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Translated from the Hindi by Radhika Saraf



Gopaldas is as afraid of politics as you and I are of the casteist disease of purity and pollution. For ministers, it is a different story. They profit from politics in the way doctors benefit when there is an epidemic and mass deaths. Indeed, take a look at snakecharmers! They feed snakes; hang them by their necks. But that does not mean that you and I can also start playing with snakes.

Gopaldas was still studying in school when the 1919–1921 political storm arrived. A storm that shook the British government, nearly causing it to fall apart. There were protests in schools. Bazaars remained shut for several days a time, and dust and dried leaves could be seen in the desolate bazaars in the same way as a spring breeze blows through deserted streets of villages. People were assembling on the streets holding black flags in such large numbers to demonstrate against the law permitting arrest without trial [Rowlatt Bill] that it looked like an endless stream of human heads. In the cities, on every brick had been written—'it is a sin to have a police or government job.’ In the destructive flow of that collective enthusiasm and under the leadership of the black flag, one evening, Gopaldas too went around with a few boys from school, beating his chest, as if lamenting the death of the British government—Shame-shame! Shame-shame! Shame on the British government! Shame on George V!’ And he would go around singing—"We don’t want, we don’t want, we don’t want this oppressive government!’

By the time Gopaldas returned in the evening, after having announced his political struggle against the British government for the freedom of his nation—his face and head filled with dust from the streets, his chest swollen with pride—news of the boy becoming a political soldier had already reached home. 

Gopaldas’ father was a babu [low-ranking clerk] in the post office. Although his salary came from the masses’ purchase of stamps at the post office, he considered himself ruler of the masses and servant of the British government. Twisting his son’s ears and giving him two slaps, Babu Jamnadas insulted Gopaldas’ courage and showing no respect for his own wife, showered abuses that accused Gopaldas of incest with his mother. He threatened Gopaldas—"The father does a government job and the son instigates revolt? Aren’t you ashamed? You make a hole in the same plate that you eat in?! You good-for-nothing, if the secret police find out, you’ll be handcuffed, the family name will fall to shame and the entire household will die of starvation!”

By nightfall, Babu Jamnadas’ anger subsided and he advised his son—“Son, it is good to live in accordance with one’s status and power. Fighting with kings is the work of kings. Let riff-raffs do what they want. Such behaviour does not suit respectable people. A good person takes care of his home. If one must look outward, this must be to earn virtue. Our path of righteousness is to serve our master and king. If you earn moral credit, you will carry it with you in the next world. But if you indulge in politics, you will be uprooted, destroyed and will go to prison.”

This lesson, taught to Gopaldas in adolescence, settled deep within him. He never looked in the direction of politics again. The country underwent several drastic changes. In place of slavery, came independence. Instead of the British flag, the country’s national flag began to be hoisted. From a fearful servant of the British government, Gopaldas became an assistant clerk in the independent national government. Politics had become even more deep and pervasive but Gopaldas stood firm by his principles, i.e., he stayed away from insulting the ruling party and its leader.

Once the national government came to power, even the nature of politics changed. Earlier, protests were organised for independence, now, for food and clothing. Gopaldas was not troubled by the inadequacy of independence. He wanted independence because it was considered a good thing, just like people want to go to heaven after they die but nobody is troubled by the lack of heaven on earth during one’s life. But running out of wheat before pay day and having to buy bad wheat, the unavailability of sugar, and not being able to get sugar even after hours of standing in the queue because the shop has run out of sugar—these things would really trouble Gopaldas. But he remained quiet, because complaints about food, clothing and ration would be an insult to the government, and that would be politics, and the result of such forms of protest would be akin to participating in political struggle. The ones who demonstrate on the streets, shouting slogans—''The country’s masses are hungry, the Congress government is a liar’—he would see them being sent to prison. That ‘the country’s masses are hungry,’ he also saw, but that ‘the Congress government is a liar,’ how could he agree to that? 

Congress people have always sworn by truth and non-violence. Unlike the communists, who nowadays organise political protests, Congress people don’t run away when they receive an arrest warrant. In Gopaldas’ neighbourhood, ‘Anant’ and ‘Mehtab’—who would shout slogans emphatically—had run away. Congresswalas themselves carry their belongings, riding on tongas, as they head to the police station. When Gopaldas would hear accusations that the Congress is a liar, he would feel anger towards the communists who used the difficulties of the masses as a guise to insult the government’s actions. He was tolerating the difficulty of food and clothing as a sacrifice for independence.

Sugar was available for purchase in the bazaar but it was very expensive. The newspapers printed an official announcement that the government would ensure sale of sugar at control prices but it would only be available in special shops. Nobody would have difficulty in obtaining sugar any more. Gopaldas even saw advertisements printed in ‘Pioneer’ and ‘National Herald’ which stated that everyone would get sugar and anyone who didn’t, could complain to the government. Gopaldas silently swore at the sugar-robbing traders and thought— even though less, sugar will at least now be easily available.

