I.

Here are some words that in recent years have gradually lost their meaning for me: democracy and elections, corruption and curfew, firing and accident, the-People and foodgrain, Satyamevajayate, flood and drought.¹

Each morning I seek them out in the papers: “The Double Murder of Two Sisters in Dhanbad,” one of whom made it onto the street, stumbled in front of a V.I.P’s car, bared her wound, cried out—“Help! Police! Justice!”—and then lost consciousness. I take great interest in Mohit Majumdar’s court case, far less in matters of “national importance,” and none whatsoever in the Parliament.² When the meteorologists declare that Hathiya Nakshatra has failed, and that there will be a drought, words like “hunger” and “famine” also lose their meaning for me.³ “You’ve come all the way from Calcutta to see the unfolding disaster,” I tell an English daily’s special correspondent. “Since you’re in Patna, why not see the Mela in Chatar-Sonpur?”⁴

Diwali is only three days away.⁵ Smoke hangs in the air. All evening we sit through the blare of firecrackers. My wife walks over to the window, glares at the children down below, then abruptly turns around and asks me, “Will you eat now? And will he be eating with us? Poor gentleman, I can’t imagine what he saw in those villages . . .”

I tell the correspondent, "Harvests have been very good in our parts, including where my family owns fields. All thanks to the Kosi Project.”⁶

He smiles, then replies, “I had thought you were a Hindi writer . . . I’ve heard that, in Hindi, hundreds of people write under the same pen name, and now I see that’s true.”⁷

The correspondent leaves and I am left to pity my inner writer. How dull and callous he is! Faced with a crisis, he recites his favored mantra: “This is false! Nonsense! All fraud! Stunt!”

I face the mirror and tell him: “Look here, there’s no getting away from poverty, hunger, refugees, and all that in Bihar—you know this as well as I do. Besides, you’ve written about “humanitarian issues” before, and with distinction, or at least that’s what some critics have said, and without losing hope either. So why are you behaving like a Bottle Prasad now?”

He responds: “Who is saying there is a drought? The Congress government? The Ruling Group or the Dissidents? The Socialists or the communists? Some self-declared public servant? All fraud! Stunt!”

The next morning my wife sends me to buy eggplants. Prices are up at the bazaar, as they are at the Rajdhani Bar. This kindles Mr. Bottle Prasad’s interest and he sets out to “witness” the drought.

The egg-seller Kallu consoles him: “It won’t be too many days, sir. Only till the twenty-fifth or thirtieth. After that everyone will return to their homes. Things will return to normal on their own. Think of this inflation as the drought’s . . .”

The fruit-vender Nagina Ram corrects him: “It’s not a drought sir, it is a flood! Five thousand babus from out-of-state have come to Patna. Go see the cafes between R Block of Gardhanibaag and Bikhna Hills. There’s not a vacant table!”

(Flood! Caps made of Dughdejhaval Khadi have flooded the city. The Tricolor! Jay-a-He! India!⁸)

The bar-proprietor Abdul disappoints him: “Sir, there’s no whisky left. Nor scotch, nor Desi, nor even Nepali . . .”

As does the hotel manager: “Forget Tandoori, there’s no chicken left at all. We receive a daily order of 150 chickens from the out-of-state people. Please wait till the twenty-fifth.”

(There is a drought in the bar and a famine in the hotel!)

In the days that follow a stream of philanthropists arrive to “witness” the drought. (The drought has turned into another Chatar Mela!) Political leaders hold solemn press conferences. (Is there a drought of leaders here?) Newspapers repeat the same story in different words. And Diwali is celebrated—How many rockets launched? How many sparklers lit?—in towns across Bihar. Meanwhile, out there, in the villages of Gaya, in the southern part of Munger, in the mountains and forests of Palamu and Hazaribaag, the earth cracks, water seeps into the underworld, and people die of hunger.

(All fraud! Stunt! These are rumors spread by that fraud named “Jayprakash Narayan.”⁹ Remember the claims he made about the Bhoodaan land grants, about Bhutan, Nagaland, Kashmir?¹⁰ He’s making the same claims about the draught now. The subjects change but his agenda is the same—to incite compassion in our innocent hearts. But his appeals go over our heads, or rather, over our Khadi caps! . . . Who can afford to donate money at such a time? . . . March on Delhi! . . . Jai Hind!)

The news starts to trickle in—people are dying.

A telegram arrives from the editor of Dinmaan. He is flying in from Delhi to see the drought-affected regions. (That is, he is flying in to see the Chatar Mela!) Might I be able to travel with him for a few days? I confess that the telegram is not welcome. I feel I should return to my village, to help with the harvest, it’s just about time, another week and it will be too late . . . But, as you probably guessed, I fail to make my exit. For it’s not Dinmaan’s editor Vatsyayan who wrote to me. Rather, it is his earlier avatar, the revolutionary, poet, novelist, and pontificator Agyeya—in a word, The Traveler!¹¹

Wearily, I go to the airport. A long line of disgruntled Congressmen disembark from the plane. They march past and I hold Vatsyayan Ji back: it’s best we let them leave. He smiles.

Agyeya is famously taciturn. But I have always found his silence to be rather expressive. It asks the hard questions: Have you been to the drought-hit villages? Why not? Is a writer not part of society? Why so sullen? Are you ill? Why? Answer me, why?

I let my head fall in response.

II.

Maps of Patna, Gaya, Munger, Hazaribaag, and Palamu are spread out before us—maps drawn over fifty or even hundred years ago. We need them, as I don’t know which road leads from Patna to Jumai. Or from Gaya to Chatra. Nor can I say which district Chhatarpur is in. Squinting through my glasses, I can’t make out the tiny letters on the map, which Agyeya takes off his glasses to read. From time to time, he asks some questions, which I pretend not to hear. My journalist-friend Jitendra Singh answers.

I had thought that Agyeya would first meet the Chief Minister of Bihar. And after that the Minister of Agriculture. Only then he would travel to the drought-hit areas, at the government’s behest, on a jeep or helicopter or airplane. State officials would greet him at stops along the way, and promise to meet all his demands, however far-fetched those might be. But in fact, the name at the top of his diary was Jayprakash Narayan, who had, as it happens, left Patna for Gaya just the day before. Agyeya wanted us to meet J.P. before we set off on our pilgrimage. Which meant we had to leave for Gaya right away.

