East, West Read Free Page A

of ether, was in town that the extent of the widow’s wickedness became plain; because at this time Ramani suddenly began to talk about his new fantasy, telling everyone he could find that very shortly he was to receive a highlyspecial and personalised gift from the Central Government in Delhi itself, and this gift was to be a brand-new first-class battery-operated transistor radio.
    Now then: we had always believed that our Ramani was a little soft in the head, with his notions of being a film star and what all; so most of us just nodded tolerantly and said, ‘Yes, Ram, that is nice for you,’ and, ‘What a fine, generous Government it is that gives radios to persons who are so keen on popular music.’
    But Ramani insisted it was true, and seemed happier than at any time in his life, a happiness which could not be explained simply by the supposed imminence of the transistor.
    Soon after the dream-radio was first mentioned, Ramani and the thief’s widow were married, and then I understood everything. I did not attend the nuptials – it was a poor affair by all accounts – but not long afterwards I spoke to Ram when he came past the banyan with an empty rickshaw one day.
    He came to sit by me and I asked, ‘My child, did you go to the caravan? What have you let them do to you?’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘Everything is tremendously wonderful. I am in love, teacher sahib, and I have made it possible for me to marry my woman.’
    I confess I became angry; indeed, I almost wept as I realised that Ramani had gone voluntarily to subject himself to a humiliation which was being forced upon the other men who were taken to the caravan. I reproved him bitterly. ‘My idiot child, you have let that woman deprive you of your manhood!’
    ‘It is not so bad,’ Ram said, meaning the nasbandi. ‘It does not stop love-making or anything, excuse me, teacher sahib, for speaking of such a thing. It stops babies only and my woman did not want children any more, so now all is hundred per cent OK. Also it is in national interest,’ he pointed out. ‘And soon the free radio will arrive.’
    ‘The free radio,’ I repeated.
    ‘Yes, remember, teacher sahib,’ Ram said confidentially, ‘some years back, in my kiddie days, when Laxman the tailor had this operation? In no time the radio came and from all over town people gathered to listen to it. It is how the Government says thank you. It will be excellent to have.’
    ‘Go away, get away from me,’ I cried out in despair, and did not have the heart to tell him what everyone else in the country already knew, which was that the free radio scheme was a dead duck, long gone, long forgotten. It had been over – funtoosh! – for years.

    After these events the thief’s widow, who was now Ram’s wife, did not come into town very often, no doubt being too ashamed of what she had made him do, but Ramani worked longer hours than ever before, and every time he saw any of the dozens of people he’d told about the radio he would put one hand up to his ear as if he were already holding the blasted machine in it, and he would mimic broadcasts with a certain energetic skill.
    ‘Yé Akashvani hai,’ he announced to the streets. ‘This is All-India Radio. Here is the news. A Government spokesman today announced that Ramani rickshaw-wallah’s radio was on its way and would be delivered at any moment. And now some playback music.’ After which he would sing songs by Asha Bhonsle or Lata Mangeshkar in a high, ridiculous falsetto.
    Ram always had the rare quality of total belief in his dreams, and there were times when his faith in the imaginary radio almost took us in, so that we half-believed it was really on its way, or even that it was already there, cupped invisibly against his ear as he rode his rickshaw around the streets of the town. We began to expect to hear Ramani, around a corner or at the far end of a lane, ringing his bell and yelling cheerfully:
    ‘All-India Radio!