LAND ACQUISITION - A Story - DEAD END

DEAD END
Short Fiction

A Land Acquisition Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

“Land Acquisition” is the current hot topic in the news and is being most hotly debated in the media.

This made me remember a story I had written long back, more than 20 years ago.

So, let me delve deep into my Creative Writing Archives and pull out this story called DEAD END for you to read.

I wrote this short story more than 20 years ago, sometime in the 1990’s.

One evening – when I had gone on a long evening walk – I happened to witness a brutal land acquisition.

It seemed that the land was being forcibly acquired by the authorities.

The might of the “powers-that-be” was on full display against the hapless landowners who were being evicted from their land.

The displaced landowners were protesting because the promised compensation had not been paid to them.

The hapless landowners feared that once they lost their land, they would have to make rounds of various government offices for compensation and pay bribes to get their due.

A few years later, someone told me that the land had been encroached upon – so the whole land acquisition exercise had gone waste – and the biggest losers were the erstwhile landowners who had lost their land which had been forcibly acquired.

The whole scene and situation moved me and I wrote a fiction short story called DEAD END.

At that point of time – this story DEAD END was highly appreciated.  

Huge land acquisitions take place for building projects and institutions.

In Cities – Land is acquired for road-widening – many small home owners lose their gardens – and in some cases even houses are demolished. 

I remember an old lady telling me that she lost her carefully tended garden in road-widening – and what irked her was that the footpath which was made on the land acquired from her had been illegally encroached upon and “tapri” stalls (shanties) had sprung up there.

I have seen displaced persons running around for their promised compensation many years after their land had been acquired.

It is all very fine to talk of the “macro” picture.

But does anyone look at it from the perspective of the displaced landowners?

Only a person whose land is forcibly acquired knows the pain of losing his land or home. 

You even hear stories – maybe apocryphal – of land being forcibly acquired from farmers ostensibly for public purposes – and then the acquired land is “de-reserved” and sold off to builders who make a huge profit by building residential and commercial projects.

With “Land Acquisition” being the current “hot topic” news – I think this fiction story DEAD END is quite relevant even today. 

Do tell me if you like the story.

DEAD END – Short Fiction Story by VIKRAM KARVE

Manjunath was a contented man.

 

He was the proud owner of a coconut grove, more than a hundred trees, located on the most picturesque stretch of the western coast, skirting the Arabian Sea. 

His land was fertile and the yield was excellent.

 

Every morning, along with his wife and two sons, Manjunath would cast his fishing nets into the gentle waters of Baicol Bay, and in the evening, when he pulled in his nets with the receding tide, the catch would be adequate, if not substantial.

He would also tend to his coconut grove and the various fruit bearing trees and vegetable shrubs he had planted on his land.

 

I loved Baicol Bay. 

It was a most beautiful and pristine place by the sea.

Sunset, on the western coast, was a special event.

 

So every evening, I went for a jog on the soft unspoilt beach, and after a swim in the crystal-clear waters, I relaxed on the sands, beholding the fascinating, yet soothing, spectacle of the mighty orange sun being devoured under the horizon of the sea.

 

As darkness enveloped, Manjunath would gently appear by my side with a tender coconut in hand.

 

At that moment, there was nothing more refreshing than sweet coconut water.

 

The year was 1980 – and I was a fresh, young and idealistic Indian Police Service (IPS) Officer, on my first posting, as Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) of this lovely coastal district.

 

The air was fresh and unpolluted and the weather was temperate. 

There was no railway line, no industries, and no noise. 

The district headquarters was a one-street town. 

Everybody knew everybody – the people were peace-loving – and in the prevailing climate of contentment, it was no surprise that the crime-rate was almost zero.

 

One day, my boss, the Superintendent of Police (SP) took me to an important meeting in the District Collector’s office.

 

As I heard the words of the Collector – I experienced a deep sense of distress. 

A notification had been issued and a mammoth Steel Plant had been sanctioned in the Baicol Bay area. 

Land Acquisition was the immediate top priority. 

The police were to be present to see that the land acquisition process was smooth and to ensure there was no law and order problem.