In the first fortnight of October, Gopaldas had his domestic worker stand in the queue for sugar for two days. The latter’s ration card entitled him to five units. As per the measure of six chhataak [1/16th of a ser or about two ounces] per unit, he received one ser [approximately one kilogram] fourteen chhataak of sugar. By the time Diwali arrived in the second half of October, this sugar got over. In Hindu society, the meaning of Diwali is—homes full of sweets and bazaars full of sweets! Keeping Diwali in mind, even the national government had announced that each individual would receive two additional chhataak of sugar. Gopaldas was certain that there would be enough sugar to sustain Diwali; in fact, the sugar would not only suffice for Diwali but there would also be some left for both children’s milk.

Since 16 October itself, Gopaldas started making rounds of the ration shop before going to the office. Like Hanuman’s never-ending tail while setting fire to Lanka, the queue for sugar started at the ration shop, continued quite far into the bazaar and even spread to the neighbouring street. The pace of the queue was so slow that Gopaldas was losing patience. A soldier was deputed as the government’s representative—as assurance for protection against any untoward incident. But the soldier’s presence brought no improvement to the situation.

For some time, Gopaldas made his domestic worker stand in queue. But then he quit the arrogance of his status as a babu, and in the hope of improving his situation, himself went and waited in the queue. While waiting, it became 9am. The question before him was should he continue to stand in the queue for sugar or should he go to office? If he didn’t go to work, he would suffer the loss of Rs. 5—one’s day wage—for his absence. Exercising his right as a babu, Gopaldas went toward the shop and demanded of the shopkeeper—“Will sugar be available or not? Should we stand here or go to work?”

The trader said with disregard—“Right now, the stock is over. The remaining ration card holders will receive sugar in the evening.”

When Gopaldas returned from the office in the evening, the ration shop had already shut for the day. On asking around he learned that the sugar had gotten over, it would be available the next morning. The following day, Gopaldas went to the shop once again with his elder son. He made his son stand in the queue, thinking sugar was worth his son skipping school for a day. On returning from work, he was told that the boy had waited in the queue until noon but returned home with an empty bag because the shop had run out of stock before his turn had arrived. 

When on the third day again Gopaldas learned that sugar was not available, he couldn’t help but disappointingly swear at the government; however, he convinced himself that the shopkeeper must definitely be lying. After all, it can’t be possible that the government will not provide sugar? It has been announced in the newspapers that nobody in Uttar Pradesh will have to suffer from the scarcity of sugar. The shopkeepers must most certainly be selling it in the black market. This must be reported…but to complain is to participate in politics and political protest. Would complaining not be considered creating trouble for the government? Then what to do?

Everyone in the neighbourhood was upset about the scarcity of sugar but what could they do? Domestic workers would wait in queue for long hours only to return empty-handed. It was not good for one’s status to be seen queuing—but one newspaper had reported Pandit Nehru himself waited in queue in Delhi to collect his ration. It was also reported that Pandit Nehru suggested mixing wheat flour with that of sweet potato to remedy the fiscal shortage in the nation. Nehruji himself must have been eating this kind of flour…Gopaldas thought, then what is the point of complaining and troubling the government?

Gopaldas’ neighbours tried to explain—instead of waiting in queue for hours, making the domestic worker wait the entire day, and disturbing your son’s studies by making him wait in queue, it’s better to just resign yourself to purchasing sugar at the rate of Rs. 1.5 per ser. Many people are doing just that. Some people advised buying cubes of sugar. When Gopaldas went to buy cubes, he found that because of the sugar crisis, people have even wiped off the rotten and stale insect-infected cubes from the bazaar. Even cubes were unavailable.

To Gopaldas, buying sugar at the price of Rs. 1.5 per ser for his comfort seemed like betrayal and non-cooperation with the central government. He did not buy sugar at this price from the black market. Yes, one made do with batashe (sugar drop candies) sold legally at Rs. 2.5 per ser. But in a household with five members that runs on Rs. 150 per month, for how long can one afford the luxury of substituting sugar at 13 annas per ser with batashe at Rs. 2.5 per ser?

Gopaldas also realised that the common man does not even have sugar for children’s milk and yet some people are being given sacks of sugar in exchange of money and they are then selling batashe worth 8 annas for Rs. 2.5 per ser. If there is scarcity of sugar, why is sugar being allowed to be wasted in profiteering?

When Diwali came, the bazaar became filled with sweets. One could buy sweets but not sugar, but if there was scarcity of sugar, how was it possible for the sweets to have been made? The most important thing seems to be to maintain the trader’s profit. 

Hesitatingly, Gopaldas broached the topic amongst the people in his neighbourhood, of complaining to the government for not being able to have access to sugar. They were willing to pay Rs. 1.5 per ser for sugar and Rs. 2.5 per ser for batashe but they were not ready to complain to the government and take the risk of being labelled as seditious. Who wants to complain and be called a communist?

