Shyamlal - The jamadar

Shyamlal was a jamadar, a sweeper, in our Kaimganj house. Without fail, he visited our place twice – like the hour hand of the clock passing through a number twice daily. He had a long broom, quite like what Harry Potter has, except that his broom did what it was meant to do. It was like his third arm, practically attached to his body. I had rarely seen him without it and he looked odd in its absence.

‘Go, and give these sweets to Shyamlal’, my dadi told me.

‘OK’.

‘Don’t touch him’, she instructed.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘He is a jamadar.’

‘So?’

‘Jamadars are not to be touched’, she said it in such an axiomatic way as if the sentence demanded no explanation – a first principle, an immutable truth. Except that in my child-brain, those truths were not hard-wired by then.

Caution gripped me while giving the sweets to Shyamlal: Jamadars are not to be touched.

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Shyamlal, strangely, was too good looking to be a jamadar. He wasn’t the typical poor bloke from the 80s Bollywood movies: frail and shivering; hollow starved cheeks; perpetually apologetic eyes.

On the contrary, he had fair complexion, square jaw, thick dark well-oiled hair, broad forehead, kind eyes and thick mustache. But God had given him a face scarred by chicken pox – probably a blemish to remind him of his position in the society!

Everyone had a high regard for him and his work. We all spoke to him with respect and gave him sweets.

We just didn’t touch him.

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After the ‘sweets’ incident, curiosity captured my little brain. I tried to push it out, but once it took root it refused to be yanked up and tossed away.

What would happen if I touch him?

Will there be an explosion?

Will I get a shock?

Will no one touch me after I touch him?

So, like a scientist, I set out to test my hypotheses. For the next couple of days, I brainstormed with myself, came up to some ideas, then shot them down. Since he was much older than me, patting him on his back, the way my father and grandfather would to those who-could-be-touched was ruled out. My only contact with him was through smile when we saw each other or when I placed some edibles on his hand.

HAND! I could touch his hand!

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‘Go and give rotis to Shyamlal. Don’t touch him’, came the instruction. Wasn’t I waiting for it!

I went ahead – with a determined stride – but not too determined to get noticed: keeping it perfunctory, exactly the way a brahmin boy should while giving something to a jamadar.

I placed the rotis on his hand… took a deep breath… and touched it.

I touched Shyamlal’s hand… and waited.

… and waited some more, pulsing with the excitement every scientist has, while anticipating the results of his experiment.

‘Is everything alright, bhaiya?’ Shyamlal asked, confused. A boy staring down at his hand was not part of his daily routine.

I looked at him. Then at his hand. Finally, back at him again. My disappointment must have been blatant on my face because Shyamlal’s perplexed expression was.

The experiment had failed.

There was no explosion.

There was no shock. Not even sparks!

After a few more attempts and no results, I looked up with a long face, only to find him smiling at me.

Did he understand what I was doing?

Was he offended?

It didn’t appear but then even if he was, he had no right to express it.

He was a jamadar.