I had hoped to get an hour’s rest after lunch: post-prandial sleep is important for my well-being. Instead, I had to drowsily gather my bedding and clothes, much to the amusement of my wife, in whose eyes I am the world’s foremost lazybones—she likes to call me “His Holy Laziness” or “Lazy Bharati” or even “The Image of Lazy Bihar.” A Bengali saying was etched on my face: “Having cast my lot with Mughals, I must eat with them too.”¹²

When Jitendra returned without a taxi, Agyeya decided that we would take the train, which was leaving in less than half an hour.(If it were left to me, we would have waited for the next morning’s express.) In two swift movements, the Traveler slung his camera over his shoulder, lifted his briefcase and basket, and turned to set out. I hadn’t even rolled up my bedding yet. And my things were strewn all around. Squeezing my leg into a pair of Pajamas, I cast around for the string which would hold it together. My wife yelled at me as she packed up my belongings: “What are these useless things you are packing? They will only weigh you down!”

The two learned men must have felt that I would weigh them down. The Traveler, who is a giant of a man, was probably tempted to carry me on his other shoulder.

It was “Small Nahan,” the day before Karthik Punrnima.¹³ (In Bihar, the eve of all festivals are celebrated on a smaller scale: Small Holi, Small Diwali, etc.) Chatar Mela had just begun, which should tell you how crowded the Patna-Gaya train was. We had left with Durga’s name on our lips.¹⁴ At the platform, we muttered Kali’s name instead. Pilgrims had taken over both first-class bogeys and there was no space on the footboards, let alone in the compartment.¹⁵ We asked a policeman to help, but he just ambled on. Then Jitendra himself tried and failed to reason with the pilgrims. Finally, Agyeya stepped forward, his arms spread out, and blocked one entrance: “If you don’t come out, then I won’t let the train move. Come on!”

Silence fell over the crowd. People hastily disembarked. We entered and somehow closed the door behind us. Right away, the rowdy elements piped up again, pushing from the outside and banging on the windows. Someone opened the other compartment door and called for them to enter. I mumbled a prayer, sensing the climax was nigh.

As the train began to move, people dropped away from the footboard one after the other, though a handful made it in—and they did not look happy. Four men walked up to our berth and blocked the passageway. One was a student at the local Polytechnique, the second a bus conductor (this bus conductor annoyed me the most), the third a highschooler on his first pilgrimage, and the fourth a proud farmer. I say “proud” because this Khadi-clad gentleman, Mr. Singh, was at pains to stress his profession, preceding every comment with the phrase “as a farmer.” Keep that in mind as you read what follows.

Mr. Singh’s opening salvo, which was peppered with the choicest abuses, was directed against the Congress. But the farmer did not admire the other parties uncritically either: he went on to list the good and bad leaders among the socialists, communists, Hindu chauvinists, and even some regional outfits. Then he settled on the matter that was clearly dear to his heart, which was the abysmal state of Indian politicians, who did nothing but practice leadership, or what he called cockfighting—he mentioned chickens and their eggs after every point. During the independence struggle, the farmer said, politicians had taken lathi beatings, gone to jail. Now all they took were bribes, chickens and eggs . . .

I grabbed his chicken’s leg—stole his weapon—and used it against him, saying “as a farmer” after my sentences. That calmed Mr. Singh down. He saw that we weren’t politicians. In short, our sense of humor prevailed. The Polytechnique student, who had held a rock in our face, bought us a round of tea when he got down.

At Gaya station, I ran into an old friend, a member of the Railways Union. “Where are you off to,” he asked me. “To meet J.P.? But Boss, J.P. is on his way here, to the station, he’s late, we’ve had to keep the train waiting for him. Yes, I am sure. He is going to Benares . . .”

There he stood out at the far end of the platform. His broad frame lit against the setting sun. And with that peaceful smile that always drew me in.

As always, his schedule was hectic. “I am going to Benares now. On the thirtieth I will be in Jhumri district . . . After that? In Patna from the second to fourth.”

He gave Agyeya a list of villages: “Definitely go there . . . Yes, that area is the most affected . . . There isn’t even water to drink left there.”

Then he turned to me and said: “So, you are here too.”

Jitendra answered: “Sir, the Hindi language’s two most . . .”

As the train set out, I read a prayer on J.P.’s lips: Nabhinandet Maranam Nabhinandet Jeevitam, Kalabhev Prateekshatam Nirdeshmritko Yatha.¹⁶

The Buddhist faith avers that sadness exists and that life’s purpose is to free oneself from sadness. Happiness it does not promise. Buddhists do not set store in the afterlife and they are agnostic about God, unlike Hindus, who believe that they inherit the virtues and sins of earlier births, and that God makes some more equal than others.

I recall Ramakrishna. At Deogarh, he saw a village of starving and naked Santhals, and brought the Kashi Yatra to a halt: “First give them their fill of food . . . Pour your Kashi Ganga down the drain . . . I don’t want to bathe in its waters. . . Give them their fill of food, for it is they who are Shiva. It is they who are Narayan.”¹⁷

III.

The first thing Agyeya did at the guesthouse was track down the Khansama and order a bed tea.¹⁸ When he asked when I wanted it delivered, I promptly answered: “At six-thirty!” (At home I never wake up before eight.) The next morning, the bed tea arrived right as I entered my favorite phase of sleep—that phase in which you dimly hear and see but still rest and dream. The door opened; he came in and left. A few minutes later, I heard tinkling spoons and cups. And then I understood that bed tea also meant—“Kindly wake up.”

I am fond of Gaya’s Tilkut sweetmeats, Maghi Beetlejuice, and Thumri performances.¹⁹ I thought of these, and of my literary friends in the city. How nice it would have been to nurse a cup of lemon tea with them on a pleasant morning like this one. We could have wiled away a few hours chatting about art, literature, music—or, if it came to that, Bihar’s social problems. But The Traveler was already fiddling with his camera’s filters and zoom lenses. He was silent, which meant—“Don’t simply wake up. Kindly get ready as well.”

A pleasant surprise awaited us in the lobby: some local writers had come to pay their respects to The Traveler. They would have probably liked to hear him hold forth on poetry and prose. Instead—as tea and snacks were served—we enquired about the drought and the famine. Each one duly reported what they had seen and heard. We noted down a few more village names. When the time came for us to leave, they tracked down a taxi agent, catching sight of whom I thought to myself, ‘Oh, I know this man.’ His throaty voice settled it. I went up to him and asked, “Did you take a film crew from Mumbai around rural Bihar last summer? Our names rhyme. Those film people made a ditty out of it. Your name is . . . Rameshwar or some Ishwar. . .”

