again?”
“Halwai.”
“Halwai…” He turned to the small dark man. “What caste is that, top or bottom?”
And I knew that my future depended on the answer to this question.
I should explain a thing or two about caste. Even Indians get confused about this word, especially educated Indians in the cities. They’ll make a mess of explaining it to you. But it’s simple, really.
Let’s start with me.
See: Halwai, my name, means “sweet-maker.”
That’s my caste—my destiny. Everyone in the Darkness who hears that name knows all about me at once. That’s why Kishan and I kept getting jobs at sweetshops wherever we went. The owner thought, Ah, they’re Halwais, making sweets and tea is in their blood.
But if we were Halwais, then why was my father not making sweets but pulling a rickshaw? Why did I grow up breaking coals and wiping tables, instead of eating gulab jamuns and sweet pastries when and where I chose to? Why was I lean and dark and cunning, and not fat and creamy-skinned and smiling, like a boy raised on sweets would be?
See, this country, in its days of greatness, when it was the richest nation on earth, was like a zoo. A clean, well kept, orderly zoo. Everyone in his place, everyone happy. Goldsmiths here. Cowherds here. Landlords there. The man called a Halwai made sweets. The man called a cowherd tended cows. The untouchable cleaned feces. Landlords were kind to their serfs. Women covered their heads with a veil and turned their eyes to the ground when talking to strange men.
And then, thanks to all those politicians in Delhi, on the fifteenth of August, 1947—the day the British left—the cages had been let open; and the animals had attacked and ripped each other apart and jungle law replaced zoo law. Those that were the most ferocious, the hungriest, had eaten everyone else up, and grown big bellies. That was all that counted now, the size of your belly. It didn’t matter whether you were a woman, or a Muslim, or an untouchable: anyone with a belly could rise up. My father’s father must have been a real Halwai, a sweet-maker, but when he inherited the shop, a member of some other caste must have stolen it from him with the help of the police. My father had not had the belly to fight back. That’s why he had fallen all the way to the mud, to the level of a rickshaw-puller. That’s why I was cheated of my destiny to be fat, and creamy-skinned, and smiling.
To sum up—in the old days there were one thousand castes and destinies in India. These days, there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies.
And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.
Now, the dark man—Mukesh Sir, brother of Mr. Ashok—did not know the answer—I told you that people in the cities know nothing much about the caste system, so the Stork turned to me and asked me directly.
“Are you from a top caste or bottom caste, boy?”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, so I flipped both answers—I could probably have made a good case either way—and then said, “Bottom, sir.”
Turning to Mukesh Sir, the old man said, “All our employees are top caste. It won’t hurt to have one or two bottom castes working for us.”
Mukesh Sir looked at me with narrowed eyes. He didn’t know the village ways, but he had all the cunning of the landlords.
“Do you drink?”
“No, sir. In my caste, we never drink.”
“Halwai…” Mr. Ashok said with a grin. “Are you a sweet-maker? Can you cook for us while you’re not driving?”
“Certainly, sir. I cook very well. Very tasty sweets. Gulab jamuns, laddoos, anything you desire,” I said. “I worked at a tea shop for many years.”
Mr. Ashok seemed to find this amusing. “Only in India,” he said. “Your driver can also make sweets for you. Only in India. Start from tomorrow.”
“Not so fast,” Mukesh Sir said. “First we have to ask about his family. How many are they, where they live, everything. And one more
“Halwai.”
“Halwai…” He turned to the small dark man. “What caste is that, top or bottom?”
And I knew that my future depended on the answer to this question.
I should explain a thing or two about caste. Even Indians get confused about this word, especially educated Indians in the cities. They’ll make a mess of explaining it to you. But it’s simple, really.
Let’s start with me.
See: Halwai, my name, means “sweet-maker.”
That’s my caste—my destiny. Everyone in the Darkness who hears that name knows all about me at once. That’s why Kishan and I kept getting jobs at sweetshops wherever we went. The owner thought, Ah, they’re Halwais, making sweets and tea is in their blood.
But if we were Halwais, then why was my father not making sweets but pulling a rickshaw? Why did I grow up breaking coals and wiping tables, instead of eating gulab jamuns and sweet pastries when and where I chose to? Why was I lean and dark and cunning, and not fat and creamy-skinned and smiling, like a boy raised on sweets would be?
See, this country, in its days of greatness, when it was the richest nation on earth, was like a zoo. A clean, well kept, orderly zoo. Everyone in his place, everyone happy. Goldsmiths here. Cowherds here. Landlords there. The man called a Halwai made sweets. The man called a cowherd tended cows. The untouchable cleaned feces. Landlords were kind to their serfs. Women covered their heads with a veil and turned their eyes to the ground when talking to strange men.
And then, thanks to all those politicians in Delhi, on the fifteenth of August, 1947—the day the British left—the cages had been let open; and the animals had attacked and ripped each other apart and jungle law replaced zoo law. Those that were the most ferocious, the hungriest, had eaten everyone else up, and grown big bellies. That was all that counted now, the size of your belly. It didn’t matter whether you were a woman, or a Muslim, or an untouchable: anyone with a belly could rise up. My father’s father must have been a real Halwai, a sweet-maker, but when he inherited the shop, a member of some other caste must have stolen it from him with the help of the police. My father had not had the belly to fight back. That’s why he had fallen all the way to the mud, to the level of a rickshaw-puller. That’s why I was cheated of my destiny to be fat, and creamy-skinned, and smiling.
To sum up—in the old days there were one thousand castes and destinies in India. These days, there are just two castes: Men with Big Bellies, and Men with Small Bellies.
And only two destinies: eat—or get eaten up.
Now, the dark man—Mukesh Sir, brother of Mr. Ashok—did not know the answer—I told you that people in the cities know nothing much about the caste system, so the Stork turned to me and asked me directly.
“Are you from a top caste or bottom caste, boy?”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, so I flipped both answers—I could probably have made a good case either way—and then said, “Bottom, sir.”
Turning to Mukesh Sir, the old man said, “All our employees are top caste. It won’t hurt to have one or two bottom castes working for us.”
Mukesh Sir looked at me with narrowed eyes. He didn’t know the village ways, but he had all the cunning of the landlords.
“Do you drink?”
“No, sir. In my caste, we never drink.”
“Halwai…” Mr. Ashok said with a grin. “Are you a sweet-maker? Can you cook for us while you’re not driving?”
“Certainly, sir. I cook very well. Very tasty sweets. Gulab jamuns, laddoos, anything you desire,” I said. “I worked at a tea shop for many years.”
Mr. Ashok seemed to find this amusing. “Only in India,” he said. “Your driver can also make sweets for you. Only in India. Start from tomorrow.”
“Not so fast,” Mukesh Sir said. “First we have to ask about his family. How many are they, where they live, everything. And one more
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