When fiction can show us the arc of the Indian politician’s progress in a way that facts cannot

After the Jeep carrying the visitor left, Ram Mohan said, “Let me talk to this stupid man.” They all quickly walked to Kalla Dada’s house. The number of people waiting for Ram Mohan there had increased, all keen to hear about the election campaign; a tumult of murmur swept through the crowd as he approached; those sitting scrambled to their feet.

Padhaiya Bhaiya had left, again a gesture to convey his independence of Ram Mohan. Gulab Singh sent for him. His man who had found him at his oil mill returned and whispered Padhaiya Bhaiya’s words into Gulab Singh’s ear, “I’m not like your Thakur, the bootlicker. Whoever wants to see me should come here.” Gulab Singh looked at Ram Mohan who shrugged and said, “I leave it to you. Do whatever needs to be done.” Gulab Singh sent his men, three of them, to bring him, “Don’t say a word to him. Let your well-seasoned lathis do the talking.”

Deena, who had up till then been watching from a distance, rushed in to tell his mother how black a temper Gulab Chacha was in; that Padhaiya Bhaiya was going to be killed. Kanti, busy doing the dishes, told him not to use such sinister words. She rose and ran towards the staircase with Deena at her heels. On the roof terrace, they secured a suitable place behind the parapet, obtaining a clear view of the goings-on in front of Kalla Dada’s house.

Gulab Singh was in his element, spewing whatever frightening phrases he could summon, making Kalla Dada realise how dangerous a situation his son had got himself into.

He went up to Ram Mohan who sat on the chabootra, talking to Madari Bapu. “I’ve had enough. Padhaiya can no more be allowed to misbehave like this.” Kalla Dada said, “I don’t know who he thinks he is. He must think you would ignore his madness. You happen to be his Chacha after all.”

“Kalla Bhaiya, you had better stay out of it. If not reined in now he can’t be kept from turning into a real nasty character...Look at his crazed notion! He thinks I’m his rival here, in Parsadpur. At other times, I would take no notice, but this is the limit; he has no idea of the seriousness of the battle I’m engaged in. He just pours scorn on whoever is trying to contribute to my election effort...The way he behaved in front of Chaudhary Sahab’s man, it’s high time he knew it’s not on...You don’t understand Kalla Bhaiya. Others might get infected with the same bug if he remains untreated. I suggest you go inside and ignore his screams.” Right then a ruckus rose from the dirt track next to Kalla Dada’s house that made him leave and go inside.

A big throng watched Padhaiya Bhaiya driven forward by the three men, the dextrous shoves of whose lathis were meant to hurt less than to convey the gravity of the intent. Ram Mohan called out to Badri to spare him the spectacle about to unfold. And Padhaiya Bhaiya, no matter how serious a trouble he was in, was able to keep up appearances; his body language was that of a man caught unawares by his adversaries; every poke from behind into his person drew nothing more than a look of annoyance, showing no hint of submission; just then Gulab Singh bellowed at his men to stop as he walked up to them.

The set of his jaw was enough to sound the alarm; without so much as a word to Padhaiya Bhaiya he ordered the threesome to hit him on his legs till he fell to the ground.

That threw a sheet of silence over the spectators. The raw deliberateness of Gulab Singh’s command brought home the impotence of Padhaiya Bhaiya’s posture. It was plain he had miscalculated. Of having used up Ram Mohan’s forbearance, he had had no inkling.

Disbelief was all his eyes could express when the first of the many blows landed on him. Trying to fend off the next one he got struck on his right arm. Gulab Singh yelled at his men cautioning them against injuring his hands that he would need to crawl after his legs were put out of action. Padhaiya Bhaiya got hold of one of the lathis but had to release as a torrent of cracks rained down on him everywhere below the waist.

A mixture of pain and panic, he slumped to his knees. Gulab Singh directed he be pinned to the ground so the blows aimed at immobilising his legs could not be disturbed; after that two of the men held his arms and feet as he lay face down, while the third one with full swing of his lathi clouted him on the calves and thighs repeatedly. Padhaiya Bhaiya’s screams having reached their highest decibel levels were ebbing away. He was conscious but his legs seemed to have lost connection to him. His groans sounded out of tune with the lathi on song.

Once sure he could not stand up, Gulab Singh had the clubbing stopped.

His trouser legs below the knees had turned from white to red. Now, according to Gulab Singh’s plan, he was to drag himself to where Ram Mohan sat with Tiwari ji and others. “If he fails to comply, smash his arms, make mincemeat of them as well,” thundered Gulab Singh. The man trying to wipe bloodstains from the base of his lathi with a handful of grass came and stood over the sprawled figure.

Padhaiya Bhaiya began to crawl, and never stopped wincing all the way to Ram Mohan who sat not far from Madari Bapu. They all paused as Padhaiya Bhaiya approached. He had to be pulled onto the chabootra. Ram Mohan recited to Badri a Sanskrit verse that spoke of the necessity of the wicked being treated wickedly.

Brutally humbled, abjectly shorn of his pretensions, it was impossible to associate Padhaiya Bhaiya with his vanity anymore. When told to place his forehead at Ram Mohan’s feet his alacrity to obey was startling, given the miserable shape he was in. Putting his hand on his head, Ram Mohan pardoned him and proceeded to give a discourse on the rudiments of good conduct for anyone interested in a fruitful existence, but had to discontinue in the middle as Padhaiya Bhaiya was attracting swarms of flies and was in terrible pain.

Ram Mohan instructed he be taken to his house; to Kalla Dada he said, “Have the wounds washed before applying any herbal medicine.” The gathering broke up as Ram Mohan rose announcing he must get back to Fatehpur.

When he went to meet Kanti and Deena before leaving, both of Padhaiya Bhaiya’s children were there in the house, the son being a little older than Deena while the daughter a little younger.

They had not been allowed to go out and see their father. In fact, they did not know of the beating. Their mother had just left to look after her husband. Kanti was in the small dark storeroom next to the cooking corner looking for something she could give the children to eat while Deena lay awake in a charpoy. On hearing Ram Mohan, she hastened out.

He asked why Deena was in bed. She did not tell him the real reason and gave instead the excuse of stomach ache. Seeing Padhaiya Bhaiya on the ground with two men holding his hand and feet, he had felt a rush of nausea, and as soon as the third man’s lathi had begun to rise and fall, drawing dreadful screams from Padhaiya Bhaiya, Deena had dropped to the terrace floor. Kanti had quickly helped him downstairs and put him in bed.

“Don’t give him anything other than watery khichari tonight,” Ram Mohan said, sitting down beside him. He ran his hand over his head, then to Deena’s delight, he unclasped his new fountain pen, the colour of oyster shell, from his shirt pocket and gave it to him; he also took out some change and handed a coin of fifty paise each to Padhaiya Bhaiya’s children.

Excerpted with permission from The Politician: A Novel, Devesh Verma, Penguin Viking.