 

“But why can’t they locate the Steel Plant somewhere else? This lovely place will be ruined. And where will the people go?” I protested.

 

At first – the Collector appeared dumbstruck by my interruption. 

Then he glowered at me with a fierce and threatening stare. 

I avoided his gaze and looked around the room. 

Everyone was looking at me in a curious manner. 

My boss, the SP, was desperately gesturing to me to keep quiet.

 

“I wonder whose side you are on?” the Collector snapped angrily, still giving me an intimidating glare.

 

“Don’t worry, Sir,” the SP spoke, addressing the Collector, “There will be no problems. The people here are a docile lot. Everything shall proceed smoothly.”

 

When we were driving back to our office, the SP said, “Joshi, you better tame your tongue and watch what you say, especially in front of others.”

 

“Sir, you please tell me. Is it not gross injustice? We pay them a pittance for their fertile land. And then we evict them from their habitat, and destroy the beauty of this place, just because someone decides to set up a set up a Steel Plant here.”

 

“My dear Joshi – it is in the national interest. Why don’t you try and understand. Everyone who is displaced shall be properly rehabilitated with a job and a house – and they will also get a good compensation for their land.”

 

“Come on, sir,” I argued, “You know where we are going to relocate them. The rehabilitation camp is more than twenty kilometres away from the sea front. And we are putting them into small overcrowded multi-storeyed tenements, which are at complete variance from their ethos. These people are used to open spaces, fresh air, and most important – the waterfront, the sea.”

 

“That’s enough, Joshi,” the SP said angrily, “Your job is to carry out my orders. I want you to take personal charge of this land acquisition operation. The task must be completed smoothly and on schedule. Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, sir,” I replied meekly.

 

That evening I held a meeting with the affected villagers. 

Manjunath was sitting in the first row, right in front of me. 

I spoke of patriotism – I exhorted them to sacrifice their land for the “national cause” – I told them of the prosperity the Steel Plant would bring into their lives.

 

To my utter surprise – there was no resistance to the land acquisition. 

Everyone seemed convinced – I think because they were simple people who believed every word I said.

But to my own self – my own words sounded insincere – and I felt acutely uncomfortable.

 

And so the land acquisition operation began.

 

An awe-struck Manjunath saw the might of the government on display. 

Manjunath watched with tears in his eyes as huge bulldozers destroyed his beloved coconut grove.

He also felt intimidated by the columns of police standing by to ensure that the land acquisition process was done smoothly.

And so – Manjunath lost his land – and was displaced from his home.

But – in lieu of his land – and since he was a displaced person – Manjunath had been promised a job at the Steel Plant which was going to come up on his land.

 

A few months later Manjunath stood before the employment officer. 

The employment officer was in a foul mood. 

“These illiterate buggers get jobs on a platter while my matriculate brother-in-law rots unemployed in city,” he complained, “I had promised my wife that I would wrangle at least a Class 4 unskilled labourer, domestic attendant or peon’s job for him out here.”

 

“Hold your tongue,” the rehabilitation officer said angrily, “These so-called ‘illiterate buggers’, as you call them, were land-owners, displaced from their own land. They are entitled a job in lieu of their land acquired for this project.”

 

“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot,” the employment officer said to the rehabilitation officer. 

Then, the employment officer looked at Manjunath and curtly asked him, “Do you possess any special skills?”

 

Manjunath could not comprehend, so he just stood silent.

 

In an exasperated manner, the employment officer snapped, “We haven’t got all day. Tell me. What can you do?”

 

“Coconuts,” Manjunath answered.

 

“Coconuts?”

 

“Yes, Sir. Coconuts.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Fish.”

 

“Fish and Coconuts, eh! You will see plenty of them,” the employment officer said. 

He wrote the word ‘cook’ beside Manjunath’s name in the register.

 

And so, at one stroke, Manjunath was transformed from a land-owner into a cook.

First he worked as a cook in the ramshackle canteen for construction workers.

And later as a cook in the huge industrial canteen of the Steel Plant.

 

But Manjunath was lucky. 

At least he had become a cook. 

Most others became Unskilled Labourers because the skills they possessed, like farming and fishing, were not relevant as far as the Steel Plant was concerned.

