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V Gangadhar

The Cashew Connection

The queue at the rationing office was long. People had been waiting since morning to have their ration cards renewed. The card is of vital importance to Bombay's residents. One's existence in the city is recognised and becomes 'official' only on the possession of the precious card, which has to be renewed periodically.

The queue, like all others of its kind, moved slowly. It would take half-an-hour more before my turn arrived. I finished reading the film magazine I brought with me and had nothing else to do. It was then that my attention was drawn to a middle-aged, balding man. A latecomer, he had waited for some time in the queue before positioning himself very close to the entrance. "Go back, don't you see we are in a queue?" shouted some of the others who had been waiting for a long time. "No, no, I am not here for any ration card work," he explained with a beatific smile. "I just wanted to have a word with the officer on some other matter." Quickly, he ignored those who were protesting and slunk into the officer's room.

I have watched people like him at other places too. At the serpentine queues in railway stations, men like him hover around the counters, explaining they only want to make some 'important inquiries' and not buy any tickets. In government hospitals, where dozens of patients wait to consult their doctors, our friend would wander aimlessly and then suddenly dart into the doctor's room, coolly ignoring the howls of protests from the others. "Oh, no treatment, just some urgent personal work," he would explain, when he came out of the room some 10 minutes later.

Such men are immune to public opinion and anger. They are thick-skinned and, once they have beaten others and got their work done, they ignore the choice abuses which are hurled at them. "Dekho, yaar, sub jagah ghus jaate hain (see, pal, these people wriggle in everywhere)," others complain. But nothing deters the ghusnewala (the wriggler). He does not mind rushing in where angels fear to tread, just to avoid waiting in the queue along with other people.

In Tamil Nadu, where I was born and brought up for some years, we used to call such people mundhiri kottai. This was the Tamil word for cashewnut. Just as the cashewnut jutted out of the plump, juicy fruit, the human mundhiri kottai projected himself as someone separate from the rest of humanity. He managed to irritate everyone but, somehow or the other, got his work done ahead of others.

Mundhiri kottai is not an abusive word. In fact, I know people who liked to be called thus. To them, it was an acknowledgment of their initiative and pushiness. In the villages and towns where I grew up, there was at least one mundhiri kottai per family. They competed fiercely amongst themselves to be honoured as the most dynamic mundhiri kottai of the village.

The Greek hero, Hercules, performed a dozen labours to prove he was the strongest man in the world. He killed dragons, tamed wild animals and cleaned the Augean stables. The mundhiri kottai was a local version of Hercules. There was nothing he could not do. He could get you a three-tier sleeper berth in the most crowded train, that too in peak season. Admission to the most sought-after school in the area, even after the last date for admissions was over? No problems for our mundhiri kottai. Getting the best astrologer in the area to match the horoscopes for your son or daughter? Oh, nothing but child's play for him.

I do not know if mundhiri kottais were born, made or had these qualities thrust upon them. But all of them had certain qualities. Thick skin was one of them. They were also intensely curious and seldom felt guilty about listening to even the most private conversations. Without distinction of caste, creed, religion or economic position, they knew everyone in the village. They wanted to be in the thick of action or whatever of it was available in the local community. The worst insult for a mundhiri kottai was to be ignored by others. That would simply break his heart.

At any village function, be it weddings, rath yatras, receptions for government officials, political gatherings or religious discourses, the mundhiri kottai was always present. That too, on stage, in close proximity to the VIPs. Was there one garland short for the honourable visitors? Our friend rushed away and got an extra garland. Did the microphone fail just when the chief guest was to make his speech? The mundhiri kottai fiddled around with the mike and it worked. Or he knew where to locate the mechanic and brought him to do the job.

What did he gain by all this? Mundhiri kottais seldom worked for money. They were moved more by loyalty, personal friendship and the general well-being of the community. What they craved for was recognition of their existence. The mundhiri kottai was in seventh heaven if, by chance, he was introduced to the minister who had honoured the village with his visit. Ask him to garland one of the VVIPs and he would do anything for you. And, if the person who was in charge of the 'Vote of Thanks' mentioned him by name, well, his joy knew no bounds.

I have come across only male mundhiri kottais and I doubt if the female of the species existed, at least during my younger days. Mind you, do not confuse the mundhiri kottai with your average chamcha (flatterer). The chamcha was all verbal. The mundhiri kottai was nothing but action. The chamcha focused his attention on one person and definitely expected something in return. The intentions of the mundhiri kottai were more honourable. He served the community and hardly expected anything in return. He volunteered for the difficult jobs in the village and tried his best to perform them. If one of the elders in the village commented, "Oh, he is an emadan (man of action)," it was enough for the mundhiri kottai. His day was made.

Illustration: Laura Fernandes