Had You Changed the Killer’s Name

It was the first time I saw the Block Complex swarming with people. The moment I entered, I was greeted by a human flood laid out from the entrance up to the office verandah. All I could make out in the crowd were middle-aged and elderly faces; mostly women. Some had taken refuge on the plastered platform; others had spread gamchhas under a tree, biding their time. A few young men were resting against parked motorcycles. These were not the everyday faces one sees at the Block Complex. I was about to put all my years of experience into crowd assessment when I spotted Sharma Ji, the clerk, strolling back from the paan stall. Pointing my right hand toward the crowd, I sought his opinion. 

“Pe… Pension crowd, Sir.” He let out slowly, careful not to spill paan over his shirt. 

Among Sharma Ji’s quirks is speaking little with a paan in his mouth, for he considers it a waste of money to spit out a paan prematurely. He traverses each day in three paans—one after morning attendance, another in the afternoon, and the last one on his way out of office. He settles each day’s tab while getting the evening paan. And if during the day a special request for tea happens to bring him over to the tea-and-paan stall, the morning and afternoon bills are paid right away. 

Sensing his paan under threat from a follow-up query of mine, Sharma Ji turned and walked the other way. 

By the time I had reached the office gate, I had been accosted by many. 

“It’s eleven a.m. already. The pension distribution hasn’t started yet. We have come from far away, haven’t eaten since morning. This country is done for, thanks to these entitled Babus…” 

Many rebukes reached my ears; some felt true. The BDO and CO were not in yet, assuaging my guilt at being late. Inside the office too, people lined the corridor walls on both sides. As I entered my cabin, I saw, besides the assistant, a few Block-level middlemen seated upon chairs. The room appeared ready for work. 

I was transferred here over three months ago as a Labour Enforcement Officer. In my time, I have acquainted myself with the ways of the Block—a middle-agent for every government scheme, whose tentacles reach up from the villages to the Block and up further to the District Headquarters. Although I have not yet allowed myself to be a part of this network, I haven’t been able to drive the middlemen out of my office. They are a vital organ to the Block, commanding their unwelcome authority in every activity. They run after and with officers, establishing it to civil beneficiaries that nothing moves here against their will. The officers and employees depend on these middlemen for inspection site visits. The visits come with two benefits: the officers get free rides, along with snacks, and they obtain a trustworthy agent to broker their deals. The middlemen leave no stone unturned at their end, providing vehicles and other facilities to revenue officials and the BDO alike. They are indispensable for other reasons too. 

“Sir, are you in charge of distributing the Samhuta Panchayat pensions?” 

I was getting the diary out of my bag when the assistant asked. 

“Let me check. Can’t you stay patient for a while?” 

The crowd outside and middlemen in my office had got me irritated, which spilled over as anger. I was not seated yet and the haggling like a moneylender had begun! 

Another reason for my outburst was that there had been no prior notice regarding pension distribution today. They could have at least informed us on WhatsApp… I cursed the BDO in my head. 

“Shall I bring tea, Sir?” the peon asked. 

“Yes, please.” The words came out of their own accord. 

Since my transfer to this Block, I have had some trouble with the order of things here. An army of middlemen has assembled already for the implementation of government schemes and processes such as the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana, Land and Property Mutation, Right to Public Services, National Family Benefit Scheme, Social Security Pension, Lohiya Swachhata Mission, and Mukhya Mantri Saat Nishchay Yojana. It is impossible to get the ‘System’ out of this vicious web of middlemen. A feeling of detachment from the ‘System’ washed me over. What could an officer do? Every scheme is shoved down the country’s throat without being tested first. Other countries operate on the ‘test first, launch later’ model. But in ours, it is ‘launch, then test.’ 

Under the Mukhya Mantri Saat Nishchay Yojana, three to four crore rupees had been allotted to every Gram Panchayat without clear guidelines as to the paperwork required, mode of implementation, inspection, and maintenance of the scheme. This resulted, among other blunders by design, in water pipes being laid three inches deep as opposed to the obvious three feet below the earth. 

“Sir, it is up to us to distribute the Samhuta Panchayat pensions. Where shall we do it?” The assistant asked. 

I felt like cursing the BDO again but without saying a word, picked up the glass of tea that had just arrived. 

“How many people would that be?” I asked. 

“There are over 1500 pensioners in the panchayat. But only Ward Number 6 to 15 have been called today, and only those pensioners whose bank accounts are not linked to their Aadhaar cards. The rest get their pensions credited to their accounts… Hold on a second, I’ll tell you how many there are outside.” He said, reaffirming his utility. 

“Talk to Nazir Babu and get the arrangement done. You, Sirs, please let the room be.” 

The first sentence was for the assistant; the second was directed toward the self-proclaimed social workers holding my office hostage. 