Now Gopaldas started thinking from another perspective altogether—to not direct attention of the government to the black marketing and rigging is to provide support to the fraud and treachery being committed against the government. This would be betrayal of the government.

On the morning of 31 October as well, Gopaldas sent his domestic worker for sugar but the latter returned empty-handed so he made his son Narendra skip school and instead wait in the queue while he himself set off for the office. At around noon, a doubt crept in—Did the boy manage to get sugar or not? What if violence erupted at the queue? 

Gopaldas borrowed his colleague’s cycle and went home to check the situation. He found that the boy had come home safely from the queue but the shop had run out of sugar, he was not able to procure any.

This angered Gopaldas—when the government did not want to give sugar, why did it make promises? Until now, he had borrowed sugar from everyone in the neighbourhood, from whomever he could, with the promise that he would repay these sugar loans when he was able to receive it on his ration card. Now how could he return the sugar? After buying at Rs. 1.5 per ser?

Dr. Naseer was the neighbourhood leader. Even though some Muslims went to Pakistan, Naseer remained in India, i.e., Lucknow. First of all, more than paradise and more than Pakistan, Naseer had more trust in this world and on India, and on top of that, he also had ancestral land in Lucknow, so that’s why he kept his head low and remained in Lucknow. Even earlier, he never wore the Jinnah cap or Turkish hat. Now he started wearing a coarse khadi cap. 

Gopaldas arrived at Dr. Naseer’s dispensary and exclaimed—"Doctor Saahab, such atrocities are taking place! Why don’t you phone the TRO (Town Rationing Office)?”

At that time, there was not much of a crowd at the doctor’s. He invited Gopaldas to the chair close to him and softly whispered in his ear—“I will not phone. The first thing is that I am able to buy sugar at the price of Rs. 1.5 per ser. Second, I get the entire amount of sugar I am entitled to in the ration, without difficulty. If the need arises, I can even manage to obtain more. And the thing is, I’m a Mussalman. If I complain on the behalf of people, I will be labelled as a Pakistani agent inciting sedition. If you want to, you can phone the TRO. I am offering my phone for you to speak with them, this in itself is an act of courage on my part.”

Dr. Naseer has spoken in a low voice but others still heard what was said. Dr. Naseer trusted his neighbours. Those sitting around started saying—“It is necessary to make a complaint. Saahab, we are being kept in darkness. The government provides sugar, so where does it disappear?”

Gopaldas put forth his perspective—“To support the government in putting an end to the spread of darkness and black-marketing is after all our responsibility.”

“Yes, yes, you have spoken well!” The doctor picked up the receiver and gestured toward Gopaldas, “Please go ahead and phone!”

Now how could Gopaldas step back and display cowardice? He said—“I don’t know the number.” With the other hand, the doctor placed the telephone directory forward, toward Gopaldas.

The question arose—Who to phone? The minister of the Department of Food? 

“It is not appropriate to disturb the minister for such a small thing,” the doctor advised. “You can phone the ration officer of the city TRO.”

Thus began a search for the number of the TRO in the directory even as people spewed criticism with excitement and rage against the sugar-distributing traders and the government. 

One of the people searching for the number then said—“420.”

A lawyer sitting close by, Gajendra Mohan, expressed astonishment—“420 what…?”

“Who is saying 420!” Someone else asked.

“The number is only 420,” the doctor said, laughing loudly, “the radiant 420…”

Gopaldas was looking at everyone in a daze. A veteran Congress cadre, who was sitting close by, collected the paan stuffed in his mouth and said, “Oh brother, 420 is very common in prison. If anyone played any mischief, prisoners would call it 420 only. Now you don’t play 420 with us.”

“420 is a section in the Indian Penal Code. Deceit comes under Section 420.” The lawyer pealed in laughter. 

“When it is 420 only, then what will you complain? They themselves are saying they are 420, then what more? They’ve kept their number itself 420.” Everyone burst into laughter. By the time Gopaldas registered the joke, everyone was still laughing. In everyone’s laughter, his agitation and anger were also washed away.  

He stood up to start on the way home. A phone call to TRO to register a complaint had not been able to be made and patriotic Gopaldas got saved from being entangled in a 420 case of national sedition triggered by the unavailability of sugar.  


[At one time, the telephone number of the Town Rationing Office in Lucknow was 420.]




Yashpal Singh (1903 – 1976) was a Hindi-language writer, political commentator, a socialist and essayist. He wrote in a range of genres, including essays, novels and short stories, as well as a play, two travel books and an autobiography. He won the Hindi-language Sahitya Akademi Award for his novel Meri Teri Uski Baat in 1976 and was also a recipient of the Padma Bhushan. 

Radhika Saraf is an associate editor at ASAP | art (Alternative South Asia Photography | art) and has earned her PhD in 2022 on the translation of Marxism in colonial Bombay under a joint degree programme between the National University of Singapore and King’s College London. 


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