 

And so almost all the “skilled” workers – the tradesmen, all the welders, fitters, machinists, electricians etc – they all came from outside, from faraway places – most of the workforce of the steel plant came from the cities and the urban areas. 

And gradually – the complexion of the place began to change.

 

Soon, I stopped going for my daily evening jog to Baicol beach.

Now the whole place was littered with debris from the construction work and the air was no longer pure, but polluted by fumes and dust.

It was no longer quiet and calm, but the noise from the ongoing construction work was unbearable.

 

And, of course, now there would be no Manjunath waiting for me with a tender coconut in hand.

 

So when my transfer came – I felt relieved and happy.

I no longer loved the place – and – more so – I could not bear the pain of witnessing the beginning of the systematic metamorphosis of a beautiful natural paradise into a huge monster of concrete and steel.

Somehow I never had the opportunity to visit that place for many years.

 

Then, after 15 long years, I had to go there as a DIG.

The place had changed beyond recognition. 

The gigantic steel plant – the railway line – the new port – the industries – the ‘fruits’ of liberalization – and the signs of prosperity – modern buildings adorned by adjoining slums – filth and polluted air – all types of vehicles clogging the roads – restaurants and bars – the noise – and even most of the people looked alien.

 

As we drove down to the police headquarters, the SP said, “It’s not the same place when you were here, sir.”

 

“The crime-rate was zero then,” I said. “What has gone wrong?”

 

“There are two types of people now, Sir – the liberalised Indian and the marginalised Indian.”

 

“And us!”

 

“And us,” he laughed, “yes, sir, and us trying to sort the whole thing out.”

 

I was head of the crime branch at the state police headquarters and I had been sent down to investigate a series of bizarre murders. 

A few bigwigs were waylaid – they had their heads chopped off – and their headless bodies were dumped outside their houses. 

It had created such a scare that my boss had rushed me down.

 

The car stopped. 

I recognized the place at once.

 

“The common thread, sir,” the SP said, “All the victims lived in this luxury residential enclave.”

 

“I knew this place,” I said, feeling a tinge of nostalgia, “There used to be a coconut grove here. This place was acquired for the steel plant. But now I see that it is just outside the perimeter wall. I wonder why they excluded this area.”

 

“Must be the environment stipulations, sir,” the SP mumbled, “the 200 meter zone or something. They must have de-notified it.”

 

“De-notified it? Don’t give me bullshit!” I shouted, “How the hell has this posh residential complex come up here? And if the government did not want the land for the steel plant – then why was this excess acquired land not returned back to the original owners?”

         

“Sir – this land which was sold by the acre in your time, 15 years ago – now it is priced per square foot.”

 

“The fruits of progress, is it?” I snapped.

 

I could see that the SP was getting confused by my unexpected line of investigation – and he was getting a bit scared too – for I was a DIG. 

So I decided to put him at ease.

 

“Tell me, Pandey,” I said patronizingly, “What were you before joining the IPS?”

 

“An Engineer, Sir. From IIT, Delhi.”

 

This was no surprise.

Engineers, even doctors, were joining the IAS and IPS nowadays. 

I looked at the SP, and I said, “Let me explain in a way you will understand.”

 

Pandey was looking at me intently.

 

I paused, and I asked him. “Do you know the definition of the term ‘system’?”

 

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

 

“Every ‘system’ has a natural rhythm,” I said, “take this place for example. All the people here in this system, farmers, fishermen, everyone, they all had a natural rhythm of life which perfectly matched the rhythm of this place. And there was harmony. Then suddenly we disturb the system. We drastically change the rhythm of the place. We create a mismatch. And when the people cannot cope up, we call them ‘marginalised Indians’ – as you put it.”

 

Pandey looked thoroughly confused – so I avoided further rhetoric and came straight to the point, “You are looking for a motive, isn’t it, Pandey?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” he said.

 

“Okay, consider this. You own some fertile land. We forcibly acquire it, mouthing platitudes like ‘national interest’, ‘patriotism’ etc. Then we sit on your land for 15 long years while you are reduced from an owner to a labourer. And then, one fine day, you find that your beloved land been grabbed by some land-sharks from the city. What would you do?”

