support during the last few years, Bablu finally wept. The abandonment by his family, living on the
floor of his workshop, even the lack of a decent, home-cooked meal, and now this latest
impediment in his progress, had mounted one challenge on top of the other. His despair was finally
eating into his resolve.
Professor Sharma looked at the young man who had cast aside his entire world because of a single
idea, and felt a rush of deep compassion towards him. The professor had seen so much of himself
in Bablu, as a man struggling to rise above the terrain of his birth. Bablu’s defeats felt like his, the
young man’s advances, his victories.
He made Bablu stay for dinner and promised to look up the most efficient way of disinfecting the
sanitary napkins and assured Bablu that he would ask his colleagues at the institute as well. With
Mrs Sharma heaping his plate with her spicy dal and towering piles of aloo puri, and the
professor’s calm reassurance, Bablu’s spirits began to rise again.
Six months later, he had completed and tested the four machines he required for the manufacture of
his sanitary pads. They were a round appliance, fitted with the parts of a modified kitchen grinder
that would break down the hardboard; a core forming machine that turned the fluffy fibres into a
rectangular cake using moulds and an electric press; a finishing roller where the cakes were
wrapped; and an elementary contraption used at the final stage that disinfected the pads with
ultraviolet light.
Bablu waved the mosquitoes away and decided to get out of bed. He walked across to the table
that held his four precious machines and began carefully packing each one with bubble wrap and
styrofoam before lowering them into cardboard boxes.
On Professor Sharma’s recommendation, he was going to take his low cost sanitary napkin making
invention for a demonstration at the Indian Institute of Technology.
12
The rain splattered against the weathered wooden shutters, splashing on to the iron grills. It
dampened Gowri’s hair as she sat against the window, peering outside at the ripples on the green
pond filled with mottled green leaves and a squawking black duck.
She recalled sitting with Bablu on a rainy day just like this, brooding over a remark her mother-in-
law had carelessly tossed on their way back from the market the previous evening. Bhairavi
Kewat, walking arm in arm with Rachna, had said, ‘Gowri, you should really follow Rachna’s
example, she learned just by watching me and is such a good cook now!’
Gowri had returned home crestfallen and Bablu had tried to placate her later, as they leaned
against the railing of the porch steps. He said laughing, ‘Ma is right; Rachna has been a good cook
since childhood! She could always fry people’s brains, make their blood boil and cut them into
tiny pieces without using any equipment except her tongue, how can anyone compete with that!’
Sitting under the grey, stormy skies, Gowri, who had never seen her husband despondent, recalled
asking him, ‘How are you always so upbeat?’ And he, the colour of burnished cinnamon, had
smirked and said, ‘I always carry a little sunshine within my skin, madam.’
Bablu with his silly antics and generous heart had made a place for himself in Gowri’s life. She
had left Mohana thinking that he would come to his senses, stop all his bizarre experiments. With
that, all the malicious talk about him would also come to an end and he would come and take her
back. But though she kept waiting, he never tried to contact her.
13
The hall with its white panelled ceiling, fluorescent tube lights and uncomfortable-looking brown
chairs was filled with faculty and students from various departments. Bablu was waiting for Dr
Chattopadhya to finish a lecture on ‘micro optical devices for optical logic, interconnects and
signal processing’ after which there would be a short break for refreshments and then he and his
sanitary pad manufacturing machine would have their five minutes in the spotlight.
He had nervously finished assembling his machines backstage and was munching on a Glucose
biscuit when two men in suits standing next to him began a conversation. Dr Gupta, the
bespectacled, swarthy man, began by saying, ‘Mehta, I am scheduled to give a talk at 3 p.m. on
correlations between insulin resistance and C-peptide. And you?’
The other man replied that his talk was scheduled for the following day. Dr Gupta turned to Bablu,
taking in his old grey pants, the blue shirt through which his white vest was visible, and his Bata
rubber slippers, and said, ‘Aye boy, get us some tea.’
Bablu, his ears burning, did not reply and finally murmured, ‘Sir, I am also here to present my
machine.’ Dr Gupta looked at Bablu with scepticism and asked him which institute he belonged to.
Bablu replied, ‘Sir, I have not been to any institute but I am eight standard pass from Saraswati
Vidyalaya, Mohana.’ Dr Gupta murmured to his colleague, ‘Mehta, do some pest control on your
campus. God knows what kind of uneducated idiots are walking around here!’
Bablu struggled to control his temper for a moment and then with his peculiar brand of self-
possession directed a disarming smile at Dr Gupta and in his impeccable Hindi replied, ‘Sir, I am
uneducated but I am not an idiot. Idiots think that because something is complicated, it is superior,
whereas an intelligent man takes a complicated thing and makes it simple. I am a simple man who
has made a simple machine, now, sir, you do the rest of the calculations.’
He walked away, only to return with a cup of tea which he handed over to Dr Gupta, chuckling.
