I woke at four in the morning. Two hours earlier than I should have. I was very hungry. There was some milk left over from the night before. I smelled it – it hadn’t curdled. I took a bowlful of fada from the container and poured the split wheat into the pressure cooker. I added the right portions of milk, cardamom and sugar. I cooked the fada until the first whistle then turned the stove off. After ten minutes I scooped the split-wheat porridge into a bowl and began to eat it with a spoon.

I started reading the text messages from my friend the philosopher. After I began I felt compelled to read them all again. I was drawn to an old message: ‘When the company we keep dominates us, it colours everything we do.’ I put the fada aside, sat at the computer, and began to write.

At the time I must have been fifteen years old. Right next to our vaas, the quarter of the untouchables, was the vaas where the scavenging Valmiki community lived. In the Valmiki vaas, Kachro Doho – Old Man Kachro – was on his deathbed, only he refused to die. His ageing wife, Dahi Dohi, kept thinking, ‘It would be good if the old man finally dies.’ His sons, his sons’ wives, his sons-in-law, everyone else kept thinking: ‘It would be good if the old man dies.’ But the old man would not die. The doctors said he wasn’t sick. The Bhuvo said no threads or spells were necessary. So what now?

Everyone was tense. People came and went from the house, but the old man would say nothing to them. Relatives came and bhagats came – devout men. They performed a Satyanarayan puja ritual, and organised devotional bhajan singing. There was only one motive behind all this activity – to let the old man’s jeev, his life spirit, leave his body. But every effort was in vain.

Four days passed. Kachro Doho drank water, but he would not leave the water, would not let go of his life. Slowly, people began to think that the old man must have some unfulfilled wish that was holding him back. But no one knew what that wish was, and the old man would not tell. Is it that you want to eat a sweet patasu? Or that you want sukhdi? Do you want to eat surmu? Drink some daru, some alcohol? Or do you want to visit the shrine of the mother goddess for her darshan? They asked many questions, but the old man would not say what he wanted. And so they worried all the more.

Petha Kaka lived at the far end of the vaas. He was Kachro Doho’s best friend. They’d spent their childhood together, grown old together, become community elders and gossips together. They’d fight and make up. Only the last time they fought they did not get together again. It wasn’t until the fifth day that Kachro Doho lay dying that Petha Kaka came to his house. He went to Kachro Doho and brought his ear close to the old man’s lips. Kachro Doho said something. When Petha Kaka heard what he had to say, he cleared everyone out of the house and called Dahi Dohi inside. He whispered Kachro Doho’s words into Dahi Dohi’s ear. Dahi Dohi smacked her palm against her forehead and laughed softly. Petha Kaka left the house and Dahi Dohi shut the doors. After twenty minutes she opened the doors again. Everyone went into the house and they said, ‘Doha’s jeev has left; the old man has died.’

It did not remain a secret that Kachro Doho’s dying wish was to have sex with his wife: word spread across the vaas. On everyone’s lips the same phrase: ‘Kachro Doho turned out to be a harvaryo haap, a wriggly snake.’ When Kachro Doho’s funeral procession went through the village children laughed softly, and the young and the old laughed softly. While Kachro Doho’s pyre burned the wind laughed softly. Kachro Doho’s pyre burned amid soft laughter. Kachro Doho’s barmu, the twelfth day of mourning, passed amid soft laughter. Kachro Doho was forgotten but the label harvario haap, wriggly snake, stuck to his youngest great-grandson Jivo. He was in my class at school. I knew Jivo by name and by his excellent schoolwork.

It was a holiday. Everyone was playing with marbles. I didn’t know how to play, so I stood by watching quietly. Jivo was about to win when Punjiyo arrived, tall as a palm. Punjiyo had a bad habit. He could vomit whenever he liked. He’d stretch himself up on his toes and pull at his ears. Just like that: vomit out. Vomit is usually nasty, but Punjiyo’s vomit was especially nasty. Punjiyo spewed his yellow vomit all over the marbles arranged in a circle. Everyone cried out, ‘Aieeee!’