 

The SP did not reply.

 

“Do one thing, Pandey,” I said. “There is a man called Manjunath. He probably works as a cook in the Steel Plant canteen. Bring him to me. He may have some clue and maybe he will give us a lead.”

 

In my mind’s eye – I was thinking of ways of how to get Manjunath off the hook.

 

An hour later – the SP came rushing into the police headquarters. 

The SP looked dazed – as if he had been pole-axed. 

“The guy went crazy,” the SP stammered, “Sir, when the police party approached him, he was chopping coconuts with a sharp sickle. Suddenly he slashed his own neck. He died on the way to hospital. There is blood everywhere.”

 

In the morgue, staring sadly at Manjunath’s dead body, the SP commented, “Look at the expression on his face, Sir. He looks so content.”

“Yes,” I said, “He has reached the dead end.”

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
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Disclaimer:

1. This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

2. All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:

No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.

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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

 

This fiction short story was written by me Vikram Karve more than 20 years ago, in the 1990’s. Later, I posted the story online on my creative writing blogs a number of times, including in this blog at url: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2011/12/dead-end-my-favourite-short-stories.html

EX-SERVICEMEN’S WELFARE

EX-SERVICEMEN’S WELFARE

LOOKING AFTER MILITARY VETERANS

Ramblings of a Retired Veteran

By

VIKRAM KARVE

It has become a fashion for Military Officers to blame Civilian Bureaucrats for the problems faced by ex-servicemen (Retired Military Veterans).

Why can’t the Military look after its own Veterans?

Why can’t each Defence Service Chief take on the responsibility to look after the welfare of Veterans of his own service?

(The Army Chief can look after his retired armymen, the Navy Chief can care for his retired navymen and the Air Chief can do likewise in respect of retired air-warriors)

Why have Senior Military Officers in Service Headquarters “passed the buck” of ex-servicemen’s welfare to Civilian Bureaucrats in the Ministry of Defence?

Instead of assuming responsibility for the care and welfare of their own veterans, why has the military “outsourced” ex-servicemen’s welfare to the civilian bureaucracy?

Metaphorically, it is like modern day children who “pass the buck” of looking after their parents to “old age homes”.

In the same way, are serving military officers (“children”) passing the buck of looking after their own retired veterans (“parents”) to civilian bureaucrats (“old age homes”)?

If you want to evade responsibility of looking after your own veterans and if you “outsource” this task to someone else, then you have no choice but to accept how that someone else (to whom you have passed the buck) treats your veterans.

Instead of constantly carping about the neglect of military veterans (ex-servicemen), would it not be better if the military accepts total responsibility of ex-servicemen’s welfare and looks after the welfare of its own veterans?

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
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EX-SERVICEMEN WELFARE - PLEASE DO NOT TREAT MILITARY VETERANS LIKE BEGGARS

PLEASE DO NOT TREAT MILITARY VETERANS LIKE BEGGARS

An Ex-Serviceman’s Earnest Appeal

By

VIKRAM KARVE

As a military veteran who has served his entire life in the armed forces, I make an earnest appeal to the all concerned authorities (“powers-that-be”) and all citizens of India:

“Please do not treat military veterans like beggars”

If you do not want to give any concessions to military veterans and war widows, please do not give them.

But if you do decide to give concessions to military veterans and war widows, please do not make military veterans and widows of martyrs run from pillar to post begging to get what has been promised to them.

For a true soldier who has worn uniform, dignity and respect is more important than concessions and sops.

Recently a leading English News Channel showed reports of how promises of plots of land made to widows of gallantry award winning martyrs were not honoured by the “powers-that-be” and how these hapless war widows were being made to run from pillar to post for many years begging for allotment of land that was promised to them many years ago when their husbands gave the ultimate sacrifice of lives for the nation.

Do the “powers-that-be” feel that they are doing personal charity to military veterans by giving them concessions and that is why they are entitled to make military veterans or their widows run from pillar to post and beg for getting what is their due?

Why make promises that you cannot deliver?

Why announce sops and then make the delivery mechanism so cumbersome that it makes things difficult for the retired soldier to get his due?