His face lit up. “Sir, my name is Kauleshwar. I was trying to place you as well. I am happy to accept whatever you offer for the trip. Why only till Navada? And why only for one day? The car is at your service for two, three, four, five, how many ever days it takes. But whenever you end the trip, and wherever you end it, do send me a quick note by way of the driver. I have quite a few testimonies of these kinds from government officials, and even foreigners. And don't worry, Ganesh is a sweet and simple boy. You will certainly be satisfied with him. And please, treat the car as your own.”

Our first stop was the local A.D.M.’s bungalow, where the young official and his relief officer lectured us—“We are fully confident of achieving success in this battle”—about work-schemes, small-irrigation, seed-distribution, dam construction . . .²⁰ Then we paid a quick visit to the temple. Roaming its courtyard, I thought of Ripunjay, Bimbisar, Ajastashastru, Shishunaag, Mahapuanad, Chandragupta, Ashoka; of the Shunya-Puranas and Communist Manifesto; of Rahul Ji, Bandat, and Nagarjuna. I remembered texts read years ago, interpretations of the Vajrayana and Bhrijatav schools of Buddhism, which stress the primacy of an individual's rights.²¹ Humanism is truth, all else is falsehood. Absolute happiness is absolutely divinity is absolute nothingness. On that note, we left Gaya behind, and our real journey began.

The Traveler left the backseat and sat beside the driver. As the car wound around potholes, his head swayed from left to right, from right to left—like an automated device, like a windshield wiper—while his eyes vigilantly scanned the landscape. Abruptly, his finger fell on Ganesh’s left shoulder, and the driver pressed the brakes. The Traveler got out to stalk his target. A group of women were crossing the roads with baskets of grain on their heads. It seemed like a good harvest. Click! (But wait a minute, that’s not grain, that’s dried grass!) The Traveler needed another shot in color. He returned to the car, switched cameras, rushed back towards the women, and pointed the big lens at one of them—this time it would be a portrait. She covered her face with her Choli and spun away.

The village names got more evocative as we inched closer to Navada. “Guruchakra,” “Budhgairey”—surely, the Buddha had passed this way? And the Shrichakra ceremony must have taken place in one of these hamlets. Jitendra and I told our favorite stories from Siddhartha’s life. Even Vatsyayan Ji seemed keen to join, when, suddenly, the road came down a hill and opened out in a vast, flat, and entirely dry plain. Acres and acres and not a blade of grass. Not a speck of green. And this was not fallow land but planted fields. Mr. Bottle Prasad stirred, shifted in his seat, and disappeared in a flash. In his place, sat the son of a farmer from a village in Bihar, and all he was thinking was: if such a drought had struck my district, then my land, the cows and goats, the woman, and children, they too would . . .

What’s in those bundles: wheat, maize, millet? What’s in those sacks on those cars: grain or fodder? Where is she going with that old goat? Surely, to sell it? Those men, what are they digging? . . . Children are still running about. A small boy shrieks in happiness, Ho-Ya-Ya! That girl resembles our village beauty . . . Bright-colored clothes are drying in that village, there must been a wedding, or a Gauna.²² . . . What are those men eating? Is free milk served at schools? . . . It rained here recently didn’t it? Surely that must have helped. But where is the evidence? There, a slender green stalk! . . . People move in distant fields, dig the earth, hammers rise and fall . . . Could that be, yes, an ATR Craft is parked in that clearing. People rush towards it, fall over one another, fight . . . Here, very close by, three rafts float in a pond. The water level is so low.

The Traveler opens the folder and pulls out a map. He asks: “Which village did J.P. want us to see? . . . You had written it down, yes, Khosla. It is six miles away, on the road from Hasua to Rajgir. After that we will go to Miyabhiga.”

We stopped twice more before Khosla. The first time was when The Traveler spotted a farmer tilling his dry land. When we got down and tried to engage this man in conversation, he didn’t even tell us his name. (If he spoke to every passersby, would there even be time for tilling?) He vulgarly swore at his bullock and got on his plough. It took him some two minutes to get around the far ridge and back. Again, we asked him, “Brother, what is your name?” “Name? Our name is Jaago.” Click! At that, Jaago gestured at his wife, who was standing on the far ridge. She disappeared behind a screen of trees. That brought an end to our conversation.

The second stop was at a hamlet named Bulva, where a group of young boys were digging on the worksite. The naked children of Musahars.²³ They kindly told us their names: Brijnandan Singh, Bipani Bihari Sharma, Binjender, Vijaykumar, and Latan. Click! As our car sped off, Bijender said—“Asshole. They took Latan’s photo as well. Will that poor fucker be naked in the photo?”

IV.

We turned off the paved road and drove down the mud track as far as the car could manage. Then we got down and walked. There were no beds of leafy greens or even wild Bhutke spinach planted along the path.

Small mud houses . . . desolate huts . . . rags set to dry on thatched roofs. . . a crematorial scent in the air . . . A skeletal man walks by with broken mud vessels . . . A mother, with her child in her hands, approaches, catches sight of us, and stops short. Her child looks at us with glazed eyes. The mother turns her face away. Between black lips, her white teeth flash like lightning. I recite the Mool Mantra.²⁴

We reached the village’s central quarter. An old woman was seated on the ground, beside a fallen mud wall. As we came closer, she launched into an incomprehensible diatribe, in broken-teethed sentences, her nostrils flaring, the shrunken skin near it trembling, her eyes spinning . . . I mentally recited the thousand names of Kali—“Ghorrupa, Ghordanshtra, Ghora, Ghortara, Shubha, Kotrakshi, Bahumashini, Prachanda, Chandi, Chandavegini, Yakshini, Yogini, Jara, Rakshasi, Dakini, Vedmayi, Vedvibhushana, Nishturvadini, Maa!”²⁵

A young girl, seven or eight years old, looked out at me from a hut. Her mother hastily got up, swaddled her in clothes. The girl blabbered something. Mute figures emerged from the other huts—children, grandmothers, middle-aged women, girls in their prime. There was not a male in sight, but for a pale, scrawny young boy, with eyes mottled like old coins.

None of us knew Magahi. But it is my belief that anyone who speaks a little Mythili, Bengali, Bhojpuri, or even pure Hindi can, when the time comes, get by in this dialect. The trick is to catch its spoken rhythm. I say all this to preface the conversation that follows. A Magahi-speaker would not have considered my speech to be pure. But they would have understood me.

“Where have all the men gone?” I asked. “I can’t see a single one in the village.”

“Where else. To work of course,” a woman answered.

