Pic: Sudhir Patwardhan. Chawl. 1995
Foreward
Gangadhar Gadgil (25 August 1923 – 15 September 2008)
To call Gangadhar Gadgil, the noted Marathi ‘writer’, would be doing him a gross injustice. Yes, he is remembered as an eminent writer, but he was a man of many parts. He was an economist by profession, having graduated in Economics (MA) from Mumbai University, taught Economics at Sydenham College, Mumbai and was the first principal of the Narsee Monjee College of Commerce and Economics. He wrote several textbooks for students of economics and through the short story form he imparted economic principles in simple language to the lay person.
For some time, he served as an economic and financial advisor to the Walchand Hirachand Group of Industries.
As the president of the Grahak Panchayat, Mumbai for over fifteen years Gadgil fought tirelessly for consumer rights.
As a writer, Gadgil is known for his vast and varied oeuvre. He wrote novels, travelogues, one-act plays, literary criticism and children’s stories, but his most significant contribution is to the Marathi short story genre.
He is best known for introducing a new tradition of literary realism in Marathi short story. Till then most stories focused on themes of autocratic parents, social ills like exploitation, stereotypical characters and overt didactic intent. He preferred to write about ordinary people leading ordinary lives, dealing with their circumstances as best they could. However his ability to look beyond the surface enabled him to bring out the complexity of interpersonal relationships, the subtle and hidden urges, desires, hopes and frustrations that influenced human behaviour. With sympathy and humour, sarcasm and wit he depicts people caught in testing societal situations, often becoming victims of their own personalities.
Gadgil lived in Mumbai all his life and his characters are all children of the city that he loved and understood in all its diversity. One of his best loved and popular characters around whom a whole range of stories is woven is Bandu. Though Gadgil wrote of a time that is now almost past the characters that people his stories are very much around.
Besides short stories, Gadgil wrote biographies and monographs of eminent Mumbaikars, the best known among them being Durdamya, a biography of Lokmanya Tilak. Prarambh, a historical novel, traces through the personality of Jagannath Shankarsheth, the evolution of the city of Mumbai in all its aspects. (my personal favourite).
Gadgil’s autobiography, Eka Mungiche Mahabharata won him the Sahitya Akademi award, one of the many honours bestowed on him by various prestigious organizations.—Keerti Ramachandra.
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THE ROT WITHIN
Gangadhar Gadgil
(Translated by Keerti Ramachandra)
It was a Sunday afternoon. Violent communal riots had broken out in Mumbai. Flashing knives had ripped innocent lives to shreds. Gangs battled each other. Idols were desecrated, masjids torched. A strong police presence was everywhere. An eerie silence prevailed on the normally bustling upper floor of Khumute Chawl in Peruvadi.
Khutmute chawl believed it was the sole repository of middle class Maharashtrian culture, its residents the proud upholders of the valiant tradition of Shivneri. Hardworking and job oriented, they represented several social classes, all respectable and honourable, paying rent ranging from fifty rupees to a hundred and fifty rupees. Every floor was an independent caste. Interaction between castes was prohibited. No matrimonial alliances, no breaking of bread between classes was permitted.
The focal point of the men’s lives was to please the boss and grovel for a pay rise, and every woman’s worth was measured by her husband’s salary and her own good looks.
The four stages in the life of these people were to get a job, get married and have children,educate them and finally retire and draw a pension. Acquiring a life insurance policy was a religious ritual. Kerosene and sugar were burning issues. Literary meets and the Ganapati festival were community social celebrations. Love marriages were fantasy stories. Poverty and narrow-mindedness had been their inheritance for generations. They firmly believed that even if the mountains of social, political, economic significance crashed upon them, they would not budge from their self-righteous stance.