Jivo was furious. He jumped up and told Punjiyo he had to wash off the marbles. It was strange, since Jivo was usually so quiet.

‘Shut up and scram,’ said Punjiyo.

‘Wash the marbles,’ Jivo repeated.

‘And what’ll you do if I don’t, huh?’

‘I’ll break your head.’

‘Fuck your mother!’ Punjiyo caught hold of Jiva’s collar and shoved a finger into his throat. Then he pulled at his cheeks. ‘You puny thing! You think you can break my head?’ He shoved him so hard that Jivo fell down. As soon as Jivo was on the ground Punjiyo began spitting on him, thu thu thu.

Jivo vomited. Looked at his vomit, started to cry. When Punjiyo saw Jivo crying, he ran off like a camel. Everyone got together and poured sand over the marbles. They rubbed the marbles with their feet to clean them off. The game started again. Jivo cried while he played.

That evening, Jivo came over to my place to eat dinner. I was alone. I was in a playful mood and teased him: ‘No one at home, harvariya haap!’ When he heard that phrase his face dropped, and I felt bad.

‘I’ll never say that again.’

Jivo smiled. As he smiled, tears ran down his cheeks and fell onto his plate.

After that, Jivo always smiled when we met. And I smiled too. Over time our smiles became words and the words friendship. We’d meet at school, play in the field behind the house. We didn’t go to each other’s houses. We would talk, and sometimes Jivo would walk with me to my house. He would stand in the courtyard. He never sat on the string cot. He never asked for water and I never offered him water. If my mother was home, she’d give Jivo water. Bai, mother, would bring him a pot of water and he would cup his palms, waiting for her to pour it from above. She would wave his cupped palms away and hand him the pot. Jivo started pouring the water from the pot, careful to keep his mouth away from the rim, but Bai told him to just put it to his lips. Finally she convinced him.

I never felt like going to Jivo’s house. I used to think, ‘A Bhangya’s house, the house of the lowest of untouchables, is dirty.’ I don’t remember why, but one day I had to go to his house, and I was surprised when I saw how clean it was. It was much cleaner than ours. When he saw me, Jivo filled a brass tumbler with water and handed it to me. I couldn’t refuse. I began to drink. For a moment I felt like I might vomit. Then I drank the rest of the water quickly. I asked for more water. This time when I drank I didn’t feel like vomiting at all. Our friendship became stronger. When Jivo came to our house, I’d give him water. When I went to his place, I asked for water.

Jivo was good at school. He excelled in maths, science and English. I was weak at maths and science. English I couldn’t understand at all. When we did our homework together at Jivo’s he’d say, ‘You’ll learn, I’ll teach you.’

Jivo started tutoring me. At first I was bored, but then it became fun. My one goal was to pass the term exams. When they came I passed science for the first time. I failed maths by one point. English I failed outright. After that we studied harder.

The second round of exams came, and I passed every subject for the first time in my life. I placed seventeenth in the class, and it seemed as if everything had changed. The village was different. The way my blood ran through my veins, the blinking of my eyes, the way I spoke, the rise and fall of certain words – everything seemed to move to a new beat.

‘Let’s get some milk pedo,’ said my brother Jasu, and he took me to Suhkadiya’s sweet shop. We ate halwo dripping in ghee instead of a pedo. I snuck a bit into my pocket when Jasu wasn’t looking. We ate the rest and went our separate ways. Immediately I started to run, ran so fast I almost hit a bicycle at one point. I went to Jivo’s. Took the bit of halwo out of my pocket and offered it to him. He ate it with relish. My shorts were stained with ghee and sugar, but I knew Bai wouldn’t say anything.

The results of the final exams were posted. I passed, and placed fifth in the class. Jivo, who was usually first in class, came second. The results inspired in me a hunger to study, and to know more. To satisfy that hunger I began reading. I read whatever I could find. Before the next school year began I read my way through all the books for Class 8. When I came across a scrap of writing, I’d read it. If I found a newspaper, I’d read the whole thing. I became a member of the public library in the village. Slowly, this flood of reading gave way to a smaller but steady stream.