“What’s cooking over the fire? I can see some smoke”

“Cooking! What’s there to cook? I’ve just lit some dung cakes for the new mother here. That is the smoke you see.”²⁶

“So there’s nothing left to eat? No grains or vegetables? And, tell me, what’s your name? Come on, don’t be shy now. And whose child is this? Is he ill? Yes? Is he starving? He is?”

My words seemed to ease the tension. People came closer. It seemed as if every grandmother, mother, and aunt in the village was here to show me their children.

“Five men work, and all they get is five measly fistfuls of Kesari!”²⁷

“And even the bloody Kesari is rotten with fungus.”

“Our Malikvan’s does not care.²⁸ And why should he be? He's hoarding grain in that mansion.”

“Grain that we grew and threshed.”

“And now he’s digging tube-wells for electricity.”

“There is no one to look after the poor.”

“For seven days this new mother has been drinking a measly Kesari gruel. Dear God, we have never witnessed anything like this before.”

“If mothers do not eat, how will babies survive?”

“There’s not even any breast milk . . .”

The Traveler adjusted the camera’s viewfinder. “Keep on talking,” he said.

“And what is your good name?” I ask that sharp-eyed girl who looks like my daughter.

“Go on, speak up. Tell it to them. Jasodhiya.”

“Jasodha.”

“Vah, Mother Jasodha,” Jitendra said.²⁹

A smile spread across her face— just like my daughter! I took Yashoda by the hand and pulled her towards me.

A famished young mother peered in through the lattice, and then walked in with a toddler swaddled in rags. She addressed her sister: “Have a photo of Akaal taken as well.”

“Akalva” and “Sukhadi”: honest names for children born amid a drought.³⁰

I asked, “When was Akal’s Chatthi celebrations?”³¹

“Yesterday.”

“Keep on talking.”

“What is Aklava’s mother’s name?”

“Bacchi Devi.”

“Is she Aklava’s aunt? What’s her name?”

“Kalsuri Devi.”

“How many days has it been since you ate rice?”

This question prompted much laughter, “Eh-he-he.”

“The last time we ate rice was in the month of Ashwin.”³²

“And what is your name, dearest?”

“Pinodapa.”

The sick child with those sad eyes now broke into tears.

“His name is Binodava.”

“Binodava, where is your father?”

“He is in Calcutta, working in the Bishnoi Electricity Company.”

“Has any government card-urd been distributed in this village? A red-colored card?”³³

This question prompted more laughter, of the dry kind: “Where will we receive this damn card? And even if we did, there is no grain even in the store.”

“Just as there’s no pity in the Malikvan’s heart.”

“Everyone from our grandfathers to our grandsons have busted their bones in Malikvan’s service, and still he can’t shed a tear of pity for us.”

One of the men from the Malik-Tola had been quiet so far.³⁴ Now he spoke up: “Arey! Which father has birthed a son who can feed everyone? God decides who to feed and who to leave hungry.”

Binodava’s mother cut him short: “Arey, even God has sold out to the Malikvan, even God is blind and deaf. Hay re, such injustice! For three days we have not gotten a single millet roti; and in their Haveli, sweets and puris are fed to God for the Satnaryana festival. How arrogant are they! If we try to stand up to the Malikvan, he will report us to the police as thieves or dacoits. He will put us in jail. Go ahead, I say, put us is jail. At least in jail you get something to eat! Oh-ho-ho, who is there to look after the poor?”

Jitendra said, “This is unfortunate.”

“A pox of cholera on the Malikvan’s house!”

I was shocked by her curse. Jitendra shook his head and said “Hoon-Hoon.”

The old women checked herself, “When there’s fire in the belly, curses slip out of the mouth.”

“We have sold our utensils, Billy goats, nanny goats, everything.”

“I don’t know how we will survive the winter.”

“How will we light a fire?”

“Even the firewood belongs to the Malikvan.”

“They should bloody burn.”

“Binodava, come here, right before me . . .”

The light inside had turned faint. As the camera flashed, we caught a glimpse of terror on Binodava’s face, which made us all laugh.

Agyeya was quiet. Jitendra’s face looked red. I tried to find the right words of farewell: “Well then . . . we shall make our leave now. We will return another time . . .”

What could I have said beyond this? What should have been said? Should I have promised to send them food from the city? And milk? And medicines? None of which they had. And why had we come here in the first place? And where had we come? To the inferno? Or the paradiso? The famished women of Khosla village could had sworn at us, hit us with broomsticks, ripped our clothes to shreds, and kicked us out: we would not so much as have lifted a finger. Our bellies were full, our bodies were clothed. We were guilty.

At the end of the path, I turned around and saw them gathered, looking at us. Just as the women of the village look at the men during Vidaai.³⁵ Scrawny Binodava, hungry Jashoda, parched Bacchi Devi, famished Kalsuri Devi, and the toddler sucking on his dry mother’s breasts. Why had I promised to return?

“Our regards! Our regards!! Our regards!!!”

Let me say this once and for all: I will never come back to Khosla village! Why should I? To learn that Jashoda is no more. That Akalva has eaten his mother. That Binodvada was not given a handful of Kesari on the day he died. That no one remembers a girl named Jashoda. Jashoda, my mother! Jashoda, my daughter!

Back in the car, we sat in silence, for what seemed like an hour. At last Ganesh turned on the engine and we set out towards Miyabhaga. But we didn’t have the courage to enter another starving village. As we passed Khosla on the way back, I peered out the window, into the darkening twilight. Not a single lamp was lit. And yet I thought I saw Binodava’s eyes aglow.

“Where have we reached?”

“Navada.”

“Where will we halt tonight?”

“Here itself. But it’s important that we first meet the local S.D.O.³⁶ Right away, immediately.”

It was pitch black by the time we reached Navada S.D.O. Mr. Abdul Khair’s office. Outside, in the veranda, there were agents, clerks, peons, and not a few businessmen milling about. (Or were they politicians? It can be hard to tell the difference.) A peon seated us in the chamber, went in Khair Saheb, and returned to tell us that he was reading the Namaz. I wondered if it was the Magrib Namaz, which is read at sunset, or the Istarka Namaz, which is read during famines and droughts, as a prayer for rain.

At last, Khair Saheb came out: “How are you? Who are you? I do not recognize you.”

Jitendra said: “Greetings sir. I’ll tell you right away—he is the editor of Dinmaan; I am a journalist. And he is, uh, . . . We are touring the drought-affected areas.”

“Oh-ho-ho! I had thought that you were here to provide some kind of relief. But you gentlemen have traveled to see relief. Never mind then!”