For those soldiers, sailors and airmen in uniform, who may be living under the false impression that they will get some special treatment once they retire, let me make it very clear that military veterans are treated just like any other citizen.

Let me share my personal experience which happened today morning.

Just before I retired from the Indian Navy, I bought a flat in the PCMC area of Pune as my retirement home.

I saw a news item and an advertisement that PCMC had decided to give 50% rebate in property tax to military veteran ex-servicemen.

I went to the PCMC Office to get the form.

As usual, the forms were not available, so I was asked to request a certain clerk to take a printout.

The clerk did this most reluctantly and made some sarcastic comments about why such concessions were being given to military veterans, as if she bore a grudge against the military.

After running around to complete all the paperwork, which involved going to a lawyer to make an affidavit, getting a “life certificate” from my bank, attaching attested copies of PPO etc, I submitted the application.

As usual, there was plenty of red tape, as my file went up and down, with some clerk even questioning my eligibility, and I had to make three trips to follow up.

Someone suggested that a bit of “speed money” or mamool may help expedite matters, but I decided to wait – I was in no mood to pay bribes for what was my rightful due.

After a couple of months, the sanction letter was finally issued, giving me 50% rebate on property tax.

The municipal officer who gave me the sanction letter told me that the 50% property tax rebate sanction letter was valid as long as I was the owner of the property.

He advised me to get at least 10 photocopies of the letter made since one copy would be required to be submitted every time I paid my annual property tax.

Later, I realized that the rebate actually worked out to be roughly only 20% of the total amount, since the 50% rebate was only on the basic property tax element which was half of the total amount comprising various levies and charges which were not exempted, and everyone who paid on time was anyway entitled a 10% rebate, and rebates could not be combined.

I decided to pay my property tax online.

But there was a hitch.

The property tax bill was for the full amount and the ex-servicemen’s 50% rebate was not given in the bill.

If I paid online, then I would not get any rebate.

If I wanted to avail the 50% ex-servicemen’s rebate, then I was required to personally go to the ward office, stand in the queue, submit a copy of my rebate sanction letter along with the bill to the cashier, who would then calculate the rebate, and I would have to pay accordingly.

I did this for three years.

It seemed to be working fine, except for the inconvenience that I was not able to pay my property tax online.

Today morning, when I went to pay my annual property tax at the Thergaon Ward Office of PCMC, I was in for an unpleasant surprise.

When my turn came, the cashier told me that the procedure had changed, and now I had to get a new rebate sanction every year, and there was a new form to be filled for ex-servicemen’s rebate and he asked me to meet a certain clerk.

I showed the cashier my sanction letter and previous 3 years property tax receipts in which the 50% ex-servicemen’s concession was given.

But the cashier was not impressed and asked me to meet the clerk.

The clerk told me I would have to go through the entire procedure once again as the “powers-that-be” had decreed that property tax rebate sanction letter was to be issued every year.

In addition, I was required to get a letter from the local municipal corporator, certifying my identity and that I am alive (the Armed Forces Retired Officers Identity Card has no value as far as these authorities are concerned).

I did a quick mental calculation.

Was it worth disturbing my peace of mind by going through all the hassle, paperwork, red tape, the running around, petrol costs and waste of time for the modest amount of money I was saving by way of the 50% (in effect 20%) rebate?

Besides, what was the guarantee that even if I went through all this trouble, the “powers-that-be” would issue the rebate sanction letter before the deadline for availing rebate 30 June 2014?

Worst of all, I felt bad at the way I was being treated, despite identifying myself as a military veteran.

There may be a lot of rhetoric eulogizing military veterans, but the fact of the matter is that civilians do not care; especially civilian government and municipal employees who seem have a dislike for ex-servicemen.

I did not want to be treated like a beggar and made to run around from pillar to post just to suit the whims and fancies of the “powers-that-be”, despite the fact that I had a proper sanction letter.

I decided not to avail the 50% ex-servicemen’s rebate and I paid the full amount.

Since I will not be availing the ex-servicemen’s concession, from next year onwards I will save myself the trouble of going to the ward office and I am going to pay my property tax online like all civilians do.

