The Eighteenth Parallel

The Eighteenth Parallel

ASHOKAMITRAN

Translated from the Tamil by
Gomathi Narayanan

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© Orient Blackswan Private Limited 1993
Tamil edition first published by Kalaignan Pathippakam 1977,
reprinted by Sundara Nilayam 1986.

eISBN 978 81 250 5187 9

e-edition:First Published 2013

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To my sons
Ravi, Muthu and Ramakrishnan
for always placing my pursuit
before their interests

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

1

'We have net practice today, dost,' said Nasir Ali Khan. 'Zaroor ajana.' Nasir Ali Khan, the captain designate of the college cricket eleven had even made it to the Moinuddaula Cup team which bristled with senior players and, going in to bat as the tenth man, had pulled off a thirtythree not out in barely ten minutes. Out of the four hundred students in Chandru's college, just about forty had ventured into cricket. And none had any doubt that Nasir would be captain, not just that year but as long as one could foresee. And here was Nasir, the boy who wore a silk shirt and flannel trousers even at practice, mind you, here he was, inviting Chandru to the net! Considering that the chances of a Khan getting to hear about a Chandrasekharan were rather thin. As soon as Nasir left, Chandru shot to the bicycle stand and squeezed the tyres to check them. Good, they were both full.

As it happened, both the hours that afternoon went to chemistry practicals, luckily. One good thing about practicals was that students were not required to stay on until the session ended. Your experiment done, you were well rid of the teacher, and free to leave. Chandru took the solution he'd been given in a test tube and made a few visits to the hydrogen sulphide chamber to let the gas bubble through the solution, a preliminary test to determine the salt group.

The solution turned dark every time. A confirmatory test would now be required to ascertain the exact metallic constituent. In an earlier class he'd been given barium. Guessing what it was this time shouldn't prove too difficult as there were twenty pairs of students doing their practicals that afternoon, and at least half a dozen were sure to get it right. Once
they
had the answer, the rest of the class would have an easy time of it.

At half-past three, Chandru had already gathered up his books and was headed in the direction of the bicycle stand, only to be stopped by the old man who was in charge there. 'No, you can't take it out now,' he said.

'Look, there's cricket practice today,' said Chandru, 'I need to rush home and rush back.'

'Well you can't have your bicycle. Come back at four for it.'

Chandru glared at the old man, no more than five feet in shabby pyjamas and shirt. The shirt hung loosely down to his knees. Grey moustache, grey beard. At least four teeth were missing. His cheeks had withered and collapsed with this and the bidis he constantly smoked. His eyes were two dull glass marbles. It wasn't as if he was not in the habit of salaaming everyone. Not at all. He would wipe your bicycle clean. Oil your bicycle. Fill air in your tyres. Look after your books. Fetch a betel-leaf bida or cigarettes for you. Push your car if you had trouble starting. All you needed to make him grovel at your feet was a fair skin. It certainly helped if you wore tweed, spoke Urdu and answered to names which had a noble ring—Khan, Ali or Ahmad.

Chandru gave the old man two annas which was what he had at the time. The man now moved aside to let him in and stood looking away while the bicycle was wheeled out, as if it had nothing to do with him.

A five minutes' ride and Chandru was at the Husain Sagar lake. And now the Tank Bund—a whole mile of embankment road stretched straight ahead. A sharp wind blew on the bund adjoining the lake, though the lake itself appeared deceptively calm.

Riding against the wind, eyes bloodshot and streaming, Chandru still found the Tank Bund exhilarating. It was a dam-like granite structure topped with concrete, smooth and straight with cast iron railings, and it ran for a mile along one side of the lake. There were three balcony-like structures jutting out onto the lake. How pleasant it would be to sit there in the evenings! But then that would mean cycling three miles from home. He couldn't afford the bus, not till he grew up and earned his living, all rather too far in the future. But why not spend five minutes here today? On his way back from cricket maybe?

'Back from college already?' asked his mother. Chandru didn't speak. He just went on to open his box and took out a pair of white trousers.

'Oh it's cricket I see.'

Again Chandru did not reply.

'But you said some boys attacked you on the playground the other day,' Mother persisted.

'But today's practice is in our college.'

'Don't tell me you're going back to college now.'

'Yes I am.'

'In that case bring the buffalo back home before you go. The boy's forgotten to tie it up.'

