Here’s a mysterious story by Anika. From this Saturday, we are introducing a talented teenage fiction writer, exclusively in Different Truths.
After hours of inspecting every nook and corner of Dharavi, I arrived at a long umbilical street with low rising houses – typical of the place and tested my luck one last time. I had tried the names ‘Jenabhen’ and ‘Jenabai’ before, so ‘amma’ was going to be my one last shot before retreating into the concrete jungles of Mumbai.
To my surprise, it sparked a fire, as the news of my quest suddenly picked the pace and resulted in twenty something hands pointing towards a shoddy looking house numbered 23.
Jenabai, or amma the reason behind all my efforts in those days, was at a point, the drug baroness of India. She was a living, breathing contradiction as people’s vision of her was glorified and dignified, contrary to what her actions deserved. She had created a thriving chain of supply and demand in Punjab, shaking the state to its very roots. Using packed heroin firing catapults to hiding drugs amongst shipments of pesticide, she had done it all. Yet there was a flip side to her malicious self. A side, the residents of Mumbai had chosen to love.
Jenabai was a philanthropist in her own right. She chose to extort money from those in possession, yet gave back religiously to the ones in need. The streets of Dharavi echoed with anecdotes describing her goodness and fables recounting her strength. However, in spite of all verbal recollections painting a picture of her as a goddess, nobody had ever seen her. She had never been charged with criminal proceedings, to say the least, and the frequent receivers of her generosity could never be sure what the enigmatic woman looked like.
In the name of Jenabai, a huge mob of a woman, different every time, roamed the streets of Mumbai. The women were sequentially changed enough number of times to make it impossible to spot the queen bee. Regardless of which, I, in all my youthful ambition decided to undertake this monumental task of figuring her out.
I entered house number 23 when my eyes met with those of a middle-aged woman.
I looked around to scan my surroundings and made a mental note of the same. A chula (clay oven), a charpai (cot) and an adjoining room full of papers.
“Good evening. What can I do for you today?” chirped the woman, breaking my train of thoughts. I pondered upon her ability to converse in English for a second and then in my childish innocence posed her with my only question, “Are you Jenabai?”
She chuckled as she took and offered me a seat, and then let out a polite no.
“I am Mamta, Jenabai’s younger sister. This is one of the many set ups amma has set to escape the police in time. Of course, the locals themselves are in on it. We all love her very dearly. Anyway, would you care to have some tea with me? I was just going to make myself some.”
I let out a huge sigh as I accepted the offer and began a further inquiry. After 30 minutes of conversation and a satisfying cup of tea, I bid farewell and proceeded to go back home.
To my surprise, Mamta was a writer and wrote weekly for a local newspaper. She even let me read some of her latest work, which indeed was inspired.
A few days went by and I almost let complacency consume me. I had moved on from the idea of Jenabai, dismissing her as an unfathomable enigma, when 24th of May unravelled.
A police informer was shot in Bandra. According to the news channels, a meeting consisting of fake police officials was set up to catch him red-handed, after which he was mercilessly shot.
It was speculated that the deal would’ve exposed an entire drug racket, and would’ve helped gain evidence against major drug lords. In all this, another piece of evidence surfaced: A handwritten article with the words “flowers where there are none to be seen” underlined was broadcasted on all national television channels. As horrifying as the news was, it reminded me of the article Mamta showed me back at her place. I quickly went to a newspaper stand and bought all the newspapers from over the past month. I rummaged through Mamta’s articles and found the same line repeated in every single of them. It was clearly a message. I woke up early the next morning and discreetly found my way to her house. A confrontation seemed like the only option. I rushed through the mob of people around that general area and entered. My eyes met with those of a middle-aged woman. A woman I hadn’t seen before. Upon inquiry, she let me in the same way Mamta had. She was Jenabai’s younger sister and she too loved her dearly. The story she recited was similar to Mamta’s yet this time there were no papers to be found. The adjoining room had been stripped naked of all its belongings and it was clear: The answer to this puzzle had slipped right through my fingers.
Was Mamta Jenabai herself? Or was she just another part of a convoluted greater whole? I guess I’ll never know. To me, this woman is a story that continues to write itself through the faith of some, a tragedy of many and the persistent genius of one.
Picture design Anumita Roy
#ShortStories #Fiction #Dharavi #Articles #Action #Drugs #DifferentTruths
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