I was angry at the attitude of the municipal employees which seemed to suggest: “If you retired military veterans want a concession then we will make you run around from pillar to post and beg for it”.

If PCMC wants to give a concession to ex-servicemen, why not give it gracefully?

Is “ex-servicemen’s welfare” a myth?

Why does every organization which is supposed to help ex-servicemen and look after their welfare, be it CSD, ECHS etc, make military veterans run around from pillar to post for what is their rightful due?

By making procedures difficult, isn’t it tantamount to denying facilities to ex-servicemen?

Why not simplify things for military veterans?

Instead of having multiple identity cards for each entitlement/facility, why not have just one biometric ex-servicemen’s card (like Aadhaar) which is applicable for all entitlements of military veterans?

India has recently elected a new government under the leadership of a dynamic Prime Minister Shri Narendra Modi, from whom everyone has high expectations.

Military veterans have high expectations from the new Prime Minister and his Government.

We military veterans and ex-servicemen hope that procedures will be simplified, corruption will be eliminated, efficiency of the government machinery will be improved and a message will be passed down to civilian government employees to treat military veterans and war widows with dignity and respect and give them their due in a helpful manner.

We trust that “ex-servicemen’s welfare” will become a reality.

Once again I appeal to the “powers-that-be” and all citizens:

Please do not treat military veterans like beggars.

If you do not want to give any concessions to military veterans and war widows, please do not give them.

But if you do decide to give concessions to military veterans and war widows, please deliver seamlessly with grace, efficiency and dignity, and please do not make military veterans and widows of martyrs run from pillar to post begging for what has been promised to them.

JAI HIND

OUTSOURCING EX-SERVICEMEN WELFARE

OUTSOURCING EX-SERVICEMEN WELFARE

Ramblings of a Retired Mind

By

VIKRAM KARVE

RETIRED VETERAN “FAUJIS” – ARE THEY WELL LOOKED AFTER?

Values change with time.

I earlier days, children considered it their bounden duty to look after their parents.

Now, it is not so.

That is why an increasing number of children want to migrate and settle down abroad, in America, Europe, Australia and other developed countries, for a better life, leaving their parents to fend for themselves back home.

As they imbibe modern western values, they will feel no pangs of conscience to put their parents in old age homes – in fact, it will seem a practicable thing to “outsource” parent-care to old age homes.

A similar value change is seen in the armed forces, the army, the navy, and the air force.

Earlier, just like children considered parent-care as their personal duty, serving officers considered it as their bounden duty to look after the welfare of veteran ex-servicemen.

Now, in a similar way as values have changed in the modern world, values have changed in the services too.

The Army Chief, Navy Chief and Air Force Chief consider it as their bounden duty to look after serving personnel under their command only.

The Service Chiefs seem to have no obligation, moral or formal, towards veteran retired ex-servicemen.

Maybe that is why the Service Chiefs have “outsourced” the welfare of ex-servicemen to the civilians of the Ministry of Defence (in the same manner as modern children outsource parent-care to old age homes).

In September 2004, the army, navy and air force “outsourced” the responsibility of looking after ex-servicemen and their widows to a newly created Department of Ex-servicemen Welfare (DESW) which is manned by civilians.

So, the uniformed services have abdicated the “duty” of looking after their “elders” (ex-servicemen), in the same manner as modern children wriggle out of their parent-care duties.

Values have changed.

If children can wash their hands of parent-care, what is wrong if the defence services wash their hands of ex-servicemen care?

Was it a good decision by the Armed Forces Chiefs to “outsource” ex-servicemen’s welfare to civilians?

Is the DESW proving to be more effective in ex-servicemen’s welfare than the Service Headquarters were in the past?

Well, only a veteran ex-serviceman who retired before 2004 and has experienced “both sides of the coin” (pre-2004 and post-2004) can probably answer these questions.

What do you feel – do you think retired veteran “faujis” are well looked after in India?

THE STORY OF A SOLDIER

THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

Short Fiction – The Story of a Soldier

By

VIKRAM KARVE

The Soldier sat on the footpath near the gate of the Accounts Office.