On Shravani Poonam, the full moon day in the month of Shravan, Jivo, Vikram, and I went to Khedbrahma to the shrine of Mataji, the mother goddess, for darshan. Vikram was Jivo’s neighbour, and was in Class 9. Vikram and Jivo had money, I didn’t. I told my brother Jasu we were going to Khedbrahma, and he immediately gave me two ten-rupee notes. I was thrilled. We went for darshan, sought her blessings. Ate prasad of sakariya, candied groundnuts, and dried coconut. Ate another helping of the prasad, then a third. We drank orange sharbat at the bus stand. As we drank our sharbat we decided to go and watch a film, the first show. There was a huge crowd at Aradhana Cinema House. Vikram did something sneaky – he slipped through the crowd, took a few blows from the watchman’s stick on his way, and cut through the queue to get us tickets. It was a violent film, all action. Jivo really liked it. I enjoyed it too. Afterwards Vikram kept sticking out his butt, repeating dialogue from the film as he farted: ‘If you’ve drunk your mother’s milk, then come and fight! Dhichkiyan! Dhichkiyan!’ We laughed.

We were hanging on to the rails of the jeep driving us back to Vadali. Two other people were clinging to the rails with us. At Shyamnagar they got down. The jeep started again and gained speed. Vikram was in his element.

‘If you’ve drunk your mother’s milk, then come out and fight! Dhichkiyan! Dhichkiyan!’

He hung on to the rail of the jeep with one hand and made the shape of a pistol with the other, reciting the dialogue. We all laughed. Vikram thought of a new game. He released his grip on the rail, which he was holding with both hands, and then gripped it again. He let go of the rail then grabbed it again, did it three or four times. He told me to do it. I did it twice. He asked Jivo to do it. Jivo refused.

‘Jivo, if you’ve drunk your mother’s milk, then let go of the rail and show me!’ Vikram said.

Jivo was angry. He let go of the rail then grabbed it again. We began to take turns playing this game. Vikram would repeat the dialogue from the film and we’d let go of the rail for a moment, one after the other.

It was Jivo’s turn. Vikram said the line. Jivo released his grip on the rail. At the same time, Vikram added, ‘Dhichkiyan . . . Dhichkiyan . . .’ I had to laugh at the way he said it – ‘Dhichkiyan . . . Dhichkiyan . . .’ Jivo laughed too. The jeep was going at speed. Jivo’s laugh and the jeep’s rattling were in sync. The distance between Jivo’s hands and the jeep’s rail grew. Jivo couldn’t grab the rail again. My eyes were on him. The back of Jivo’s head hit the road, then his body was dragged by the jeep, before it bounced and crashed against the trunk of a Baval tree by the roadside. Vikram shouted, ‘Stop the jeep!’ I couldn’t speak. The jeep stopped. I got down from the jeep with my head spinning and fell, unconscious. When I opened my eyes again I was in hospital. There I learned that Jivo was no more.

I stared at the computer screen, listless. My blood cooled in my body, slowed. I turned off the computer and looked at the clock. Still an hour and a half left before work. I covered the fada, locked my room and went outside. Sat on a bench at the railway station.

It was morning. The birds were singing. People passed by. The animals were playful. There was so much to enjoy, but I felt as if there was a solid iron wall between the world outside and the atmosphere within me. My insides swallowed the tree, swallowed the birds, swallowed the animals, swallowed the whole scene. From afar I saw a ten-year-old boy selling peanuts. My insides swallowed the boy, pulled him down almost to my navel. Suddenly, someone shook me. ‘Sayeb, sayeb!’ I was startled. When I looked up there was the peanut seller. ‘Sayeb, peanuts?’ I bought ten rupees’ worth. The boy went away. I put a few peanuts into my mouth, but something was wrong. My insides had swallowed the flavour. I got up from the bench and scattered the peanuts around the trunk of an Ambli tree.

Photograph © Vasantha Yoganantha, Young Warriors, 2015 Sitamarthi, Uttar Pradesh