So though the second floor of this Khutmute chawl was more quiet than usual, the foppish Maltibai’s haranguing her foolish husband was clearly audible. Next door, Gharuanna’s card session was going on amidst much merriment. Squint-eyed Bandopant, standing at his window, was trying hard to show that he was not watching the beautiful woman in the chawl opposite. Seated by the door, Shamrao was fiddling with his old umbrella. Scrawny Ainapure was discussing the politics of the Hindu Mahasabha in his high-pitched voice. At the end of the corridor, the newly married couple’s door was shut, as usual.
Gharuanna’s son Damu walked into the balcony, pulling up his chaddi. Wiping his nose with the end of his vest, he looked around hungrily for a piece of gossip. His mind was abuzz with thoughts of finding some secret information that would rock the chawl, or doing something truly outrageous. After all, wasn’t he the one who had told Gharuanna how Bandopant had tried to grab the maidservant’s hand at the water tap, and how she had paid him back with a tight slap, for his pains?
He had seen Bandopant trying to peep through the crack in the newlywed couple’s door. He made a mental note to tell his mother that and also that Shamrao had bought a new sewing machine, and laddus were being made in Madhavrao’s house. Damu leaned against the balcony railing and surveyed the surroundings.
Just then he noticed something happening in front of the chawl. The sight gave Damu as much pleasure as a two piece lolly would.
A gang of goondas had appeared on the street below and were trying to break into a Mussalman’s footwear shop.The biggest dada among them had smashed the lock with a huge stone. A wiry, muscular lad had shoved open the door. Their stout companion with bloodshot-eyes used his lathi to strike at the windows.
The sound of shattering glass startled the people around. Heads popped out from row upon row of windows of the nearby chawls. A hundred –odd onlookers gathered to watch the proceedings. A strange excitement along with a frisson of fear ran through their bodies.
The rioters had managed to clear the lane and most of the crowd was at either end of it. But right in the middle of the short lane, stood one solitary young man ,a lump of cow dung in his hand. Somehow his presence there, isolated from the crowd, appeared strange.
The phool wala at the far end of the lane seemed mesmerised as he moved forward one slow step at a time, the half threaded flower garland in his hands. Two little boys kept turning to look back, even as they ran away in fear. From somewhere amidst the crowd, a dandily dressed, educated-looking young man walked past the damaged shop, gloating.
After staring at the sight for a few minutes, Damu cried out, “Arre arre, look! Some goondas are breaking into the shoe shop !”A sudden commotion erupted on the second floor of Khutmute chawl. What an exciting moment! That too right in front of our chawl. If you didn’t witness it you would miss one of life’s most rewarding events.
Children elbowed each other to get the best view. Of course Gharuanna’s big bully of a son Banni pushed all the other kids aside to occupy the vantage position.When Madhavrao’s two-year old refused to budge from there, Banni knocked the child’s head on the railing. The little boy started bawling as he walked towards his house, clutching his head. Everyone giggled at the sight.
Quite unexpectedly Gharuanna yelled at his children, “Get inside, all of you, you good for nothings. Pick up your books and sit inside quietly.” His brood disappeared ,but Damu didn’t move. He believed that he had earned a special privilege for having provided the chawl with some important information. With one slap on his head,Gharuanna dispelled Damu’s confidence. He slunk away with the rest. Gharunna now occupied Damu’s space himself to watch the spectacle.
Shamrao came and stood next to him. Ainapure of the shrill voice ordered his family indoors. “There’s trouble outside. You all juststay in there,” he shrieked. Then he quickly made his way to the balustrade. In his usual clumsy rough manner he shoved his way to the front and finally stuck his head out from under Shamrao’s armpit and looked around.
“Arre arre, look what they are doing!’ Shamrao exclaimed, pity and horror in his voice , How much loss they are inflicting on that poor shopkeeper!”
“Loss? What loss?” Ainapure rasped, “This. . .this is where you go wrong, Shamrao. Why should we show any sympathy for these Mussadis when they kidnap our women, convert our children, destroy our temples?No pity vity for them. This is how we should show them who is boss.”
Slightly bewildered by this outburst Shamrao replied, “But shouldn’t this kind of fighting stop somewhere? We all have to live here together, isn’t it?”
