NETAJI IS COMING – A SHORT STORY

                                   

Surilee’s eyes opened with a start. Looking out of the French window she could see the moon, bright, pearl-like. The sky was dark, silent. She searched her mobile from under the pillow. It was 4:30 am. She turned to check on Pratap. He was sleeping like a baby, quiet and contended. He must be very tired, thought she. After all, Pratap had driven almost 11 hours to reach this ancient city. He must be exhausted.

Surilee slowly got out of bed, trying to minimise the disturbance caused to her sleeping partner. The hotel room was still unfamiliar. As she moved about the room, her foot hit the chair. The resultant thud creating just the noise she was trying to avoid. She turned to look at Pratap. He continued sleeping.

The silence of the yet dark room complimented the sky and the part of the city she could look at from the window. Draping a shawl around her, she pushed her nose to the windowpane. Perhaps someone would be visible. As she peered, all she could see were the hotel guards. They were keeping themselves warm with a fire, the dying embers of which sparkled like stars in the sky.

Surilee stood thus for a good half an hour, sometimes looking at the guards, sometimes at the buildings on the opposite side of the road. As the sky brightened and dawn emerged, one building caught her attention. It looked out of place. Tall pillars supported a porch. The house itself looked very colonial, painted pristine white. It reminded her of a house from the southern US during the civil war she had seen in a classic movie. The car parked on the porch, a Mercedes, matched the house. But not the city, she mused.

She had been avoiding heating the kettle for want for disturbing Pratap, but now the desire for a strong cup of coffee overtook her. Pouring water in the kettle, she turned to see its reaction on the sleeping Pratap. He moved a little. ‘Well never mind’, thought she. ‘Pratap has to wake up soon. It’s going to be an interesting day today.’ So thinking, she gently sat on the sofa and looked out of the window, slowly sipping the dark liquid.

Her mind began to race on what she should wear today. After all, they were to attend a political function and a well-known Netaji was to come. ‘It has to be a saree, definitely’, thought she, chiding herself at the same time ‘who is going to see my saree? Not Netaji for sure. It will not matter even if I wear anything else.’

Her mind raced ahead. Should she wear a cardigan too, or would the long coat Pratap had gifted suffice, and which shoes to wear? There will surely be a long walk today, she anticipated.

“It’s going to be a hot day today. No cold breeze, only bright sun”, commented Pratap, as he studied the temperature report on his mobile. Looking at Surilee, who was already draped in her subtle maroon khadi silk saree, he continued, “ You will roast in your sweater.”

“All right”, replied Surilee. Pratap had helped her seal the deal. She herself was unsure of the sweater. Now Pratap’s doubt cleared her mind. She had to redo the saree, and this took some extra time.

“I am going for breakfast”, announced Pratap. “Come quickly. We have to leave by 9:30.”

By the time Surilee came downstairs for breakfast, Roshan and Ajit were already with Pratap. Handing the temporary I Card to Surilee, Ajit said, “ Ma’am, you will have to wear this all the time. Netaji is coming. High-level security is expected.”

Surilee had no affiliation with Netaji. She proudly considered herself apolitical, neutral. ‘But Netaji is Netaji. Jaana to hai. I have to go’ thought Surilee, munching idli and listening to Ajit’s euphemisms on the greatness of Netaji. ‘He’s an andhbhakt’, she concluded.

After a few photographs on the steps of the hotel entrance, the tall burly guard doing the needful, they all sat in the taxi and proceeded to the huge parade ground, crossing the city centre. Posters proclaiming Netaji’s arrival were all over. ‘Welcome Netaji’ said one, ‘Netaji, zindabad, zindabad’ proclaimed another. Balloons and buntings, the colour of Netaji’s party adorned the skyline. Netaji was expected to fly to the parade grounds. ‘Would he even see them?’ wondered Surilee aloud. No one replied. It was dangerous to criticise and not easy to respond positively. A catch-22 situation, indeed. She knew even Pratap would not respond. So be it, she said to herself, a tad bit resignedly.