He led us into his office. The phone rang. The respected officer begged our pardon, picked up the receiver, and spoke, in very formal Hindi, to a Saheb on the other end of the line, “Yes, write it down. You are writing it, correct? Date: the twenty-fifth, five wagons of corn. Sir, the train line from here to Tailiya is jammed. The wagon can only be emptied when . . . Our soldiers are at least patrolling at night, but still . . . Last night, some Musahars were caught stealing grain from the sacks.³⁷ . . . Yes, otherwise everything is good . . . How are things there? . . . Today’s statement can only be given when the man arrives from the station . . . Red Card! Relief Card 118? Yes, sir. The cards are being distributed. We are hoping that the remaining are distributed as speedily as possible!”

When the call ended, Khair Saheb asked us if we had any questions. We described the alarming situation in Khosla and Miyabhaga, “No one there has received the red card.”

For the first time, Khair Saheb grew serious. He looked away for a few moments. Then, visibly shaking, he said, “Yes, it has not been distributed there. I will caution Hasua’s relief officer tomorrow itself. The situation will not be alarming for much longer. And do you have any relief for me?”

V.

We were put up in Navada’s Inspection Bungalow Number One, a place that seemed familiar. Then again, all Inspection or Daak or Halting Bungalows are alike.³⁸ The Khansamas look the same; the snacks and meals taste the same; the rooms have the same smell; and the rod and stake holding up the mosquito net sways in the same way. When a Saheb arrives at such a bungalow, the first thing he does is summon the Khansama to ask: “What can you make for breakfast and for lunch?” All the Khansamas give the same answer: “We can make whatever you’d like to order . . . And there’s a special-dish too.”

The first thing we did was order a pot of hot water.

After my cup of coffee, I went outside and stood alone for a while. The full moon was high in the sky. It struck me that Sama Chakeva celebrations were underway across North Bihar.³⁹ Single women would have gathered in the village’s central quarter, to sing songs in welcome of the birds flying down from the Himalayas. Not a single Waterfowl or Red-Crested Pochard is seen in years, like this one, when paddy fails. If the harvest is good, a flock of fifty might descend on a plot and clean it out in a day. Even so, they are considered auspicious.

A sweet fragrance wafted by and drew me back inside, where the Traveler was taking stock of the day’s events in his diary. A traveler should always carry on them a packet of their favored incense sticks. That way, every room smells like your own.

The Khansama gave the same response to all our questions:“First class, Sir!” The flour will be good, right? First Class, Sir! Is there a dish without spices? The vegetable stew. First Class, Sir! I didn’t dare ask him about the drought and famine. No doubt he would have said: First Class, Sir!

I tore a piece of hot Phulka, dipped it in the Vegetable Stew, lifted it towards my mouth, and then put it down. Binodava and Jasodha were hungry. Wrapped under rags, choking in the hearthstone’s smoke, the children were likely willing themselves to sleep. Khair Saheb had said that red cards would be distributed in these areas. Thousands of containers of milk powder, vitamin pills, and jam-jelly were arriving from the U.S. He assured us that no one would die of hunger.

I looked over at Agyeya. Similar images seemed to be flashing through his mind. He probably wanted to say something about the Vegetable Stew. I wanted to praise the Phulkas. It would have been ungrateful not to.

“Why the fireworks? Because of the full moon? Or Lakshmi Puja?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they call the part of the plant that remains in the ground after the paddy stalks are harvested?

“Khutti.”

“When you asked them when the boy had last eaten rice, what did they answer?”

“In the month of Ashwin.”

“Why the name Musahar?”

“Maybe because they forage for grain in rat holes. Maybe because they hunt rats.”

“They are dying, and they will keep dying. They are landless people.”

“Hmm . . . What time shall we leave tomorrow?”

“That’s up to you. Whenever you are ready.”

I went to bed early that night and was awoken by a loud sound at one in the morning. Not a rocket but a bomb.⁴⁰ Another one went off ten minutes later. And again and again after that, at ten minute intervals, till half past four. Each time the birds were roused awake, flapped around in the dark, and then returned to their perch. It was probably for the best that I couldn’t sleep. For sleep brings with it dreams. The kind of dreams that leave you writhing and drenched in sweat.

Maps were brought out the next morning. (I thought of Sanskrit tales in which journeyman Brahmins whip out their Shastras to seek guidance: Mahajano Yen Gataha Pantha.⁴¹) We plotted a route through the villages which J.P. had mentioned: Kauakole, Pakribarwan, Chausa, Khagaur, Qadirganj. As our car inches towards Kauakole, my memories draw me back, at great speed, towards 1940, 1941, 1942 . . .

J.P. smuggled out an essay from prison.⁴² It is published as a pamphlet titled, “Is This War Unwinnable?” A letter he wrote to Prabhavati Ji is intercepted by the British Administration, who published it in the national and foreign press, to slander his name.⁴³ But in fact, that letter took on a historical significance. The program it spelled out was ratified in the August Kranti.⁴⁴ Months later, J.P. escaped from jail and was arrested again in Hanumannagar in Nepal. Freedom fighters stormed the jail. . . .

One of our militant comrades in prison grabbed an activist of the Pratidil group, knocked him over, sat on his chest, and shouted:“Want to call J.P. a reactionary? I will kill you.”⁴⁵ And the damned bell went off.

After we were released, a friend of mine—someone I had known since childhood, when we ran around in short-pants—denounced J.P. and I never spoke with him again. “I hate talking to you . . .”

The car halted. The Traveler had caught sight of a herd of famished cows. . . One ploughing in that field over there had fallen over . . . A pack of vultures circled overhead . . . Fog hid the distant hills and rock-faces. The earth had an ash-like color. Cracks ran along the crop-less fields. Birds made mating calls.

My mind once again races back to the past . . . After the first election, the party called a general meeting to discuss results at Patna’s Anjuman-Islamia Hall. Members launched arrows of personal (as well as unfounded) accusations at one another. Tears welling in his eyes, J.P. left the building, never to return to the party . . . There was a large group of people who were angry at J.P. Who claimed that he had wasted their youth. That he had harmed not only the Indian but the entire Asian struggle for socialism. I too was upset with him. But the cause of my anger was different.

At Parsama village, we came across a huge worksite, where maybe three hundred laborers were digging. Working the earth. It seemed as if all the landless Musahars and Rajwars of Khosla and Miyabhiga were employed here, along with their children.⁴⁶ We spoke to them in Khari-Boli.⁴⁷ The same outrage, the same anger. They opened their hearts to us: “Brother, can we be honest? . . . These days we eat rice in our dreams.”

VI.