Raising his voice several decibels, Ainapure screeched, “What do you mean live here together? We will crush the infidels, smash their skulls.” Violent gestures accompanied his words, frightening poor Shamrao.
Ainapure experienced a tremendous thrill because he had struck terror into Shamrao with his extreme political views. It was the only way he could assert his thwarted greed for power and authority.
“What politics are you talking about Ainapure! If your politics can get us a two rupee hike in our salaries, it’s worth discussing,” said Gharuanna and looking around smugly, as if he had made a profound comment.
Everyone agreed with Gharunanna. That’s why they didn’t like it.
Maltibai too had rushed out to watch what was happening , but she couldn’t bring herself to elbow her way through the crowd and ruin her clothes. . She firmly believed that she was above all of them in both looks and ability and wondered why people did not acknowledge these traits in her. She made a concerted effort to look down on them, criticize them and find fault with them to show her own sense of superiority. Even now she was muttering something like that and as usual, everyone was ignoring her.
Just then the cross-eyed Bandopant sauntered along, bumped into her and walked away.
Maltibai was startled. She was sure Bandopant had done it on purpose.The rage and contempt she had always felt for him came to the fore and she was jolted into action. So enraged was she with the lecherous Bandopant, she wanted to smash his head like a coconut, then rush indoors and bang the door on these people, but strangely she found she was unable to move. She was furious with herself. What was that hidden desire that kept her rooted to this spot? She did not understand it. The shrewd chawl dwellers had judged Maltibai’s weakness well. They deliberately pushed her aside and went past her. . Bandopant continued to leer at her with his beady eyes, but her feet refused to leave the place.
Bandopant had the disgusting habit of bumping into women as he walked on the street. He was obsessed with finding ways and means to pursue this practice. So subtle, so crafty, so shameless was his manner that he sometimes felt at himself. And yet he couldn’t get the better of the habit.
At this point the normally closed door opened and the romantic, newly wed couple, Manohar and Leela came out.
They were wearing chappals. And carrying handkerchiefs. To show that they were more modern, neater and cleaner than the others in the chawl. Leela screamed “Eeeesh!” every time she saw a snotty child in the corridor. She had cultivated the habit of laughing secretively yet visibly, at women who were dishevelled or whose hair was knotted into an untidy bun.
Manohar had once played cricket for his college. That’s why he was given to speaking the language of cricket and swinging his arm in a bowling action as he walked down the corridor of the chawl.
Since Manohar found he could not see what was going on he quickly went in, got a chair, stood on it and started giving Leela what he considered a humorous account of the happenings on the street. Leela kept craning her neck, gesticulating and making strange sounds.
“You also stand here, on the chair, then you can see,” said Manohar in response, and pulled Leela also on to the chair.
The romantic couple knew their purpose had been served. Instead of watching the shop being ransacked all heads and eyes had turned in their direction. Leela was angry. “Vulgar, meddle some good for nothings! Gossipy wretches!” she hissed. She and Manohar jumped off their chair, dragged it behind them, went into their house and slammed the door shut. Once the neighbours were convinced that the door was properly closed, Gharuanna spoke. “Instead of breaking shop windows, why don’t these goondas break some people’s faces!”
His remark triggered a ripple of laughter. Truth to tell, everyone was envious of that young couple… They wished they too could be like them. But then they had not been blessed with either looks or youth. Also since most families had grown in size and number, none of them could afford the lifestyle of that couple.
The systematic demolition of the shop continued. Goods were being thrown out on to the street. Some people quickly moved in, surreptitiously gathered some of the stuff to take home.
Damu, who always wanted to be ahead of everyone in everything, went and stood just outside the shop. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but that didn’t bother him in the least. He was supremely proud of himself and his abilities. Taunting those who were standing a safe distance away, he tugged at the shendi on the back of his head, pulling the strand right down to his nose and waited.