“Abe Langde … Hat Wahan Se (Hey you one-legged cripple … Move from there)” a street-food cart vendor said, “Yeh Meri Jagah Hai (This is my place).”

The soldier winced.

Then he looked down at his amputated leg.

Yes, he was indeed a cripple, a langda.

When he had joined the army he had two strong legs.

And now he had just one leg and one stump.

He picked up his crutch, pushed his body up and slowly hobbled a few steps away and was about to sit under a shady canopy near the street corner when a traffic policeman shouted, “Ae Bhikari … Wahan Mat Baith (Hey Beggar … don’t sit there).”

“Main Bhikari Nahin Hoon … Main Fauji Hoon (I am not a beggar … I am a soldier),” protested the soldier.

“Phir Border Pe Ja Kar Lad (Then go and fight on the border),” the policeman said with sarcasm.

“Wahi to kar raha tha (That is what I was doing),” the soldier mumbled to himself.

As the soldier tottered on the street on his crutches he talked to himself. 

He had been a fool to be brave. 

He should have played safe. 

At least he wouldn’t have lost his leg. 

And he wouldn’t have been discharged from the army as medically unfit.

Now he was being made to run from pillar to post for his disability pension because just because some clerk had “misplaced” his documents.

The soldier was exasperated.

In the army he was expected to do everything promptly and properly in double-quick time.

But these civilians were just not bothered.

First the paperwork was delayed due to red tape.

Then there were some careless typographical errors in his papers and his documents had to be sent back for the necessary corrections.

And now his papers had been misplaced.

It was sad.

Nobody was bothered about his plight.

The civilian babus comfortably cocooned in their secure 9 to 5 five-day-week jobs were slack and indifferent and did not give a damn for the soldiers they were meant to serve.

Civilians expected soldiers to be loyal unto the grave without offering loyalty in return.

“What is the big deal if you lost a leg?” one cruel clerk had remarked mockingly, “You soldiers are paid to fight. And if you die, or get wounded, it is a part of your job. You knew the risks before you joined, didn’t you? If you wanted to live a safe life why did you become a soldier? You should have become a chaprassi (peon) like your friend.”

Tears rolled down the soldier’s cheek as he thought of this.

Others were not so cruel and heartless, but their sympathy was tinged with scorn.

Indeed, he should have become a chaprassi like his friend who was now helping him get his disability pension.

Both he and his friend had been selected for the post of peon in a government office.

But he had been a fool – he told everyone that it was below his dignity to work as achaprassi and then he went to recruitment rally and joined the army as a soldier.

He made fun of his friend who took up the job of a peon and boasted with bloated pride about being a soldier.

And now the tables had turned and the peon was having the last laugh on the soldier.

The peon was secure in his job while the soldier was out on the street, crippled for life and begging for his pension.

And now his friend wasn’t even called a chaprassi – they had upgraded all Class 4 to Class 3 and his friend was now designated as “assistant”.

His friend would retire at the age of 60 after a safe, secure, easy, tension-free career without any transfers or hardships.

And if he got disabled they wouldn’t throw him out.

And if he died, his wife or son or daughter would get a job in his place.

Nothing like that for the soldier. He had to fend for himself.

The soldier felt disheartened.

He looked at his amputated leg and deeply regretted his decision to join the army.

Indeed he had made a mistake.

He would have been much better off as a peon or in some other civilian job.

The soldier also felt a sense of guilt that he had made fun of his friend.

Today he was at his friend’s mercy.

The soldier had to live on the kindness of the man he had once ridiculed and scoffed at.

It was a terrible feeling.

It was more than six months as he anxiously waited for his pension and dues.

His friend had given the soldier, and his family, shelter and food. And now he was trying to help him out by running around from office to office using the “peon network” to trace the misplaced papers.

The soldier felt sorry for his hapless wife.

She was at the mercy of his friend’s wife who openly derided her and made her displeasure quite clear by making scathing comments about the soldier, his wife and their children and kept on carping about how they were sponging on her hospitality like parasites.

The soldier’s wife hated his friend’s wife but she had to suffer the humiliation in silence and bear the daily insults – it was terrible to be at the mercy of someone who detested you.

Today the friend had asked the soldier to stand outside the gate and gone into the accounts office alone.

