IWB’s #HerTales will provide a peek into the journey of people from different cities of India and will also chronicle the impact of various social issues on their lives, all through the power of literature and fiction. 

From different perspectives, points of views, and narratives, #HerTales will bring forth the ordinary lives of people making you believe that each story is an extraordinary one. So, come, tread with us on the ‘write’ path!

After Ramcharan Vaidya would enter inside the red, neatly painted building of the Panchayat Samiti, everything would immediately come to a standstill.

The people would instantaneously start greeting him with a namaskar and groups of men would be sitting on the marble floor waiting for several hours for Ramcharan, with stacks of files and documents in their hands.

It was all said and done in this small township of Uttar Pradesh that Ramcharan Vaidya was a man who could make any work done, as long as you abide by his conditions.

His power and clout never waned with the change of government and in fact, increased manifold.

It didn’t matter which party was in power as the incumbent MLA or MP would always look up to Ramcharan when it came to securing vote banks.

As he confidently strode towards his office, an old lady in her eighties tried to reach him, towing behind her was a boy in his early teens.

“We have come all the way from Etawa. They took our land…We heard you can help us reclaim it,” she said imploringly.

Ramcharan remained unfazed, without bothering to pay more attention to the duo than he thought it deserved.

“You will get your turn, now don’t block the way,” Anand said sternly.

Most of the people who had waited for Ramcharan for the last several hours backed off, as they knew about the influence that Anand, his personal assistant had over the man.

Privy to most of the happenings around Ramcharan, Anand was not a mere personal assistant but his most trusted aide, a man who even knew everything about Ramcharan.

As he walked inside his office, Ramcharan couldn’t help but feel a bit smug about the fact that how he had built his empire around him, with sheer wit and presence of mind.

He might be the sole power centre in this area, a man revered even by the politicos but very few people seemed to know that the actual power rested with his wife.

Well, at least officially and on paper, it did!! For the uninitiated, Ramcharan was the husband of Vimla Devi, the sarpanch of this Panchayat Samiti.

“Tujhe kuch nahi karna hoga. Just do as I say.”

These were the words of wisdom that Ramcharan had for his wife when he insisted that she stood for election instead of him, just as a proxy, nothing less and nothing more.

Vimla Devi was a woman of few words. Married off to Ramcharan when she was only sixteen, all she would do as a sarpanch was manage the household while Ramcharan wielded the actual power.

His detractors even had a name for Ramcharan, one that he despised with all his existence.

“Sarpanch pati (the husband of the sarpanch),” they would call him.

It was against his nature to be known by the name of his wife, but such was the circumstance that even he, one of the most powerful men in this part of the state couldn’t do anything about it.

A few criminal cases had sealed his fate. Not that he was afraid of going to jail as there were not many people who would testify against him. But according to some ambiguous and in his opinion totally worthless rules, Ramcharan was not eligible to contest an election.

It was this one regret that pained him, and he compensated for it running the affairs in the panchayat with an iron hand, with no scope for any questions on the legitimacy of his authority.

It wasn’t that Vimla didn’t come to the panchayat office as she had to, according to the law.

Vimla spent the few hours when she would be present, quietly, occasionally hearing the problems of a handful of people who would later be asked to meet Ramcharan.

Today it was no different.

As soon as Ramcharan made himself seated inside the office, the stream of the crowd started to flow in.

Some wanted government jobs, others wanted to ‘settle’ police cases against them while there was never the dearth of the lot who simply wanted the sarpanch pati to grace their family functions, in order to increase their social standing.

At times it became difficult for him to patiently hear all their grievances and it was then that they started to be referred to Anand, who had no qualms in becoming a parallel power center, a man who profited too by acting as a middleman.

The first man was a wealthy importer, who wanted to get a consignment of foodgrains back from the customs, which was seized it because of non-payment of import duty.

“So, Mehta ji, what’s the value of this consignment? Must be in crores?”

The importer squirmed uneasily, his experience telling him the reason because of which the sarpanch pati asked this question.

“Might be, but I have already sustained losses because of the delay. Now, I won’t be able to make a profit by selling them.”

Ramcharan laughed, seeing through the ploy.

“I am sure, that you will make enough money from this. Of course, after you give the panchayat a 20 percent cut for making the customs release the consignment,” he spoke with complete certainty.

Mehta left the office with a sullen expression on his face, knowing that Ramcharan would rob him several lakhs of rupees.

The sarpanch pati never quite felt bad about using means apart from those permitted under the law to get what he wanted. He had a simple logic, in this crooked world, you are required to break rules as only the stupid abide by them.

In his life of fifty-two years, Ramcharan always swore by this explanation and never for once did he get disappointed. His unconventional ways always worked.

Nowadays, he even tried to think less about the legitimacy of his authority and Vimla’s position as the sarpanch.

“There are many sarpanch in the country but how many of them have such power and clout as me, a ‘sarpanch pati’?” he had once told Anand.

The ‘durbaar’ as Ramcharan proudly called these public meetings continued as the crowd continued to come to him, with their many concerns and ambitions.

It was towards afternoon, just before he was thinking of going to lunch that the incident happened.

The old woman and the boy who had intercepted him on his way now stepped into his office, the lady fiercely clutching a stack of papers.

Sighing warily, Ramcharan sat down to hear them out. With a subtle gesture to Anand, he told him that after this, the durbar will close for today.

“It’s the family of my brother-in-law who has taken all our land in Etawah. I have nobody but my grandson. They have made false papers to prove in the court that we have no right to stay there,” said the lady.

Ramcharan smirked. The duo in front of him looked with disbelief in their eyes, trying to fathom the reason that made the sarpanch pati laugh.

He knew the brother-in-law, it was Mohan, one of the men who he regularly dealt with! Ramcharan had always believed that power came through land and preparing false papers to encroach on other people’s land was something that Mohan was adept at.

In many of these endeavors, Ramcharan was a party to the dealings, helping Mohan to get the law behind him and in return taking a cut in the profit. Surely, he couldn’t chide him for robbing his sister-in-law from her part in the property.

“You should go to the police, yaha kuch nahi ho sakta,” Ramcharan said disinterestedly, not paying attention to the pleading of the lady.

She wanted a letter from the sarpanch to the police, speaking on behalf of her. But Ramcharan declined brusquely.

Then, he left for lunch.

Everything changed after that.

At first, he felt that the call was a mere coincidence. Mohan didn’t call Ramcharan frequently but only in the time when they had dealings.

But Ramcharan was not ready for the words that he would hear after receiving the call.

“You wrote to the police to take action against me?” Mohan’s voice was incredulous.

“What?”

“My sister-in-law, she has lodged a case against me after getting the recommendation of the sarpanch,” Mohan said haughtily.

He couldn’t believe how this has happened.

“But…But…I am the….”

He stopped midway, knowing that he couldn’t say he was the Sarpanch.

There was a pause at the other end too. Ramcharan knew Mohan was thinking the same.

He slowly brought the receiver down, asking Anand to bring him a glass of water and photocopies of all documents that were sent from the office today.

And there it was, the recommendation letter to the police, with the seal of the sarpanch under it.

But it wasn’t that surprised him.

Over the seal of the sarpanch was the name ‘Vimla’ written in Hindi, the handwriting not clear but undoubtedly belonging to his wife.

He had seen her do the same signature when she had filed her nomination papers in the election.

The sarpanch pati stared blankly at the piece of paper, at loss of words.

Fate has shown him his place.

Picture for representational purpose only.