Suddenly a ‘bhaiyya’ strolled along, lost in his own world. He seemed unaware of what was going on inside the shop but he noticed the heap of footwear lying on the street.
Immediately he took off his worn-out shoes and slipped into a brand new pair from the pile. Grinning triumphantly he collected a few more pairs, tucked them under his arm and walked away.
The onlookers were delighted to see this. They broke into spontaneous applause . Because that happy-go-lucky bhaiya had done what they, in their heart of hearts would have liked to do.
Gathering courage from the bhaiyya’s action, Rama the young manservant, standing in the middle of the street with a lump of cow dung in his hand, inched forward. Quickly he picked up a couple of pairs of slippers and he disappeared into the crowd. The timid garland maker followed suit.
Before long there was a scramble to claim shoes and slippers from the pile.
Ainapure saw the footwear disappear into people’s arms and quickly moved towards the staircase. Gharuanna caught sight of him and jeered, “So Ainapure, you are also going to join in the loot? ?”
That brought Ainpaure back to his senses. He realized what he was about to do. His normally silly expression appeared even more foolish.
Just then Gharuanna’s Damu clattered up the stairs. He had a pair of shoes in his hands. “Look, look, Anna Anna, I too got a pair of shoes!” he announced at the top of his voice.
Showing great presence of mind Gharuanna loudly admonished his son. “You fool!Should you pick up things lying on the road like this? Go put the shoes inside, now.If you go back there you will get caught in the crowd.”
With a sidelong glance at the people around him, Gharuanna walked into his house to try on the shoes.
Damu was encouraged. He took the large bag his mother handed to him, he went down the stairs.
Radhabai became intensely jealous when she saw this. Jabbing her boy with her finger, she said, “Arre Madhya, go,go down. See that Damu, how clever he is! And look at you…” Madhu was the same age as Damu but he was a sensitive boy. The idea did not appeal to him. So he went and hid behind the big water drum at the end of the corridor.
When Damu reached the street again, the ransacking was at its peak. People were shoving, pushing, knocking each other over, grabbing, fighting and laughing.
A poor old woman, knocked down by the jostling crowd was screaming in pain. Someone shouted, “Arre arre, save that old woman,” but no one paid any attention and continued what they were doing.
Some how Damu managed to get to the pile and fill his bag with slippers and shoes of all sizes. As he started walking back towards the chawl a big burly goonda grabbed the bag from his hand and marched off. Damu followed him yelling,“Hey, hey, that’s my bag …!”
The goonda turned around and slapped Damu hard across his face. Damu’s ears burned, his face turned red and tears started flowing. He was reeling from the blow.
Somehow he reached home and told his story.
All he got for his trouble was a yelling from Gharuanna, for having lost the bag.
Suddenly somebody called out, “Police!Police!” In no time at all the goondas disappeared. People ran helter skelter. The crowd dispersed.
Leading the crowd was a clerk accompanied by a group of women and children, running as fast as he could. “Hurry up, hurry up, run faster! Are your legs broken or what!” he urged them on.
Keerti Ramachandra is a multi-linguist based in Bangalore. She has translated short fiction from Marathi, Kannada and Hindi. Many of the stories have appeared in magazines, journals, and anthologies. Her major translated works are: Vishwas Patil's A Dirge for the Dammed (shortlisted for the Raymond Crossword award in 2015) and Mahanayak (from Marathi), A faceless Evening and other stories, a collection of Gangadhar Gadgil's short stories also from Marathi, The Dying Sun and other stories by Joginder Paul with Usha Nagpal.( from Hindi ) and U R Ananthamurthy's Hindutva or Hind Swaraj with Vivek Shanbhag (from Kannada). Another Chance, a collection of six short stories and a novella by Saniya and Atmakatha, the autobiography of Madhu Limaye are with the publishers. In the pipeline are a collection of Bolwar Mahamad Kunhi's Kannada stories, a collection of Vijaya Rajadhyaksha's Marathi stories and an autobiography in Hindi. Also read other translations by Keerti Ramachandra here…
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