He had gone in alone because last time the soldier had spoilt everything by refusing to a pay a bribe to the accounts officer.

The soldier had even threatened the accounts officer that he would report the matter.

The accounts officer was furious: “Go and report. Nothing will happen. Now I will see to it that your papers are not traced until you die. What do you bloody soldiers think? That you can threaten us? This is not the army. This is the accounts office. Haven’t you heard the saying that the pen is mightier than the sword – now I will show you.”

Today his friend had gone inside to negotiate.

The clerks had told him not to bring the soldier inside the office as the egoistic accounts officer may get furious on seeing the soldier and everything will be spoilt.

Once everything was “settled”, they would try and trace the “misplaced” documents and he could take them out to obtain the soldier’s signature and resubmit the papers for clearance of the disability pension.

The soldier waited anxiously in the hot sun for his friend to come out. 

Angry thoughts buzzed in his mind.

“Ungrateful, corrupt people – all these civilians,” the soldier muttered to himself, “we sacrifice our life and limb for their sake and they humiliate us, even ask me to pay a bribe to get my own disability pension.”

“Patriotism, heroism, idealism – no one bothers about these things anymore. I made a mistake by joining the army,” he mumbled to himself, “I made a bigger mistake trying to be brave. What was the point of showing courage, initiative, daring and going beyond the call of duty to nab those guys? How does it matter if a few sneak in? Out here in the city, who is bothered about these things anyway? They don’t even know what is happening out there. Had I looked the other way no one would have known and I would not be a one-legged cripple – a langda. And even then, I wish they had shot me in the head and I had died. That would have been better”.

The soldier thought of his wife, his children, the bleak future awaiting them.

How long would they have to be dependent on the mercy of his friend and his loath wife?

He felt sad, very sad, as depressing thoughts of despondency and hopelessness perambulated in his brain.

He wondered whether his disability pension problem would be solved today.

It was taking long – his friend had gone in at 10 and it was almost 12 noon now.

The sweltering summer sun was hot and the soldier felt parched and weak.

He had drunk just a cup of tea since they started their journey to the accounts office in the city by bus from their friend’s home in the distant suburbs early in the morning.

Suddenly the soldier felt faint, so he walked towards the compound wall of the accounts office, took support and slid down to sit on his haunches.

At 12:30 his friend emerged from the gates of the accounts office. He was happy – the bribe had been paid, the documents had been promptly traced. Now all he had to do was get the soldier’s signature on the papers and he had been assured that the soldier’s disability pension and all his dues would be given within a month.

He began to look around for the soldier and saw him sitting strangely, propped against the wall.

The soldier’s eyes were closed and it seemed that he had fallen asleep.

Something seemed amiss, so he briskly walked towards the soldier, bent down and touched the soldier’s shoulder.

The soldier fell down to his side.

The friend panicked. He thought the soldier had fainted so he started shouting for help.

The traffic policeman, the street-cart vendor and some passers-by rushed to help.

The policeman told the vendor to sprinkle some water on the soldier’s face but nothing happened.

The policeman rang up the police control room for an ambulance.

“I hope he is not dead,” the friend said with trepidation.

“I don’t know. But it looks like he is totally unconscious. What happened? Who is he? He was muttering that he is a fauji – is he really a soldier?” the policeman asked.

The friend told the policeman the soldier’s story – the full story.

“Sad,” the policeman said, “very sad – the way they treat our soldiers.”

The ambulance arrived.

A paramedic examined the soldier and said, “I think he is dead. We will take him to the hospital. There the doctors will examine him and officially pronounce him dead.”

“The enemy’s bullets could not do what the babus did with their red tape. It is so sad. The enemy could not kill him but the these babus  killed him,” the policeman commented.

“Yes, the accounts officer was right,” the distraught friend said, “the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.”

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

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About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer and blogger. Educated at IIT Delhi, IIT (BHU) Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and an anthology of short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional  and academic research papers in journals and edited in-house journals and magazines for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing and blogging. Vikram Karve lives in Pune India with his family and muse - his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Academic and Creative Writing Journal: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
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Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Email: vikramwamankarve@gmail.com

      

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