Kishore Bhatt

About two weeks ago I got a wedding invitation, Jwala Bhatt d/o Shambhu Bhatt Weds Mahesh Pande. It was like a bolt from the past. From over fifteen years ago. She must have been six or seven years of pigtails and red ribbons then.

Kishore Bhatt belonged to the hill village of Jageshwar. It’s a very small village in the Pauri Garhwal hills, nestled in tall pine trees famous for a 5000 year old temple of Lord Shiva.

He was the fifth among six children. Four sisters and two brothers. The father was a priest in the temple and also owned a small patch of land on which they would grow some vegetables, potatoes during the summer months. All the kids went to the local government school. He had an ambition that his sons should get educated and stand on their own feet. In addition to attending school when the teachers came, they all helped out in the field and played their make-believe games in the pine forest. Kishore doted on Jwala. She was only an infant then but Kishore would talk to her for long hours.

Of the six, Kishore was the one with stars in his eyes. He looked at you with an impish smile from behind his mother's skirt. His prancing around, much like the many new born lambs they had on the farm, and the shy visage endeared him to the entire village. He often said that one day he would become famous and people patted his head, 'Yes of course Kishore' but no one really meant it.

Our paths were to cross briefly many years later.

The day his eighth standard results were declared he made up his mind. He had had enough of this place. He told Jwala of his plans to go to Delhi. The four year old began sobbing but he managed to pacify her, packed his clothes, books, and his matchbox collection in a small bag and left home early in the morning. He left a small note for his mother,'You'll read about me in the papers'.

Around that time I too had left the cloistered environment of a middle class home to work for Network Limited. After pottering around as a trainee, when I reached Jaipur for my first managerial stint, I dived into the work with gusto. It was a hard core sales driven organisation. A young team of people wanting to make a mark in life did not think anything was impossible.

I rented a house just off Civil lines. This was the first time I was living on my own. The room and kitchen were quite bare. The owner had lent me a folding cot on which I had spread a mat. The kitchen had an electric coil heater and a vessel to boil milk in. Almost twice a week the sales team would gather on my terrace and drink till late in the night. Then all of us would drive our bikes to the station for bread-omelettes.

I had met with an accident on one of my bike trips to another town. I was quite badly bruised and battered and had to come back to Noida for a week to repair myself. Mom's fussing over got me back on my feet pretty quickly. It was during these days that I met Kishore. He was working at a Chinese food restaurant in sector 29. Even slightly Mongoloid features are good enough qualification for you to become a Chinese chef on the food streets of Delhi. Immediately the impish smile and the twinkle in his eye caught your attention.

It was early winter and I was there almost daily alongwith some old friends. The hot topic of our discussions was the Mandal commission report. VP Singh our PM, we were convinced had lost his mind. The overwhelming majority with which he had come to power had all been lost. Student agitations were becoming more strident by the day. We were sure that police's ham handed handling and the students' anger was sure to blow up in his face. In the coming months we saw how Delhi burned.

Once for a party I asked Kishore to come over and cook Chinese at home. During the evening he had won over my entire family with his energy and attitude. Before the evening was over my Mom had asked him if he would go with me to Jaipur to look after me. He promised to think about it and revert the next day. It was two days later on the Saturday that I was to leave that he came in the morning. He had a bag full of his stuff and a rolled up bedding.

He boarded the bus with me that night. All the way he told me about his hills, his house, his farm, his parents and his little sister Jwala. How he had left home with a burning desire to get famous. How he had struggled and got abused in the ruthless urban jungle. And how that desire was still burning.

It took him all of two hours to fix up my house. He went out purchased all the kitchen stuff and vegetables. That day I had my first proper meal at home and slept peacefully in the afternoon. Within a couple of days he had structured my routine and told me that he would like to earn a bit more by working at a nearby Dhaba. I agreed as there was hardly any work to do at home.

Every night we would sit out on my terrace, he would tell me more about his village life and sing the hill songs. Then one day he told me about a bunch of student leaders who had started using his Dhaba as their meeting point. They were, he said, really angry at the government for proposing reservations in jobs. They seemed assured that the local press is supportive of their stand. Their leader's picture with statements had been carried in both the papers. Just before dozing off to sleep I remember telling him to ignore these guys and not get involved with them.

I went off to Kota for two days on a business trip. When I returned I found that Kishore was like in a trance. He was singing to himself and looking really happy below the surface. After dinner, I did not need to do much to get him talking. In the last two days, his Dhaba had been infested with newspaper journalists. Student leaders as well as the journalists had kept zooming in and out on bikes all day. He had served endless cups of tea to them. The twinkle in his eyes said a lot more than just the account of comings and goings at the Dhaba. I felt that he was getting involved in the agitation. The lure of his name in print seemed too much for him to resist. I warned him quite sternly that night.

Another two days passed. On Saturday next I was at my office when I saw an urchin ride up on a bicycle and try to come in. He looked quite stressed and was frantically searching for someone. As he saw me his eyes lit up and ran up to me. I recognised him from Kishore's Dhaba. He looked scared, spoke rapidly and I could not understand a word. I just heard Kishore.. hospital.. ..burnt and rushed out.

I reached the SMS General Hospital ten minutes later and rushed to the burns ward. Kishore lay there unconscious, his face looked clean and serene. As I got closer I saw that the rest of his entire body was charred, hair had matted on to his scalp, finger nails had burnt off. Panic built up in the pit of my stomach and tears welled up. I looked around for the doctor. He told me that Kishore was in an extremely serious condition and pointed towards the two cops who had brought him to the hospital. I was puzzled and shocked.

The cops then told me the story. The student leaders at the Dhaba were looking to create a sensation and had been planning a dramatic demonstration against the Mandal commission. They had come up with this new idea of protesting. Self-immolation. Shit!

I sat all day next to Kishore. I went back home at night and was back there next morning. He had been slipping in and out of consciousness. He woke up for a while and in between cries of pain asked me to bring his bag from home. I went and brought it before he woke up again in the night. His entire life's belongings were stuffed in a jute bag. He made me open it. I took out a tattered wallet, it had about four thousand rupees, a small box that had his matchbox collection and some letters he had written but not posted. He asked for a small red plastic box that contained two gold ear-rings and a pink tie and dye cotton saree.

I put all the things on the bed next to him and showed them to him one by one. He could not move his hands, he just rubbed his face on the saree. He broke down completely when I showed him the ear-rings. The tough kid from the hills was weeping openly. The patients on the next bed thought it was his wounds but only I could see his eyes.

'These are for Jwala's wedding. Will you promise to go and give it to her?' 'Of course Kishore' I began but he was not listening to me any more. He became delirious. Began speaking in his native tongue. I heard strains of the folk songs that he sometimes sang at home in between his cries. Nurses came and gave him a sedative. Before falling into sleep he opened his eyes and asked, 'Did I make the papers?'.

Kishore never woke up again. He passed away around mid-night. Next morning I did the last rites on my own. I went to the temple, prayed for him and came back home completely desolate. I opened the door to my house. As I kept the jute bag on the floor I saw the last two days newspapers and remembered his dying question. On page four there was a small one inch space which mentioned of an immigrant worker at a Dhaba committing suicide and that the police was investigating further.

I went to Jageshwar after a week. I met his parents and family. I met Jwala. Same impish smile, same twinkling eyes and pigtails.