When Agyeya offered a guava to a Bengali Musahar’s child, the boy at first hesitated. He had probably forgotten what fruits were. Then, with a quick glance around to check if his parents were watching, he ran towards us. What is heaven but the smile which spread across that boy’s withered face . . . (No, there is no need to be this sentimental. It is in a bout of sentimentality that Nakshatra Malakar . . .⁴⁸)

Nakshatra Malakar had been on my mind since the previous night. He was a friend of mine. The son of a poor Mali who grew flowers on tiny patch of land, Nakshatra had, God knows how, came under the spell of the freedom movement as a young boy. He made off to a Satyagrahi campsite and was jailed.⁴⁹ Then, in 1937-38, he was inducted into socialism at the Summer School of Politics that Jayprakash Ji ran at Sonpur. It was J.P. who gave him the name Nakshatra Malakar. Otherwise, history would have remembered him as Nacchatar Mali or just Nacchatara.

In 1949, a famine had spread across parts of the Purnia-Bhagalpur region. All the big farmers and cattle traders hid away their grain. The call went out: after Bengal, it was Bihar’s turn to suffer . . .⁵⁰ The farmers-and-workers parties duly called an emergency meeting, at which program were laid out to discuss the problem. Meanwhile, Nakshatra gathered a band of famished vagrants and led them on a looting spree through the granaries and homes of the rich . . . Maliks cowered in their Haveli as the news went around. Today in Mohanpur . . . tomorrow in Dolbaja . . . the day after at the Peerpaiti Market . . . A bounty of Rs. 5,000 was placed on Nakshatra’s head. He was expelled from our party.

Around that time, the Patna-based weekly Janata published a long reportage by me about the famine, in which I criticized and even slandered Nakshatra’s actions. I said it was wrong of him to cut off the noses and ears of his enemies. (Even today, in the Purnia-Bhagalpur region, there are dozens of nose-less and ear-less landlords.) A week after the reportage was published, Nakshatra sent me message: “When I arrived at night to cut off your nose and ears, on which hang gold-framed spectacles, you were writing. At that time your face looked like a flower. Write whatever comes to your mind. Abuse me. But visit these villages and you will take it all back. See laughter on the face of a starving child and you too will forget prison, the noose, and hell, and set about doing as I do. . .”

Fifteen years later, I see that my friend Nakshatra had been right—I am ready for jail, the noose, or hell. (No, there is no need to grow sentimental. Why don’t you scientifically analyze the matter, concluding that J.P. is an obstacle in the road to revolution? Because the Shastras say so!)

At a field outside Jumai, The Traveler got down to inspect a cattle skeleton. Dogs fought nearby, vultures flew overhead, and crows had gathered.

We stopped at the Biharsharif-Navada bus depot to check our route on the maps. Hot Urad Dal Pakodas cooked in linseed oil . . . Smoke coming out of black kettles . . . Snacks . . . Chatter on all sides . . . Marijuana smoke . . .

A man from the local shop ran up to us. With his Khaki half-shirt, wooden stick, and face marked by small-pox, he looked like the road official. I asked him, “Brother, how is this road to Biharsharif?

He answered, “This road is better.”

The tea stall erupted in laugher. So this man was the local jester. Agyeya Ji said, “Arey Brother, why are you speaking English when our questions are in Hindi?”

“Because I was born in the British Era . . . Yes. Born in English Raj. My Name? . . . Lala Agent! Yes . . . Thankyou . . . Salute!”

This time we laughed too.

The landscape turned greener as we drove towards Daltonganj . . . Fields bursting with grain . . . Women thresh . . . Shepherds hum . . . Peasants walk with a spring in their step . . . Children wail with joy . . . Well-fed goats saunter around . . . Cows chew cud on the ground. . . . . . The sweet smell of Agahani, mixed with petrol⁵¹ . . . The sun sets over the Rajgir Mountains before us . . . The moon rises behind us . . .

Memories of childhood returned to Agyeya. The famously reticent man began to talk. He seemed distant, almost as if a tape of his reminisces were playing . . .

Four decades ago, the archaeologist Shri Harinand Shastri had dug a site in this very area, which the teenager Agyeya visited. He saw statues pulled out of the earth. Upon a closer look, he observed the smile still intact on one of the figures. It seemed to him that the blank pages of history were once again. . .

. . . A decade before, child Agyeya and his brothers visited the bazaar at Biharsharif. They were there for a play about Harishchandra the Truthful, which brought Agyeya to tears. On the way back to Nalanda, the boys were abducted by dacoits. The others cried but Agyeya was silent, unfazed, as if this were all a play, at the end of which, the truth would prevail. And in a way, it did. For some reason the dacoits set them free.

The moon is high in the sky . . . Lights of oncoming trucks and jeeps . . . The eyes of bullocks and cows and buffaloes and jackals and dogs . . . Village campfires . . . Garlands of electric lights strung across small towns . . .

For a clearer sight of the moon, The Traveler got out of the car and walked out to a ridge in the middle of a field. A crew of young Musahars were at work, stooped amid the paddy. Their Malik sat on a ridge with a big lathi balanced on his shoulders, lazily crushing tobacco in his palm. He seemed to be regaling his serfs with dirty stories. Catching sight of us, he said, “Arey, if you want to take photographs, go to the temple. Some Nagas have come there.”

When we ignored him, he turned to Ganesh, “How are you doing, Mr. Driver? You don’t happen to have any weed, do you? We might as well light up a chillum as they conduct their business.”

Who will believe a drought’s struck Bihar? From here, all that seems like an illusion. But then, past Aurangabad, the earth was again scorched and littered with carcasses.

The slate-colored clouds grew thicker. The road ascended the Ghat and wound around hairpin turns. It began to drizzle. Under heavy rain, we arrived in Daltonganj, at around six in the evening. By seven we were at the bungalow of Deputy Commissioner Dr. Kumar Suresh Singh. For more than an hour, he solemnly laid out the district’s problems, repeating the phrase—bad days lie ahead!

The next morning was overcast. We set out for the villages, where the Bharat Sevak Samaj was organizing a Langar.⁵² The D.C. would inaugurate the event. The organizers had invited us as well.

At Basna, a crowd of famished souls had gathered, awaiting the officer . . . Rotis are rolled out . . . Vegetables cooked . . . Ashoka leaves are hung over the entrance gate . . . A mic is tested . . . The speakers’ names are listed, who will make the introduction, the conclusion . . . The hungry crowd looks in our direction: who is arriving in this fancy car?