About a km before the venue, the scene began to change. Loud blaring music, police personnel all along the roads, police vehicles, ambulances, seemingly ready for any exigency. As the car moved ahead, she could see thousands of civil defence personnel standing at attention in a playground. They were getting last-minute instructions. And then they began to march out on the road towards the venue. They joined hundreds of similar dressed women who were also moving along, some with children, others singularly.

The car moved towards an open field, the parking zone for the day. A few cars were already scattered in the huge land. As the driver applied the brakes and parked the car, a huge whirlwind of dust blew.

“I wonder what must be happening here in summers”, she commented out aloud. This time Ajit replied. “It’s quite bad. Scorching sun, dust everywhere.” The city can get criticised, but not Netaji, Surilee noted whimsically.

The venue was about half a km away. Surilee patted herself for choosing to wear flat shoes rather than sandals. As the entourage moved ahead, she could see young policemen on duty, standing idle. They did not stop the group, nor asked for credentials. “So much for high powered security”.

Thousands of chairs on both sides and a carpeted walkway, which had seen better days in the centre. The venue had arrived. Far away at the distance, she could see the dais, decorated, and bedecked with flowers. A banner in the background had the smiling Netaji in the centre of it.

The men walked faster, and soon she got left behind. The bobbing head and crew cut hairstyle of the very tall Pratap became her guide. Many women were already seated, some clearly rural. They were staring at her. She obviously looked out of place.

From a distance, she could see Pratap and Roshan standing in an enclosure. She followed suit. It was the VIP Enclosure, with sofas adjusted to capacity. On the right of the enclosure were the media personnel, hundreds of cameras, cameramen, and TV anchors. Netaji, being very image-conscious, always travelled with a well-endowed media troupe. And beyond the media zone were a choir of middle-aged men and women, who time and again rendered songs no one was hearing.

Surilee turned around to see the vast area behind her. It was getting filled up swiftly. Hundreds of women were walking in and getting seated. The VIP Enclosure was getting filled up too. Groups of women, dressed in their Sunday best, loud and unnecessarily cheerful were entering from both sides. They were followed by a few men, clearly in a minority and only there as party workers.

Some of them had brought biscuits and peanuts, in anticipation of a long wait for Netaji. Perhaps it was previous experiences telling. It was soon selfie time for them. Hundreds of photographs taken in what could only be called an amazing people management began. Each woman knew who she had to take a photo with and which group to join when. A young woman dressed in a masculine manner grabbed the sofa next to Surilee’s. Roshan who had been sitting comfortably there until a little while ago now found himself sofa-less. “Sab Kursi Ka Khel hai, Roshanji”( It’s all a game of power) laughed Surilee. Roshan gave an embarrassing smile. What could he say after all to the Boss’ wife?

“Main to Banaras se aa rahee hoon”, ( I am returning from Banaras), said a brightly dressed woman seated behind Surilee. “Bees saree order kari hai” ( I have ordered 20 sarees), she further commented loud enough for all to hear. Surilee turned. The two locked eyes, an immediate smile enveloped both.

“I am Jaishree”, she said by way of introduction. “ Leader of the local Mahila Organisation.”

Surilee smiled again, now a little wary, not wanting to give out her name.

It was quite obvious the woman got taken in by Surilee. A minute later someone was looking over her shoulder. It was Jaishree. “Where are you from? You don’t look local?” she asked, her voice rising above the din. “ From Delhi”, replied Surilee with a slight smile.

“I thought so”, muttered Jaishree “You are so smart. Can I take a photo with you?”And without waiting for a reply she called on a man who happily obliged.

“I have promised a good lunch to him”, she whispered to Surilee, “in return for taking photographs.”

 Surilee’s mood improved a little. Who doesn’t like appreciation?