I have heard these middlemen introducing themselves as ‘social workers’ many times. Visitors to the office often mistake them for Block employees, sometimes engaging in pleasantries. It is in the way they introduce themselves. After all, they cannot call themselves ‘Brokers of the Block’… 

“Sir, there are thirty-three pensioners outside. Nazir Babu is coming with the cash. Where to, Sir?” 

“This room should do. It’s not a big crowd. We have three tables. You grab one for the counting, Nazir Babu can distribute the cash on the second, and I’ll be on the third for verification.” 

“Okay, Sir.” 

The assistant got up to arrange the tables, chairs and stools with help from the peon. The three tables were laid length-wise with stools on the other end. 

The pensioners were elated. They had stools to sit upon under running fans. Earlier, they would have to stand in confused queues outside amid the ruckus of the verandah to get their pension. 

Serial number 17 struck me. It was one Sumesari Kunwar, wife of Dinesh Ram, Scheduled Caste. My eyes darted across the table. 

The woman greeted me with ‘Pranaam’. Dirty old clothes draped on a thin frame, worn slippers on her feet, blackened silver bangles around the wrists. Seated across the tables at the time were, incidentally, three widows of around the same age. 

“Which ward are you from?” 

“Ward Number 9, Sir Ji.” The three chimed in unison. 

I asked Nazir Babu and the assistant for the register. 

Ward No.: 9, Serial No.: 19, Name: Manjharo Kunwar, Wife of: Nanhak Singh, Category: General. 

Besides their age, the three women shared the surname ‘Kunwar’, which is what widows in these parts are supposed to carry. Sumesari Kunwar and Leela Kunwar were from a scheduled caste; Manjharo Kunwar was a Savarn. Sumesari was clad in dirty clothes and despair. Leela was well-dressed, with a gold chain around her neck and a gold ring on her finger. Bright silver bangles glittered around her wrists. She had her feet in medium-heeled sandals. Manjharo Kunwar was in a clean purple-coloured cotton saree. 

I got curious gazing at the gorge between Sumesari and Leela. Neither attire nor body language could put them in the same caste bracket. 

“Nazir Babu, let’s take a ten-minute break. Have tea brought, for the ladies too.” I acted in mock dismissal of my curiosity. 

“Have you been here before?” I asked Sumesari. 

“Yes, I have met you.” She answered gravely. 

“What for?” 

“For labour compensation.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“My husband was a labourer. He was murdered. I was told the Labour Department pays compensation to families of labourers who have died. I had met you for that.” 

“And what had I said?” I tried to remember. 

“You said there is no labour registration.” 

It came back to me. The woman had met me over a month and a half ago. She had told me her husband used to work as a part-time labourer in and around the village. He was murdered one day while fishing. Since he was not registered under the Building and Other Construction Workers Welfare Cess Act of 1996 and had gotten himself killed while fishing, and not at a work site, his widow was left out of the benefits the Labour Department provides to families of labourers engaged in building and other construction work. The benefits include monetary aid for bicycles, other equipment, and children’s education and marriage. For families of the deceased, there is a compensation of one lakh rupees. 

“How long have you been availing the pension?” 

“Just once since I became eligible. I am here for the second time only, after 5–6 months.” 

“The three of you are from the same village?” 

I knew they were, but asked anyway to get more out of them. 

“Yes, we live next to one another. The two of us are second sisters-in-law.” She pointed toward Leela Kunwar. 

“Second sisters-in-law?” I was surprised. 

“Yes, Sir. You think I am lying? Ask her.” 

She stamped her statement with the female seal of truth. But how could I tell her that it was not her words that were eating at me? Members of the same family, beneficiaries of the same social security scheme, yet not at all alike in dressing and manners? What was the reason? 

“Don’t take this personally, but no one would say you’re relatives.” I said, passing her a glass of tea. 

She understood. She seemed prepared for the question. 

“My father-in-law had two brothers. My father-in-law was the eldest. Leela is the middle one’s daughter-in-law. Hers and mine are dead. Our youngest father-in-law had two daughters only, whom he married off. He lives in my house now.” 

“How long has she been getting the pension?” I asked, pointing at Manjharo Kunwar. 

“For about four years, Sir Ji.” 

“What happened to her husband?” 

“He came back from watering the fields one day, fell asleep and never woke up.” 

“Did she get anything from the government?” 

“No, Sir. What do the upper castes get? Government schemes are for lower castes only. Saheb, are there no poor among Savarnas? The government cannot see this. The way we pass our days, come see for yourself! Ask them if you don’t believe me.” Manjharo said. 

“She had received two thousand for cremation and twenty thousand afterwards.” Sumesari cut in before Manjharo could speak further. 

“The three of you seem to get along well. Do you speak to one another in the village, or is it only for pension collection days?” 

“Huh, Saheb! In our tola we are together most of the time. You know, Saheb? Bajrangi, the one who retired from the military, calls us ‘Sulimwa’.” Leela joined in. 