The people we met in Gaya and Munger had not lost the will to live. But here there was no hope. The shadow of death had seized their faces, which were free of all fear, and in which neither happiness nor sadness, hunger nor thirst, laughter or tears could be made out . . . Please wait. Beloved brothers, I now present to you the respected reporter. And after that, there will be a banquet. Please be patient. Sit down. Now, get up. Do not crowd here, please! Listen, beloved brothers!

A young woman, no doubt the local teacher, took the stage, and, in a perfectly tuneless voice, sang, “Our greatest heroes have descended among us—in our hearts.” I thought, the D.C. Saheb will put a stop to this. But, as we grew ever more flustered, she went on, quicker with each line . . .

At last, leaf-plates were handed out. Each had one Roti and a handful of Soybean on it. The Traveler took photographs. Click! When his camera turned to a line of eaters, their plates were promptly refilled. Strangely, those with empty plates did not ask for more. They sat in silence. The children charged at the food, but without joy. Truly these were the walking dead.

One of the organizers said: “Stretch out the signboard cloth properly. Otherwise, the name won’t be legible in the photograph.”

We drove away from Basna and into the hills. Nawa, Khangura, Keda, Tukbaro . . . Hopeless women standing under Jujube trees . . . Young men in search of grain. . .

In Okraha village, a man named Ritusingh lovingly brought us five Jujube berries. We asked how he planned to get by with Bajra scarce. What was going to happen?

He answered, “What will happen? If we don’t get anything to eat, we will die.”

And what if Ritusingh dies? Would it matter? So many have died, has it mattered? Will his death matter? It won’t.

