Features
Queens and Bandits in Rajasthan, India
by Jayantha Perera
The Delhi Office of the World Bank offered me several consultancies in the late 1990s. As a consultant anthropologist, I assisted the State Government of Uttar Pradesh to develop a detailed Action Plan for water-user associations. Then I worked on several short-term assignments in Andra Pradesh and moved to the State of Rajasthan to work on irrigation development.
Rajasthan is one of the most fascinating states in India because of its long history, culture, and diversity. I travelled all over Rajasthan, studying ancient and modern irrigation systems. I formulated an Action Plan for water-user associations and participatory rehabilitation of irrigation systems under the Rajasthan Water Resources Consolidation Project.
Once, I travelled by ‘Frontier Mail’ train to the Jambal Valley in Rajasthan from New Delhi. The British introduced ‘Frontier Mail’ from Peshawar to Bombay. After Independence, the train goes from New Delhi to Bombay. I was in a first-class berth and shared it with an old gentleman. He wore chappals and a pair of blue trousers and a white, short-sleeved shirt. He brought a small suitcase, a tiffin box (food carrier) and several water bottles.
When the train started the journey to Bombay, my berth partner smiled and took his suitcase from under the seat. He asked me if it was OK if he made his bed for the journey. When I nodded, he took a flat pillow, a thin bedsheet, a pair of dhotis (loose trousers), and a loose-fitting salwar kameez from the suitcase. He spread the bed sheet over the seat and checked his tiffin box and hung a plastic water bottle on one of the hooks above his bed/seat. He was well prepared to travel in comfort and in good spirits. He smiled and told me his journey to Bombay would take two nights and three days.
My first impression of him was that he was a Christian priest. I asked him:
“Are you a priest?”
He smiled and said, “My brother is a priest. I was an aviator.”
“Does that mean a pilot?”
“Yes, but a fighter plane pilot that belonged to the Indian Navy,” he explained.
“Why do you travel by train? You could have flown to Bombay from Delhi in two hours. As an ex-aviator, I am sure, you could get concessionry air tickets,” I showed my surprise.
“True. But I like the train journey, especially during the monsoon season,” he answered.
“Why?” I asked.
“You cannot be too sure with Air India or Indian Airlines during the monsoons. During heavy rainy seasons, it is safer to travel by train than by plane. I was an aviator; therefore, I know,” he patiently enlightened me.
I thanked him for the piece of information. He wanted to know where I was going. I told him I was going to the Jambal Valley to do research. He thought for a minute or two and asked me,
“Do you know that the Jambal Valley in Rajasthan is home to many bandits?”
I said, “Yes.”
“It is known for harbouring violent gangs of criminals who find shelter in its many hidden ravines. Have you heard about Phoolan Devi, the notorious woman bandit known as the Queen of Bandits”, He inquired. I told him I had read about her and had seen a documentary film about the atrocities she had committed.
He opened his tiffin box and took two idlis (savoury rice cakes) and a portion of sambar (thick savoury curry) from his tiffin box and used its lid as his plate. He took about half an hour to eat his breakfast. He drank coffee from his flask. I ordered breakfast from the train cafeteria when a railway employee visited our berth to inquire about breakfast, which was part of the travel package. A few minutes later, a waiter in a white uniform served my breakfast on a tray with two fried eggs, mashed potatoes, jam, butter, and fresh bread with hot coffee and a jug of warm milk. I offered the aviator food from my tray, but he politely refused.
After breakfast, the aviator took a thin pillow from his suitcase. He adjusted the pillow on the seat and lay down for a long nap. He got up about three hours later, immediately ate the remaining food in the tiffin box and drank coffee from the flask. Then he was in a mood to talk to me. He asked me whether I had travelled in North India, especially in Rajasthan. I told him I had spent five years in Sindh, which is across the northern border of Rajasthan.
He hesitantly told me that he was a member of a squadron that bombed lower Sindh during the 1965 Indo-Pakistan war. He shared his experiences and the challenges they faced during the war. I told him my Sindhi friends had talked about the bombing of the Kotri Barrage (dam) on the Indus River and how the pilots missed it by several hundred yards. The Aviator smiled and said, “We did not want to destroy a key barrage.
Booking my lunch on the train was a complicated process, but it gave a unique perspective on travel in India. A railway inspector respectfully asked me what I would like for lunch. Then his assistant read the menu. I selected a non-veg meal of rice with mutton curry. Curious, I asked the inspector how he would get lunch for me and others on the train. He said he would telex the lunch order from the next major railway station to the railway food contractor, asking him to deliver the food for pick up to another railway station and giving the train’s arrival time. He laughed and said, “If you order ice cream, you have to be careful because if the train arrives late, the ice cream will melt, but you still pay for it!” I told him I would order mishti doi (fermented sweetened milk) in a clay cup, a local delicacy that I was eager to try.
