were filled in by the landlords’ men. The election officer returned at closing time to supervise the removal of ballot boxes to the counting station, and to testify that voting had proceeded in a fair and democratic manner.
Sometimes, there was more excitement if rival landlords in the district were unable to sort out their differences and ended up supporting opposing candidates. Then their gangs battled it out. Naturally, whoever captured the most polling booths and stuffed the most ballot boxes got their candidate elected.
This year, however, there were no fights or gun battles. All in all, it was a dreary day, and Omprakash was depressed as he returned home with his father and grandfather. Tomorrow he had to go back to Muzaffar Tailoring Company. The week had passed much too quickly.
They sat on the charpoy outside the house to enjoy the evening air while Omprakash fetched water for them. The trees were loud with frantic birdsong. “Next time there is an election, I want to mark my own ballot,” said Narayan.
“They won’t let you,” said Dukhi. “And why bother? You think it will change anything? Your gesture will be a bucket falling in a well deeper than centuries. The splash won’t be seen or heard.”
“It is still my right. And I will exercise it in the next election, I promise you.”
“Lately you are brooding too much about rights. Give up this dangerous habit.” Dukhi paused, brushing away a column of red ants marching towards the foot of the charpoy. The creatures scurried in all directions. “Suppose you do make the mark yourself. You think they cannot open the box and destroy the votes they don’t like?”
“They cannot. The election officer must account for every piece of paper.”
“Give up this idea. It is wasting your time — and your time is your life.”
“Life without dignity is worthless.”
The red ants had regrouped, though it was too dark for Dukhi to see. Radha brought the lamp out to the dusk-devoured porch, instantly populating it with shadows. The fragrance of wood smoke clung to her clothes. She lingered for a moment in the silence, searching her husband’s face.
“Government has no sense,” the people complained about the state assembly elections. “No sense at all. It’s the wrong month — with the earth parched and the air on fire, who has time to think about voting? Two years ago they made the same mistake.”
Narayan had not forgotten his promise to his father two years ago. He went off alone to vote that morning. The turnout was poor. A ragged queue meandered by the door of the schoolhouse set up as the polling station. Inside, the smell of chalk dust and stale food made him remember the day when he was a small boy, when he and Ishvar had been beaten by the teacher for touching the slates and books of upper-caste children.
He swallowed his fear and asked for his ballot. “No, that’s okay,” explained the men at the table. “Just make your thumbprint here, we will do the rest.”
“Thumbprint? I will sign my full name. After you give me my ballot.”
Two men in line behind Narayan were inspired by him. “Yes, give us our ballots,” they said. “We also want to make our mark.”
“We cannot do that, we don’t have instructions.”
“You don’t need instructions. It is our right as voters.”
The attendants whispered among themselves, then said, “Okay, please wait.” One of them left the polling station.
He returned shortly with a dozen men. Thakur Dharamsi, who, sixteen years ago, had ordered the musicians not to play at Narayan’s wedding, was with them. “What is it, what’s the trouble?” he asked loudly from outside.
They pointed at Narayan through the door.
“So,” muttered Thakur Dharamsi. “I should have known. And who are the other two?”
His assistant did not know their names.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Thakur Dharamsi. His men entered with him, and it became very crowded inside. He wiped his brow and held out the wet hand under Narayan’s nose. “On such a hot day you make me leave my house to sweat. Are you trying to humiliate me? Don’t you have some clothes to sew? Or a cow to poison and skin?”
“We’ll go as soon as we mark our ballots,” said Narayan. “It is our right.”
Thakur Dharamsi laughed, and his men joined in approvingly. They stopped when he stopped. “Enough jokes. Make your thumbprint and go.”
“After we vote.”
This time he did not laugh, but raised his hand as though in farewell and left the booth. The men seized Narayan and the other two. They forced their thumbs to the ink pad and completed the registration. Thakur