¹ “Satyamevajayate = The truth shall prevail.” A beloved slogan of Gandhi, who of course conflated truth with his own opinion of it.
² Mohit Majumdar was probably a celebrity criminal from the time, since forgotten.
³ Hathiya Nakshatra is the period of heavy rain that usually occurs between late September and early October. The name arises from the fact that rice cultivation in the region “is conducted according to lunar asterisms called nakshatras,” as L.S.S. O’Malley notes in the 1924 Bihar And Orissa District Gazetteer.
⁴ The Chatar Mela is month-long annual cattle fair, which begins on Kartik Purnima (around mid-November), and is held in Sonepur, Bihar, a town just outside Patna, sitting at the confluence of the Ganga and Gandak rivers. It is sometimes described as the “biggest cattle fair in Asia.” A memorable depiction is Shiv Dayal’s 1820 painting “The Harihar Chattar mela at Sonpur.”
⁵ Diwali is an obnoxious Hindu festival, celebrated on October 24th, to mark the “triumph of light over darkness”—that is, to fill the air with smoke of firecrackers, many of which are produced in factories that employ child labor.
⁶ Beginning in 1954, a series of embankments, nearly four hundred kilometers long, were constructed along the eastern and western bank of the Kosi River in Bihar, to protect bordering villages from flooding. While it was claimed the “Kosi Project” would protect five lakhs of land, flooding and waterlogging has remained severe in the past six decades, with entire villages being washed away as recently as 2018, as Manoj Singh reported in The Wire.
⁷ The previous interaction, between Renu and his wife, was in Bengali, which has taken the special correspondent by surprise—he thought Renu was a native-Hindi speaker. The first part of the correspondent's response (“I had thought you were a Hindi writer”) is spoken in Bengali, to acknowledge their shared heritage. In the second part (“I’ve heard that, in Hindi, many people who write under the same pen name, and now I see that’s true”), which is spoken in Hindi, he refers to the Hindi literary tradition of using pen names—practiced, among others, by Agyeya—to suggest that Renu “contains multitudes.”
⁸ Presumably a kind of high-end Khadi, the homespun cloth that served Gandhi so well.
⁹ A noted freedom fighter and socialist leader, J.P. was revered by many progressive Hindi writers.
¹⁰ In 1951, Gandhi’s’ disciple Vinoba Bhave launched a campaign to persuade India’s dominant caste landowners to give away parts of their vast properties as bhoodan or “land gifts” to those landless laborers and smallholders they had exploited for decades. It was an attempt at land reform that circumvented class conflict. You can imagine how that turned out. J.P. participated in the movement.
¹¹ Sachidananda Hirananda Vatsyayan, popularly known by his pen name Agyeya, was a poet, novelist, literary critic, journalist, founding editor of Dinmaan, and late convert to Hindutva. Another penname he used was “Yayavar,” which translates to “The Traveler.”
¹² Another, more common version of this Bengali saying is, “Having cast my lot with foreigners, I must eat with them too.” Note the communal and casteist overtones.
¹³ The fifteenth lunar day—full-moon day—of the Kartik month (November-December) in the Hindu calendar. Hindus often dip themselves in the Ganges—“Nahan” or “to bathe”—on this day.
¹⁴ An avatar of the “major” Hindu goddess Mahadevi, Durga is associated with protection, strength, motherhood, destruction, and wars. (Established in 1991, the fascist Vishwa Hindu Parishad’s women’s wing is called “The Durga Vahini.”) Kali mentioned in the next sentence, is considered the most ferocious avatar of Mahadevi.
¹⁵ The implication here is that they did not purchase tickets.
¹⁶ Renu is quoting, in the original Sanskrit, Padma Purana Verse 1.15.370. English translation: “He should welcome neither death nor life. He should just observe (the workings of) destiny as an ox waits for (his master’s) order.” These words are spoken by Pulastya, one of the “seven great sages,” to Brahma.
¹⁷ This seems to be a reference to the life of Hindu reformist Ramakrishana Parmahansa, who founded the Ramakrishna Mission Marg. His organization even has a center in Deogarh. But I cannot find any source for the anecdote.
¹⁸ A Khansama is the senior-most server at a hotel or restaurant.
¹⁹ A form of Hindustani vocal music, with lyrics usually in Awadhi and Brij Basha.
²⁰ Assistant District Magistrate—a position in the civil service.
²¹ A rather scattershot list of historical characters (from the third century ruler Shishunaga to the Marxist polymath Rahul Sankrityayan) and texts (Indian and foreign)—that are all, possibly, related to Buddhism?
²² A Hindu custom associated with the blight of child marriage. After the marriage happens, the bride usually stays at home, with her parents, until an “acceptable” age, when the Gauna ceremony is performed, and she is handed over to the husband.
²³ A Dalit community, near the bottom of the caste hierarchy, found across the eastern Gangetic plain, in India and Nepal. Mainly agricultural laborers, they face extreme poverty, often subsisting on a diet of rats and other rodents. They are known to be expert diggers—an activity that recurs through this text. “Digging exercise is like a physical exercise for us, much better than sitting or lying down,” Ashardi Sadai, a Musahar laborer, is quoted as saying by sociologist Mukul in his article, “The Untouchable Present: Everyday Life of Musahars in North Bihar,” published in Economic and Political Weekly in 1999. “When we don’t do it, then we feel tired.” Notably, large numbers of Musahars participated in Bihar’s Maoist movement in the 1980s—and faced savage repressions from landlord armies like the Ranveer Sena and Sunlit Sena. For more details, see George J. Kunnath superb book, Rebels from the Mud Houses: Dalits and the Making of the Maoist Revolution in Bihar (2012).
²⁴ The opening verse of the Guru Granth Sahib, the most important Sikh religious text. (It’s odd that Renu is invoking Sikhism here.)
²⁵ Kali, the Hindu goddess encountered before, has 1008 names. In chronological order, here are the nineteen that Renu invokes:
74. Ghorarupa: She Who is of Fearful Form; 75. Ghoradamstra: She Whose Teeth are Fearful; 76. Ghoraghoratara: She Who is Auspicious which Takes beyond Inauspiciousness; 77. Subha: She Who is Pure; 94. Kotaraksi: She Whose Eyes are Infinite; 97. Bahubhasini: She Who Has Various Expressions; 102. Pracandacandika: She Who is Great Terrible Passion; 103. Candi: She Who Tears Apart Thoughts; 105. Candavegini: She who destroys all passion; 183. Yaksini: She Who Gives Wealth; 184. Yogini; She Who is Always in Union; 185. Jara: She Who is old; 186. Raksasi: She Who is the Mother of all Demons; 187. Dakini: She Who is the Female Demonic Being; 188. Vedamayi: She Who is the Expression of Wisdom; 189. Vedavibhusana: She Who illuminated wisdom.
His last choice (“Maa”), the common Hindi word for mother, is technically not one of Kali’s names, though many of her names are ‘Mother of X.’
²⁶ A local belief held that smoke helps new-born children, and also children still in the womb. This superstition was a cause of many post-natal deaths.
²⁷ A very low-grade pulse, almost a weed, that often has fungus on it.
²⁸ i. “Master,” the literal English translation of “Malik,” feels insufficient in the context. “Landlord” does not feel quite right either. What is being described is a feudal relationship—still common across much of India—in which the upper-caste landowners employ landless Dalits on their fields, without any fixed payment, or even guarantee of payment, probably in some form of indenture. The Maliks thus both own the land and, to a certain extent, the labor of the Dalits. I have decided to retain the Hindi original, which might well enter the English language in the way that “Pandit” and “Pariah” have.
ii. “Van” is a diminutive suffix, like “ito” in Spanish. Attached to “Malik,” it cuts the master down to size.
²⁹ In the Mahabharat, Yashoda is Krishna’s foster mother, during their stay in the forest.
³⁰ Akal = Famine. Sukha = Dryness or drought. It’s worth noting that upper-caste parents would never name their children this way. It’s only Dalits and the poor who have been cowed into giving their children demeaning names.
³¹ A Hindu ceremony performed when a child is six days old. Primarily attended by women, it takes place late at night, when the mother lights a lamp—at least that is the Brahmanical version. Likely to take a different form among Musahars.
³² Ashwin is a month in the Hindu calendar, between September 26 and October 26. As this is on Kartik Purnima, around November 15, it is likely over a month since they have eaten food.
³³ Reference to the drought-relief cards handed out by the Bihar government, which were presumably red in color.
³⁴ Tola is a sub-unit of the village, like “Wada” in Marathi and Telugu
³⁵ The final ceremony of a Hindu wedding, during which the bride symbolically leaves her house, to be given over to her in-laws. Like Phillip Larkin in “The Whitsun Weddings,” Renu is drawing attention to the perceived longing of single women looking on at the new bride.
³⁶ Sub Divisional Officer: a high-ranking bureaucrat who oversees development, law-and-order, and so forth.
³⁷ Musahars are often wrongly accused of theft.
³⁸ Different types of government guesthouses often used by bureaucrats. Memorably, one such bungalow is the setting of Satyajit Ray’s Days And Nights In The Forest (1970).
³⁹ A Hindu festival, celebrated in the Mithila region, when birds began their migration from the Himalayas down to the plains. The story goes that Krishan’s daughter Sama, falsely accused of wrongdoing, was transformed into a bird by her father. But, thanks to her brother’s love and sacrifice, she managed to regain human form.
⁴⁰ A particularly crude type of firework.
⁴¹ Sanskrit shloka:” That path which the Brahmin takes its exemplary.” To give Brahmins their due, they make no bones about their superiority.
⁴² J.P. was imprisoned for long periods by the British administration.
⁴³ Prabhavati Devi Naryan, a freedom fighter from Bihar, and J.P.’s wife.
⁴⁴ One of the more obscure episodes of the Freedom Struggle. It seems that J.P. wrote a long letter, from jail, about the differences between the views held by various factions of the freedom movement—the Congress, the Socialists, and the Communists—on the matter of supporting Russia, with whom the British had entered a war-time alliance. The internecine debates are not worth parsing. The point is that parts of the letter were read on August Kranti Day, August 9, 1942, when Gandhi launched the Quit India Movement.
⁴⁵ Renu himself participated in the Quit India Movement and was rewarded with four years in jail. The Pratidial Group is probably a left faction, though I cannot track down any mention of it.
⁴⁶ Rajwars are a shifting cultivation community, classified as O.B.C. (Other Backward Classes) in all states except Orissa, where they are listed as a S.T. (Scheduled Tribe.) In this, similar to Banjaras and Meenas.
⁴⁷ A dialect spoken in Uttar Pradesh, on which “standard” Hindi and Urdu are based.
⁴⁸ Life-long foe of imperialism, feudalism, and poverty, Nakshatra Malakar is—in the words of Hindi critic Arun Narayan—“a hero pushed into the oblivion of history.” A kind of Robin Hood of north Bihar, he made his name looting feudal lords and the police and spreading their wealth among the poor. A character based on him appears in Renu’s breakout novel Maila Anchal (1954).
⁴⁹ Malis are cultivating caste whose members mainly work as gardeners and florist. Mahatma Phule’s caste.
⁵⁰ Over two million people are said to have died in the Bengal famine of 1942.
⁵¹ Ninth month in the Hindu calendar. Begins on November 9 and ends on December 8.
⁵² i. The BSS is a volunteer organization, funded by the Planning Commission, that helps with relief work and so forth.
ii. Associated with the Sikh religion, Langar is a form of community kitchen.