The crowd was becoming bigger and rowdier. Many years ago a friend had once mentioned ‘mob mentality to her. Today, seeing the vast milling humanity she finally understood the term. Some local leaders had already reached the dais, but there was nothing more happening. It was now mid-afternoon. They had been here for over 3 hours. Anticipation had given way to boredom. By now they had been pushed several seats behind. The sofas were presently occupied by a group of women. Surilee tried to look out for Jaishree. In vain. The enclosure was already overcrowded.

Surilee looked behind. There were what looked like thousands of village women, most wearing similar sarees. Must be part of the group I saw earlier she recollected. They were sitting quietly. Years of living in subjugation and doing as told seemed to have prepared them well for today.

Surilee looked up to the sky. She could see some dark clouds, though the sky was still clear enough. She pointed the clouds to Pratap. Food and some tea were now capturing her thoughts more than Netaji and his arrival. “ There’s no way I can go out, buy some snacks and return now”, said Pratap. “Look at the swarm of the crowd behind you. “

Irritably, Surilee kept her peace, but the fight against a rumbling stomach was turning out to be a one-way struggle. Meanwhile, almost on cue some local leaders on the dais began giving speeches. One of whom was a retired Bollywood actress. She was a crowd puller and she knew that. She seemed bored too. Fidgeting with her handbag, she fished out her mobile and took a selfie, then putting her mobile back, she elegantly raised her right hand in a wave. The women surrounding Surilee screamed in delight. Surilee was no less affected by the actress, her elegance and grace enamoured her.

“Where is Netaji?” Surilee questioned Pratap for the third time within a few minutes. He pulled up his shoulders in joint exasperation. The sky had darkened a little more. She could see a few more people raising their heads to the sky.

And then all of a sudden she heard the chopping of the blades and a dull, whirring sound. Soon a helicopter came in sight. Excitedly, she stood up just as several others did. “ Netaji has arrived from Delhi”, she needlesly told Pratap. He did not look enthusiastic at all now. The helicopter whirred, flew twice around the venue, and then disappeared behind the dais. “ I think he has landed”, she said to anyone willing to listen, an eagerness in her voice which she was surprised to acknowledge herself.

By now the bright clear day was darkening. Far away the rumble of clouds could were heard. On the dais, meanwhile some action confirmed the arrival of the VIP. The secret service agents protecting Netaji surrounded the two entry gates to the dais. ‘Which one will he enter from’, she questioned herself, while one part of her was wondering about the change in the skies.

The presenter was now on the mike, announcing the entry of Netaji. “ Our beloved leader will enter at any moment.” she screeched .”Give him your blessings by standing up and clapping.”

Just as Netaji made a grand entry from the left foyer of the dais, the sky thundered, and a cloud burst. Within seconds, a downpour engulfed all. Chaos and all hell broke loose. Beloved Netaji had just reached the podium. But all he could see was a sea of people rushing for the elusive shelter. The resultant pandemonium later would be registered as one of the worse in the modern history of the nation.

With no shelter in sight and tumultuous mayhem, it was each to themselves. Surilee lost Pratap somewhere as she tripped over the chairs and was overtaken by the mob of fleeing women. When she could finally stand up and get a foothold, she was all drenched. Her saree clinging to her legs, hair dripping wet, and her beloved coat twice its weight with soaked water feeling like a stone on her shoulder, she somehow managed to move behind the crowd. Remembering the parking zone, she decided that it was best to somehow reach there.

As she trudged along as fast as she could, she saw an incredible sight. Some women were pulling off the hoardings and carrying the bamboo sticks with them. All drenched and cold by now, she could not but stop to ask one the reason for this incredulous scene. “ Madamji, chulha chalane me madad ho jayagee” ( The bamboo sticks will help in cooking food.)

And what about Netaji? Well, his helicopter could not take off for quite some time. His security stopped him from moving by road. Netaji slumped on the chair offered to him. He philosophically watched his prospective audience fleeing. At a distance, he could see his large life style cutouts flapping in the wind and rain as if mocking him.

Netaji got forgotten in the ensuing mele’.

The people of this ancient city still talk about the strange day when nature took over, and Netaji beat a retreat. This is now folklore.