First things first. It took me forever to read this book. I’m going to use the word ‘suddenly’ a lot. And the recurring question in my mind through this book was – what’s the point? By the end of it I thought this was a revision of stuff you had heard or read about somewhere, perhaps discussed over dinner or the morning cup of tea with newspapers, and then moved on.
Known Turf begins with tales of the dacoits of Chambal, with references to the immortal filmi daakus - the bullet magazine, the bandook, the daunting moustache and the whole schmear. You read about Angulimaal and Maharishi Valmiki, the dacoit-turned-author of Ramayana, the Dongar-Baturi, who formed the first organised gang and Putli Bai, the first documented woman dacoit. Until you begin wondering if you are in for a crash course on the dacoits of India.
And then, suddenly, the author talks about tea. Just like that. How it loosens tongues and proves to be the ultimate tool for a journo trying to dig out a story. She talks about how tea grows on you like a relationship and how it can lead you to discover your temperament. The book begins to grow on my nerves. I get my cup to stay awake through this!
Next you're taken to Madhya Pradesh as the author brings up hunger and immigration. How she cannot get over the horror of holding a baby that weighed less than her handbag. How the Sahariya tribals have been victimised by the state’s policy of exclusion. She doesn’t delve into cause or history, doesn’t preach or offer solutions to the problem. Her stories start abruptly and lead to nowhere. Like a brief glimpse into their lives.
It’s like reading random excerpts from one sordid tale of ‘the other India’. The dalits in Punjab, the starving weavers of Benaras, the debt-ridden bonded labourers in Ludhiana, the illegal migrants who end up in hell-holes in Ukraine and Morocco, the abandoned brides. One tragic story dissolves into another.
Suddenly, the author brings up her other obsession – Sufism, which spills into the present-day character and problems of sufi sects. The deras, perpetually mired in politics, power play, controversy and violence.
Then we learn about her childhood as a Muslim girl, a bit clichéd, the debate over burqa and the larger question of Islam – is the religion having a nervous breakdown? It’s interesting in bits and pieces and written well like her description of Allahabad, a place "unashamedly sleepy".
Suddenly (yes again) she shifts to Jalianwallah Bagh! Then the debate over home and belonging. And we’re back to Phoolan Devi. It’s a rollercoaster. And it seems endless.
The issues she raises are serious and pertinent, but beyond a point the figures begin to put you off. And then they strike you while you stir curry in the kitchen or wait at the traffic light – these people on the brink, starving and dying, have been reduced to statistics. The numbers don’t shock you anymore but come as mild irritants in the text. You’re not outraged when the government blames the casualties on the tribals’ “culture of dying”. You probe the source of your cynicism and resignation. People go hungry. People kill. People die. Life goes on.
(Known Turf, by Anne Zaidi, Tranquebar, Rs 250. )
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