‘Simple way to get tea – just a quick walk to the refreshments table. People unnecessarily make it
so complicated.’
Ten minutes later, Bablu Kewat presented his invention on stage along with price comparisons
between his finished product and the ones made by conglomerates, with an engineering student
translating his words into English. His presentation was received with thunderous applause.
That evening Professor Sharma called the workshop asking Bablu how the presentation had gone.
Bablu replied, ‘It went well, though there was a man standing on the side, like the narrator of some
stage play, translating everything I said. I think I really need to learn English properly now,
Professor saab. It will really help me, if my English improves then I will be able to use the Internet
also to look things up myself and not trouble you all the time.’
Professor Sharma too had only studied in Hindi during his years in Mohana and he recalled his
agonizing struggle to catch up as a student at Jineshwar English Medium School in the ninth grade
when his father had moved the family to Indore.
He gave Bablu the number of his grandson’s tutor, Sarita Jagpal, who conducted group as well as
individual after-school classes nearby.
14
The dusty black scooter stopped in front of the peeling building called Palatial Towers. Sarita
parked it in one corner of the compound as her daughter Maina, her school bag dangling over one
shoulder and her Mickey Mouse water bottle slung around her neck, jumped off the back seat.
Sarita hurried across the dilapidated lobby carefully opening the iron lattice door that always
seemed ready to trap unsuspecting fingers, and stepped in
to the creaky elevator. It had been a long
day, and the traffic had been especially bad.
She jabbed the seventh-floor button three times before the lift conceded to take them up. She had
fifteen minutes to splash some water on her face and get a cup of tea, before her first student of the
day would appear at her doorstep.
Sarita’s BA in English had not quite opened doors to a teaching job at a well-known school as she
had imagined. Instead it had landed her a place as the overqualified and underpaid supervisor,
errand girl and general dogsbody at the embroidery unit located in the stifling garage that belonged
to her employer, Mandira Sidhwani.
She supplemented her income and satisfied her desire to be part of India’s education system by
taking evening tuition classes, the regular middle school mathematics and science, along with a
subject called ‘Talking First Class English’ as she had once seen it peculiarly advertised in the
classified section of a newspaper.
In a country that was still reeling from a hangover of its colonial days, intelligence was determined
not as much by a person’s acumen as by their fluency in the English language – albeit a strange
version consisting of phrases that would make the pale-faced British go red in the face like ‘Entry
from backside only’. So there was more than adequate demand for her classes.
Handing Maina a banana and her dog-eared copy of The Jataka Tales, she had brewed some tea
when the doorbell rang. On the other side of the door, beaming his gap-toothed smile towards her,
was her ten-year-old student Arvind Sharma and just behind him stood a tall man with a thin
moustache and a nervous demeanour.
It was the new student Professor Sharma had recommended. Usually she taught schoolchildren.
This would certainly be different, she thought to herself, looking at the nondescript man in front of
her.
Bablu walked into the small living room and sat at the chipped wooden table she indicated with a
wave. Arvind promptly sat by his side, hoisting his school bag on to the table, and began taking out
his books.
Bablu looked at the delicate-looking woman across the table in the blue salwar kameez, her
spectacles slipping off the bridge of her nose which she pushed back up with her index finger
repeatedly.
He began with the one sentence in English he felt confident of – ‘I myself Prabhash Kewat this
side.’ At which Sarita, looking amused, replied, ‘Which side is that? This side of the Indian border
or that side of the Pakistan one? This sentence is wrong.’
Taken aback, Bablu replied in Hindi, ‘How, madam? If you are on that side of the table, then I am
naturally on this side!’
Arvind started giggling and Sarita smiled. ‘I can see that I have my work cut out for me. And
please call me Sarita.’ Giving Arvind a sheet of word problems to solve, Sarita pulled out an
alphabet chart along with a printed sheet that stated ‘Lesson 2 – English Greetings, Introductions
and Farewells’ and began tutoring Bablu.
15
Trucks and jeeps with blaring music and screeching slogans were whizzing by. Enjoying the
December air, Bablu was sitting on the broad step of his workshop with Kailash Sahu, who owned
the adjacent restaurant, Mehfil, famous for its bhutte ki kheer, a delicacy of grated fresh corn, pan-
fried in ghee, milk and sugar.
Aditya Joshi, a junior officer at the Census office in Bhopal, making his customary trip through
Indore, was also leaning against the workshop wall beside them.
Though it was not yet seven in the evening Kailash was already drinking from a bottle of strong-
smelling country liquor while Bablu and Aditya Joshi were drinking cup after cup of watery tea
made with the same tea leaves that had started their duty at seven that morning at the tea stall
adjacent to the workshop.
Yet another truck passed by with a loudspeaker blaring ‘Vote for Sailesh Singh Pawar, Vote for
BJP!’ Pointing at the truck, Kailash asked, ‘Bablu, what do you think, who will win the election
this year?’
