Lalu Prasad Yadav - Gopalganj to Raisina: My Political Journey

I do not think of death. I think of the manner in which I travel on the path of life. The following lines of Faiz Ahmad Faiz, which I heard from journalist, writer and activist Kuldip Nayar at a meeting some 40 years ago, summarizes my spirit:

Jis dhaj se koi maqtal mein gaya

Woh shaan salamat rehti hai

Ye jaan toh aani jaani hai

Iss jaan ki toh koi baat nahin

Tulasdsa, R.C. Prasad; Sri Ramacaritamanasa; Motilal Banarsidass Publ., 1999

Chapter 1

BATTLING POVERTY, ENCOUNTERING GHOSTS

I began my innings in this world in a very ordinary environment. It was as ordinary as ordinary can get. In fact, so ordinary that none in my family seemed to know my exact date of birth. My school certificate has it as 11 June 1948. I have no idea how it got imprinted in the records, because my mother had only a hazy recollection. Mai, which is what wesix brothers and a sistercalled her, even ticked me off once when I tried to ascertain my precise arrival on earth. How does it matter? she said, indifferently. When I persistedand this was during my schooldaysshe was vague. Hamra naikh-e yaad, tu anhariya mein janmale ki anjoriya mein (I dont even remember if you were born during daytime or when it had got dark). Like others of her generation, she talked in terms of the months in the Hindu calendarChait, Baisakh, Jeth, Ashaadh, Saavan, Bhadon, etc., and anhariya-anjoriya (dark fortnight or a moonlit fortnight). Thus ended my quest, although I remain convinced that the date is wrong. By way of consolation, Mai did recall the dhagrin (midwife) who assisted in the delivery.

I was born and brought up at Phulwariaa remote village, then in Saran district. Saran is now divided into three districtsSaran, Siwan and Gopalganj in northwest Bihar. Phulwaria is part of Gopalganj district. It was a village consisting of about 250 households with almost all castes and communitiesthe backward castes comprising Ahir (Yadav), Nonia, Koiri, Kurmi, Kahar, Bania; the upper castes comprising Brahmin, Bhumihar, Kayastha, Rajput; the Dalits comprising Dhobis and SCs; and Muslim Churihars. Most of the people were agriculturists. We lived in Ahir Toli (a Yadav mohalla). The Yadavs had relatively more cattle than others, but others too had their share of cattle. The upper-caste villagers had relatively more land. The landless backward classes and Dalits worked as sharecroppers on the farms of the landowning farmers. In the village, we also had a Lohar family. Its male members prepared sickles, spades and ploughs for other agriculturists.

Bathua Bazaar was the nearest market to our village. The residents of Ahir Toli carried curd in earthen pots to the market and lined them up along the streets. While the Ahirs sold curd and milk, the Koiris, who produced vegetables, would line up their vegetables for sale. These items would be purchased in return for grain, and sometimes, cash and coins too.

Our village was surrounded by Pakri in the north, Manipur in the south, Pakauli in the east, and Chhataur in the west. Manipur had a sizeable population of upper-caste Bhumihars and Brahmins. Many of the Manipur youth used to smoke ganja in chillums. After smoking, they felt the urge to eat curd and the thick cream of boiled milk. They used to come to our house for curd and milk. My father gave them milk and curd in lieu of coins.

Our house, like most others, was made of mud walls, hay and straw. We had a well from which my mother drew water for household needs. There was a huge peepul tree near our house. Its roots had spread into our modest courtyard. There were many sparrows, crows, squirrels, cats and dogs around, living more or less in harmony. Our house had nests, gaps and holes in which scorpions and snakes resided. Mai and other elders let me play with the birds and friendly animals but guarded me against scorpions and snakes. All of this may sound romantic to the uninitiated, but we constantly lived under the apprehension that the roof over our heads would literally disappear in a fierce storm or give way during heavy rain. As a child, I did enjoy the free moments that village life provided, but looking back today, I realize how difficult it must have been for my parents to rear us in the midst of such challenges. I was proud of them, but I soon understood that there was no glamour in poverty.

From the time I can remember, I found myself wearing a bhagai, a shorter version of a loincloth, wrapped around my bottom and between my legs. In winter, Mai huddled us around a bonfire of dried cowdung cakes, dried sugarcane leaves and husk in our courtyard. The paddy hay served as our bed. She would make a blanket out of jute sacks stuffed with paddy straw, pieces of discarded cloth and cotton to keep out the cold. That would not be sufficient. I would wet my bhagai in the night and cry. Mai would seat me near the bonfire until I grew warm and the bhagai dried. Then, she would place me on the jute-sack blanket and the paddy hay for whatever little comfort they provided. There was not enough cloth for me and my brothers and sister to have two sets of bhagai.

My father, Kundan Rai, was a cowherdwell-built and robust. He had two pieces of soiled clothes, one wrapped around his bottom and the other flung around his shoulders. He would carry a staff at all times. He had a robust voice, and his shout would echo over a mile. Though poor, he was bold and dignified. He had more than two bighas of land in his share and a few heads of cattle. His world was confined to bovines. He would talk to them and they responded to him. At the crack of dawn, he would escort them to faraway fields of grass to graze.

I was fifth among my brothersMangru Rai being the eldest and Sukhdeo the youngest. My immediate elder brother, Mahavir Rai, and immediate younger one, Sukhdeo, are alive at the time of writing this book. My lone sister, Gaboderi Devi, who was elder to me, died recentlya day after I was lodged in jail at Ranchi after my sentencing in a conspiracy case in January 2018.

I too became fascinated by our bovines very early. I would follow my father in herding the cattle to the grazing fields. My immediate elder and younger brothers, other cowherds and their cattle, would join us. I had some friends who, too, would accompany their elders to the fields.

As I grew a little older, I got a hand-sewn vest to wear. But I neither bathed regularly nor did I wash the new clothing, for I had no other vest to change into. My perennially soiled dress was full of body lice. My friends, Inrasan, Rampreet, Rampravesh, Nathuni, and many others too had body lice in their vests. Tackling the lice was a source of fun and an exercise to pass time, usually under the shade of a banyan tree or amidst a cluster of bamboo trees. We would get our vests out and remove the lice and crush them under our thumbnails with great mirth.

My mother had a unique sense of our location. As the morning advanced, she would find us on her own, and bring along satua (powder of barley, gram, maize and other grains) in sikahuti (hand-sewn pot of straw), a pinch of salt wrapped in a leaf and a bucketful of water to the place we were grazing our cattle. To this day, I have no idea how her GPS worked to identify our location. As we pounced on the straw pot, my father would pour plenty of water in the satua and thoroughly knead it. The end result was that the satua would suddenly increase in quantity, which helped my father to distribute it in larger proportions. The dish would be repeated as our first meal in the morning. We had no pickle to spice up the delicacy.

The meal of salted satua would fuel our thirst long after Mai had left. We didnt have water with us. There were some wells in the grazing fields, but the water level was too low to draw. Some of my friends had gamchhas (a thin towel, which is flung across the shoulder or around the neck). We struck upon an idea akin to the fable of a thirsty crow who dropped pebbles in a pot of water to raise the water level and quench its thirst. My friends and I used to knot our vests and the