That galvanised Chandru. He bolted through the back door, and was sprinting in no time at all across a large open field towards a group of buildings—a church and a row of four large bungalows. Last week the boy they had engaged to put their water-buffalo to graze had done the same thing. He had left the animal unsecured. And the crooked-horned creature had strayed into the church gardens. The gardener had caught it, thrashed it soundly and then taken it to a pound three miles away. Two days and two sleepless nights of frantic search followed. And a fine of three rupees. All through this the gardener never breathed a word about his part in the affair. When questioned later he had said, 'Next time I'll hack it to bits.'

So the first thing Chandru did now was to look round the church premises. Crooked Horns wasn't there. Lucky. But was it really? What if the wretched creature had wandered off to somewhere worse than the church?

Back home again.

'Amma, you always seem to wait till I'm in a breathless hurry,' said Chandru, 'and then you send me on some awkward errand.' His mother dropped the dosai turner into a trough of water. That was supposed to bring lost cattle home. Chandru went out on his bicycle.

He pedalled slowly round the bungalows, scanning the gardens from the outside. Then he spotted the animal. It had come to a dreadful place indeed, a place strictly out of bounds, for the name plate outside proclaimed—'Mohd Kasim. Hyderabad Police'. In the garden the buffalo was enjoying an easeful repast of some of this gentleman's well-tended potted crotons.

Chandru leaned his bicycle against the wall, and went in through the open gate, walking on his toes. He tried to pull the buffalo by the horns but the animal impudently ignored him. Then he picked up a stone and flung it at the animal from behind. The buffalo now took off at a gallop, knocking down the flower pots and streaking through the gate in a flash. Another moment and Chandru would have made it too, but as luck would have it he found himself in the grip of a policeman who was supposed to have guarded the place all the time but had failed to do so.

Chandru pleaded for mercy. 'Please sir, be kind enough to forgive me sir,' he said. The constable surveyed the trail of havoc left by the buffalo and grabbed Chandru's shirt. Chandru abjectly repeated his entreaties. Just then a woman, very fat, very short and very fair, appeared on the scene and let out a torrent of choice Urdu abuse at the constable. Then she began to wander round the garden muttering. 'The ass, the swine, the ass, the swine... .' The policeman followed her meekly. Chandru stood there not quite sure what he should do, but as soon as the two disappeared behind the building, he shot out through the gate. He found the buffalo on a slow march homeward and accompanied it on his bicycle. Now on her best behaviour, Crooked Horns went straight to her shed and stood there patiently waiting to be tied to the stake. Chandru fastened the free end of the rope round her neck. Then he picked up a stout wedge of firewood.

'Oh no, don't! Don't!' cried his mother. 'She's just a poor dumb creature, Chandru, please don't beat her,' till Chandru finally threw the stick down and swore at the buffalo. 'You wretched animal, you Sani!' Then he ran into the house and started to put on his white shirt and trousers.

'You'd better have something to eat before you go,' said Mother. 'You have such a long way to ride and for the second time today.'

'To hell with eating! I don't want anything.' Chandru pulled on his cricket shoe.

'Some tea then?'

'Well why don't you bring it?' Chandra shouted. 'Do you expect me to linger around at home forever?'

It was at this point that Chandru's sisters and his little brother Pitchumani returned from school. Pitchumani leapt on to Chandru's other shoe and began to try it on. Chandru dealt him a sharp slap which set him screaming.

'Now, Chandru,' his mother protested, 'what are you raising the roof for? What's the matter with you?'

'Sani! That's what. Curse my wretched Sani-smitten bad luck.' Then he darted to his bicycle, his second shoe unlaced, and was out in no time at all.

'That's right,' Mother was saying, 'you're well and truly in Sani's bane.' She was merely quoting the astrologer. It appeared that the malevolent Sani was on the ascent in Chandra's horoscope and would continue his calamitous reign for seven and a half years, of which only four months had passed. For that matter, the astrologers themselves were very much in the ascendancy in Chandru's house in recent times. Nothing unusual in a family with daughters to marry.

There wasn't much of a wind against him on the Tank Bund this time. The Husain Sagar lake seemed to defy the laws of nature. The wind always blew against you, at least some of it, no matter which direction you took. This light breeze would make for a really pleasant bus ride. But buses from Secunderabad plied only once every half hour. And only from the railway station which was more than a mile from home. Anyhow there was no point going by bus if he wanted to be on time for cricket practice which was from four-thirty to six. One had to think of the expense as well—six annas. If only they could get a house closer to college. But Father's quarters were meant to be close to his work place, the railway administrative offices. The place Chandru's family were occupying had been their home for years now. They had filled it up with a sizeable collection of lumber, the kind you invariably accumulated if you stayed in the same house for long.