Bablu answered, ‘What is there to think, three times this crook Pawar has won and this year too
victory will be his.’
Aditya Joshi interjected, ‘Oof! Bablu Bhaiya, it is good if the Bharatiya Janata Party wins! See,
under this government, population of full and final Madhya Pradesh grew only by twenty per cent
and under the Congress party leadership it was growing at twenty-four per cent, so we have made
good progress, na?’
Bablu replied, ‘Aditya Bhai, the population has stabilized not because of the government but
because of cable television operators. They are the ones responsible for controlling the population
explosion by luring couples into watching blockbuster movies all Sunday long instead of thinking
about procreation.
‘This method of population control is a lot more effective than your government’s policies. They
only distributed free condoms thinking this would do the trick but the grateful citizens carefully
saved all the condoms, only to use them as water balloons during Holi.’
Aditya Joshi looked over his shoulder at the small sanitary making unit that Bablu had installed in
the workshop, having given up welding in order to concentrate on his new venture. He said, ‘Bablu
Bhaiya, you should pray that both the cable company continues showing hit movies and that the
grateful citizens use condoms for the purpose it is made. Otherwise no one will buy your sanitary
napkins, cheap or otherwise!’
‘Bablu Bhaiya, because then all the ladies will get pregnant, na?’ said Aditya Joshi and was
greeted by Kailash’s chortling laughter which was interrupted by the ringing of the workshop
phone.
It was Professor Sharma in a state of high excitement. ‘Kewat, good news!’ he exclaimed. ‘IIT had
entered your machine for the National Innovation Awards after hearing your presentation. Your low
cost sanitary napkin machine has come first in the engineering category. You should be very proud
– there were nine hundred and forty-three entries!’
Bablu felt dizzy with happiness. His pulse was racing and all he could croak out was ‘I can’t
believe this, Professor saab! How did all this happen?’
The professor replied, ‘There were many entries, how to extract gold from seawater, reach Mars
by a shorter route, use dung for car fuel – all ideas and theories in spiral-bound notebooks and
CDs. Yours was the only machine presented and with a strong social implication.
‘One more thing, Kewat. You must apply for a patent for your invention as soon as possible, this
country is full of untalented lazy scoundrels who are happy to bathe in a tub filled with another
man’s sweat. Come home tomorrow and we’ll discuss the details.’
Though this threw up a rather unhygienic visual, Bablu who was now habituated to the good
professor’s flowery analogies assured him that he would be at the professor’s house the very next
evening.
16
Gowri was standing with her younger sister, Vijaya, inside the Narasimha Mandir. It was crowded
with devotees offering flowers, fruits and coins.
The two sisters rang the bells of the temple, bowed down till their foreheads touched the mosaic
temp
le floor and said a silent prayer to the idol in front of them.
Gowri, as always, thought of her absent husband and asked Lord Vishnu for guidance during this
difficult phase of her life. She then took circles around the peepal tree in the temple courtyard and
quietly moved towards the gate.
On the way back, Gowri was unusually quiet and when her sister questioned her, she said, ‘I was
just thinking about the time I had gone with him to a Hanuman ji temple in Ujjain. Everyone had
been talking about the great miracle there. We were looking at the large idol of Hanuman ji. It was
magnificent, life size, his crown was glistening gold and he had the most gentle eyes.
‘The temple resounded with cries of “Jai Bajrang Bali” and the pandit ji put a coconut inside
Hanuman ji’s mouth. Hanuman ji shut his mouth and in a few seconds crushed coconut appeared
from his silk-draped arm on to his open palm as prasad.
‘I said to your brother-in-law, “This is so wonderful. Come quickly, let us also buy a coconut and
get our blessings.” And he laughed at me saying, “Gowri, it is wonderful but it is not god, just a
machine. Instead of teeth there is a hammer inside Hanuman ji’s mouth that crushes the coconut and
then a pipe takes those pieces through his arm.”
‘I scolded him and he started teasing me, “Oh Gowri, put batteries in a torch and you can
illuminate a room but it doesn’t mean that a small star has fallen from the sky. And when you plug a
radio into the socket, do you think Kishore Kumar’s ghost circles around the house haunting you
with his singing? But you know, I would love to open it from the back and see how it works, very
well made, I must say.”
‘Vijaya, I got so worried that he was uttering all this blasphemy that I shut my ears and started
chanting the Hanuman Chalisa. But after a few days he got a toy car from the market, the kind that
you turn a key on the side and it scoots forward, and with parts of a doll and old clocks, he made
something similar, a puppet that would swallow a gooseberry and crack it into bits.’
Vijaya replied, ‘Didi, you talk about him all the time. Why don’t you send him a letter and tell him
to come and fetch you? He is still your husband after all.’
Gowri murmured, ‘I can’t tell you how much I regret leaving Mohana. I wanted to run away from