Jarnail Singh banged down his glass of beer. “Those m*****f*****s must be taught a lesson, once and for all!”
“Quite right,” echoed Karnail Singh, eyes bright with excitement. “Those s***** f*****s must be exposed to the innocent masses.”
“But we must get our facts right, and have some proof,” said Dhillon, who was older and more cautious.
“Why should we have to give proof?” shouted Majjor Singh, thumping his fist on the tabletop, stained with decades of beer and whisky spills. “We should demand that those bloody thieves give us proof, with proper accounts of all the money they’ve collected, with bills and receipts.”
“Shhh! Not so loud! Someone might hear and warn them,” cautioned Santokh Singh, who was nicknamed Professor because he was the only one among them who had been to college and had a white-collar job. “And anyway, no one really knows how much money is collected. We just have to take their word for it.”
“Last orders,” bellowed the bartender. Jarnail and Majjor dashed to the bar to get all their glasses refilled. “Cummon, Sandeep yaar, don’t be such a goody-goody; at least have a cider or a shandy,” they ribbed.
Sandeep sat with them, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eagerly imbibing the scene along with his tomato juice. He felt like a fish out of water; a teetotaller, he had only been to pubs a couple of times, and felt more like a tourist than a participant.
It was a down-at-heel working-class pub in south London, with cigarette butts ground into a carpet whose pattern and colour had long since been worn down to an indeterminate grey-brown, much like that of over-chewed gum. It was packed with the Saturday night crowds, the level of noise increasing by the minute, along with the level of inebriation. At the next table, a group was loudly arguing about American involvement in the ongoing Vietnam war; in one corner, a noisy gang were playing darts, roaring in encouragement or commiseration; in another, a raucous group was belting out lewd rugby songs. The noise level was deafening, making it necessary to shout to be heard – which raised the noise level even higher!
He noticed that there were three distinct groups, whites, blacks and browns, all mostly keeping to their own kind. There was some mingling between the blacks and whites, but the browns sat apart, perhaps because of the language barrier. Sandeep struggled to breathe in the steamy fug of body heat, sour breath and thick cigarette fumes. He wished there was a non-smokers section in the pub, but that would probably not have been of much use to him as two members of their group chain-smoked, even though Sikhs were forbidden to smoke, and they were all Sikhs. Sandeep also had to struggle to understand the colourful, down-to-earth Punjabi of his companions. Juginder occasionally translated bits into Hindi so he was able to follow the flow of the conversation, if not the details.
Sandeep, just a couple of years out of college, was a junior manager in a multi-national firm. This was the first time that he had come here with this group of Indian workers; his purpose was to try to integrate with the working class, to learn about their lives, their hopes and fears and their way of thinking.
This was the first step in the journey that he and his wife had embarked upon, a journey to join the working-class revolution, to fight to change the world from what it is, to what it ought to be; to pursue the Marxist vision of a world of justice, equality and compassion, a world of “from each according to his ability, to each according to his need”.
“It’s no good just talking,” continued Kartar, the youngest and most belligerent of the group, gulping down the remains of his whiskey, “We must beat up those upper-class bastards and teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
Sandeep was completely at sea; “Who are these people they’re talking about, and what dastardly things have they done to arouse such violent reactions?” he wondered. He was a bit hesitant to question them, as he didn’t want to interrupt the flow of their exchanges but, taking advantage of the slight lull in the conversation, he asked, “What is this all about?”
“So sorry, we’ve been talking about our problem without explaining the background to you,” apologised Santokh, “how rude of us. You see we’ve been having problems with the managing committee of our gurudwara.”
“Oh, it’s not a proper gurudwara like we have in India,” Juginder butted in, “we just meet every Sunday morning in the hall of the local Community Centre.”
“Yeah, most of the Indian workers in this area are Sikhs, so we needed a place to meet and worship together, and this was the best we could find,” added Dhillon.
“Of course, we don’t have proper priests, but some of the senior leaders of our community, who are educated, can recite the verses of the Granth Sahib, our holy book, and can lead the singing of the kirtans, the hymns,” explained Juginder.
“So, what’s the problem?” asked Sandeep.
“The problem, my friend, is that these so-called leaders, who form the managing committee, are all upper-class bastards,” burst out Kartar. “Most of the congregation look up to them and follow them like stupid sheep, but in reality, they are nothing more than thieving rascals!”
Seeing Sandeep’s puzzled look, Juginder continued, “You must have been to a gurudwara, so…”
Sandeep shook his head, “Well, we once visited the Golden Temple, but as tourists; I’ve never been to attend prayers at a gurudwara.”
“Oh really? Then let me explain,” said Santokh. “The custom in gurudwaras is that, when the devotees come in, they first bow their foreheads to the ground in front of the Granth Sahib, and then they make offerings of money.”
“Yes, and this money is collected by the managing committee, the Gurudwara Prabandhak Committee, and used for various expenses, such as paying for professional singers and providing food at annual festivals,” continued Dhillon.
“Yes, that’s what they’re supposed to do,” fumed Kartar, “but in fact, these so-called worthy senior citizens are nothing more than blood-sucking leeches, who use the money to pay for their fancy cars and luxury holidays.”
“But how do you know that?” asked Sandeep.
“Well, no one really knows how much is collected, and no accounts are kept or shared with the congregation, and no one checks, so we’re pretty sure they’re swallowing up most of the money,” explained Karnail.
Sandeep thought the evidence was far too circumstantial to warrant such extreme reactions but, as it was his first time at the pub with them, and he didn’t know the details of the situation, he didn’t feel it was his place to say so.
Excerpted with permission from The Revolutionaries: A Novel, Neena Nehru, Speaking Tiger Books.