The last lap of his ride. Just a furlong to go. Of the five miles between home and college, it was this mile-long stretch of the Bund, free of buildings and shops, with the lake on one side and a drop of more than twenty feet on the other, that had always fascinated him. Every inch of it.

Chandru didn't really expect to play well at practice today. How could he after this hectic ten mile ride in a single hour with the added frenzy of a buffalo chase thrown in? Worse, he had had no tea or tiffin. He had hopes of getting into Team B even if denied a place on Team A, but it all depended on his putting in some regular practice this week. To think that he who had been a captain of sorts was now to play under someone else. Who was the Team B captain? Whoever it was, wasn't it futile to expect him to make allowances? Chandru was not one of those who was in fine form from the start. He needed a couple of overs in which to warm up before he. could bowl well. To make matters worse, the captain would speak in Urdu and only Urdu. Chandru could just about manage the language, he could never hope to communicate anything smartly in it. Things would be different though with Nasir Ali Khan. He would understand. He must have heard about Chandru surely, or he wouldn't have bothered to invite him personally. Why should the boy choose today of all days to let the buffalo stray? And send him to play cricket on an empty stomach. Blame it all on Sani, the seven-and-a-half-year Sani. He was troubled with a vague sense of doom and wondered if his cricketing days, days of games and play, would last much longer.

He left the Tank Bund behind, turned into a street and cycled past the Rose Biscuit Factory. About fifty people had assembled on the open grounds of the factory. Tall-short, thin-fat, old-young, they were a most mixed crowd in their pyjamas and shirts, trousers, sherwani jackets, whatever. But each of them had a bamboo stick aslant their shoulders, like a rifle at slope arms. An official from the Hyderabad Police or the army was also there instructing them.

It was with an uneasy feeling that Chandru remembered that this was exactly what was happening on the grounds near his house where his cricket group had been playing for years. Recently the field had been taken over by similar men on a similar mission. And Hyderabad and Secunderabad had also suddenly filled up with unfamiliar faces. Small tin and bamboo shanties overflowing with people had suddenly sprung up on both sides of Station Road in Secunderabad. His father and uncle said that hundreds more like them waited on the platforms of Kazipet railway station. It appeared that they were converging to Hyderabad from places around the state. Some had come from Nagpur and nearby places. They were poor. Muslims, but poor. Once you left the Tank Bund and entered Hyderabad city you found the streets swarming with these outsiders. One look at them and you knew they were not from Hyderabad. In a grim situation like this, cricket and the rest would soon be an anomaly. Yet the fact remained that he had been invited by Nasir Ali Khan. Did Nasir go to arms-train? Did even rich people's sons, sons of the high like Nasir, put on baggy pyjamas and go marching with a bamboo stick for a gun?

Not that Chandru was averse to marching himself. In fact he had wanted to join the Auxiliary Corps when he entered college last year, but was rejected after being found underweight by four pounds. This year the corps was open to anyone who was interested. But then this year, ever since the college had reopened after the summer holidays, the air had been fraught with conflict because, while the whole of India was looking forward to August 1947 and Independence, Hyderabad sought something else. It did not want to join the Indian Union. Some other princely states were preparing to declare their independence too. Travancore and Junagadh were not going to accede to India. Neither was Kashmir. There had been riots in Travancore and Sir CP had been stabbed in the face. Sir CP who? Sir CP, Dewan and Chief Advisor to the Maharaja of Travancore. The other Hyderabad, the one in Sind, had gone to Pakistan. But this one, the Deccan Hyderabad, aspired to be an independent sovereign state. Then there had been the Hindu-Muslim riots countrywide. Five hundred butchered in Bengal, five thousand in Bihar and fifty thousand in Punjab. And then it was midnight, August 14. Chandru and the whole family crowded round their decrepit radio. The Union Jack was being lowered and the Indian tricolour hoisted, all to the accompaniment of atmospherics—salutations to the motherland! Long live India! Vande Mataram! Jai Hind!
krkrkrkrkrkrkr...
Now switch it off. Can't hear a thing. Better be careful, son. August is when Sani starts his seven and a half year's reign. These are bad times, going from bad to worse. This is no time for your cricket and all that. You have to be careful...