The food tray ordered arrived on schedule. A uniformed waiter brought a small teapoy (table) to the berth and covered it with a clean white cloth. Then he set my lunch on it. Each item was wrapped separately in aluminium foil. Mutton and lentils were in small plastic pouches. Hot chapatis supplemented with fragrantly cooked rice. He brought two water bottles and a coffee flask with a ceramic cup and a saucer. He promised to collect the tray after an hour.
Around 3 pm, the train stopped at a small railway station. I heard a great commotion from the platform. A large crowd was shouting various slogans behind a young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He approached my berth and asked whether he could occupy the upper bed briefly. The aviator was in a deep sleep. I welcomed the young man. After completing his MBA, he was in his early thirties and returning from the University of Columbia, USA.
He would visit his great-grandmother – the queen of the old Kingdom of Jodhpur. He told me a large portion of the palace had been converted to luxury hotels. His great-grandmother lived in the main palace. I showed him my hotel booking particulars, and he confirmed that I would stay at that palace hotel. He laughed and told me we should meet in the garden in the evening for a drink.
When the train arrived at the railway station, about 200 men were waiting to receive him on the railway platform. The mob ran into the berth, literally grabbed him and his suitcase, and carried him, chanting slogans. I, too, got off the train and followed the crowd.
My room at the hotel was spooky and musty. The bed was 100 years old and surrounded by old and weathered furniture. The old mosquito net kept a battalion of mosquitos at bay. There were no other guests that night at the hotel, and the hotel cook prepared a special meal for me. After dinner at the large dining hall, I returned to my bedroom past the stuffed heads of lions, tigers, and elephants mounted on narrow corridor walls.
In the morning, I woke to the noise of hundreds of peacocks. They cried in shrilled voices. After breakfast, I hired a hotel car and travelled to the office of the Chief Engineer of the Irrigation Department. He was a thin man with large blue spectacles. His shirt looked three or four sizes bigger than what he should wear. I wondered how he held his trousers on such a thin frame without suspenders.
He greeted me and sat behind a large table covered with a thick glass plate. He smiled and directed me to sit down. He went through a file and told me that he understood my role would be to assist him in irrigation matters. I gave him a copy of my terms of reference (TOR), which he ignored. He said he was happy to share his knowledge and experience with me. I appreciated his kindness but pointed out that my understanding differed from his understanding of my TOR. According to the TOR, my role was to help him identify and resolve social issues in irrigation management. I just listened to him because he was pleasant, and I believed in what he said. He worried about my food and security and offered me his car so I could go to the city whenever I wanted.
A few days later, I told him I wanted to see irrigation projects and listen to grievances farmers had with local irrigation officers. He dismissed the idea. He gave me the impression that he could not believe I should talk to engineers and farmers without his permission and presence. He told me sternly, “If you want to learn, you have to follow my advice and timetable.” I told him the World Bank appointed me to advise him and the other staff on irrigation water management. He showed his sadness by sulking for about five minutes. Then he asked me:
“How old are you?”
“Forty-six,” I answered.
“Where did you study?”
“Sussex University in the UK, where I got my MA and PhD”
“What did you study?”
“Anthropology and Development”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Because the World Bank recruited me to work with you and your staff on irrigation water management.”
“But you are not an engineer. Do you know anything about engineering?”
“I am not an engineer, so I want to work with you on irrigation matters.”
“Then you should not work with me. I will provide a junior engineer who can go with you to the field.”
He phoned someone at the Ministry of Irrigation. After the telephone call, he told me he had misunderstood my status and role. Yes, he would like to work with me. He ordered his peon to arrange a workstation for me in his large office room. He said that he would bring lunch for me from home. I treated him as my senior and showed respect in my speech.
The chief engineer helped me to plan an irrigation strategy for Rajasthan. I learned a lot from him and from visits to very remote places where law and order were at risk. At one village, he told me that the people were so isolated and impoverished that they might not know that the British had left India 50 years ago! Arguably, the 14 days I spent with him were one of the happiest times in my career. I learned so much from him and was impressed with his patience, new ideas, and compassion for the farmers. Before I left, he took me to a famous saree shop where he told me to buy at least ten Kota cotton sarees, which were world-famous. At the end of my stay, he jokingly told me that he initially thought I was an Indian boy from Goa who did not speak Hindi.