“What’s that?” 

“Sumesari, Leela, Manjharo. That’s ‘Sulim’. Hence, ‘Sulimwa’. He says ‘Sulimwa’ will die together—all three of us. He is so funny, Saheb.” Leela blushed. 

“How did Leela Ji’s husband die?” Placing my tea on the table, I asked Sumesari. I believed Sumesari alone could get me the correct and complete information on the three of them. 

“Daharu Bhai Ji, Leela’s husband, was out drinking in the Musahar Tola. A few others were there already, drinking. Things escalated, and a fight broke out. They hit him first, so he beat Chalku Ahir. Chalku Ahir took Bhadayi Musahar’s spear and stabbed Daharu Bhai Ji in the stomach. He struggled for long but no one came to him. The men and women in the Musahar Tola ran away. He was brought home dead. The Mukhiya offered two thousand, the BDO twenty thousand as compensation. Within eight days Leela got four lakh rupees and another four lakhs after a year. She has had her house built, also put five lakh rupees in fish deposit (fixed deposit). She gets four thousand per month in interest. She has a cow too. She does not work in others’ houses, and doesn’t need to work as a labourer either. God gave her so much that every small and big person in the tola borrows from her in their time of need. Saheb, her husband left her but God took her in.” 

“I see. And what about you?” I wanted my answers soon. 

“My husband and brother-in-law had gone fishing in the Nagri river outside the village. Four men came and started demanding the fish for free. My brother-in-law said no, so they began fighting and beat him up. Among them were a Rajput, an Ahir, a Halwai, and Lakhna, a relative from my caste. My husband abused Lakhna, said it would have been okay had he just asked for the fish, there was no need to bring these rascals to beat his brother. Then my husband hit one of them with a stick. The four left my brother-in-law and started beating my husband. The Ahir smashed my brother-in-law’s head with the stick. Our relative Lakhna stabbed my husband with a spear and then sat on his chest. He was bloodthirsty. My brother-in-law passed out from the beating and upon seeing his brother stabbed. More people arrived hearing my husband’s cries. They took him to the hospital but it was too late. My brother-in-law filed a complaint and got fifty thousand rupees under the SC/ST Act. But I did not get a paisa.” 

“Why?” I was surprised. 

“Huzoor, this is the problem na. Two women met the same accident, but destiny did not treat them alike. Brahma Ji took all the time in the world to write one’s fate with the best ink, but made the other like sheep in the crowd. It’s not that I am jealous of Leela. But I keep thinking all the time, ‘Dear Maker, what was my fault? Same house, same family, same accident. But you fill one’s lap with flowers and the other’s with thorns?’ Is it God’s fault or the government’s? I don’t know, Huzoor.” 

The journey from ‘Sir’ to ‘Huzoor’ had left her in tears. 

“Tell me. Why didn’t you get the compensation?” I asked, ignoring the many ‘Make it quick’ reproaches from pensioners waiting outside. 

Sumesari was crying. Grace and protocol had left her. The restlessness in her voice and her use of the colloquial had made her story all the more poignant. Manjharo and Leela were mute spectators watching their friend come undone. 

“Huzoor, the police arrived after the accident. Lakhna was sent to prison. The others were out on bail in six months but Lakhna is still in jail. I too was made to testify, along with my brother-in-law. Lakhna’s father told Leela that if I accepted his fifty thousand rupees to change my statement, Lakhna would be free. He said what happened has happened, my husband is not coming back.” She pointed at Leela and continued. 

“Huzoor, he also offered me a buffalo. But I will not change my mind. The whole village would spit on me if I took his money. People would say Sumesari sold her husband’s dead body. Huzoor, this life is ruined already. Should I destroy the afterlife too? I want Lakhna to hang for what he did. Arey, had he done it while drunk, it would be understandable…” She was wiping tears with her saree. “Have you heard of anyone getting murdered over fish? I have been wronged, Huzoor. Wronged! Men and God have conspired to wrong me. Another woman in my place would have left the village long ago.” Sumesari writhed with anger and pain. 

“But why didn’t you get your compensation?” 

It was getting late, and I wanted her to come to the point quickly. Nazir Babu kept checking his watch. 

“Because of the SC/ST Act…” 

“How so?” 

“See, Huzoor. My brother-in-law had filed a complaint against the Halwai who had hit him with the stick. The Halwai is from a backward caste, so the SC/ST Act applied to him and my brother-in-law got fifty thousand for his injuries and insult. But my husband was killed by Lakhna from our own caste, so the SC/ST Act was no use. The policeman said, ‘There is money only if the killer is from a forward or backward caste. No money if a Dalit kills a Dalit. You should have accused the Rajput, Yadav or Halwai instead.’ I was there when he was telling my brother-in-law, ‘You would have received eight lakh rupees had you changed the killer’s name…’” 

Sumesari was inconsolable.