The Great Indian Novel

by Shashi Tharoor

  His oration could hardly be heard;

  And the long months of waiting led him to start hating

  His exile – so futile, absurd.

  Then came the break! Hitler’s Nippy allies –

  The Japanese in their Far Eastern sphere –

  Hacking through jungles, raining death from the skies

  Defeated Blimps quaking with fear.

  So much, my friends, for the imperial myth –

  Of ruling invincibly;

  The claim that Britannia’s kin and kith

  Were supreme militarily.

  (In fact, Ganapathi, if truth be told

  The bloody ‘white man’s burden’

  Was what our coolies – cudgelled, cajoled –

  Bore on their heads and cursed in.)

  But when the Japs, those sturdy chaps

  Gave the pinkskins their come-uppance,

  Hope dawned in Indian hearts and laps

  That we too could win Independence.

  For the supremacist claims of colonial toasts

  Stood revealed as shabby deceits:

  Vainglorious boasts from undefended posts

  Mocking disgraceful retreats.

  ‘Hooray!’ said Chakravarti, ‘Let’s fight! Let’s go!

  Let’s salute the rising sun!

  With the help of Japan and the noble OO

  Our battle will be won.’

  53

  In due course (‘after uneventful trip’)

  He arrived at the scene of his war

  The ex-British playground, now out of their grip –

  The island of Singapore.

  ‘Welcome, Chaklavalti,’ a young Chinese said,

  ‘I’m your intehpleteh tonight;’

  A Japanese general then bowed deep his head:

  ‘Hurro, have you had a good fright?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir!’ Pandu replied

  (As the Chinese had translated the greeting)

  ‘I’m extremely glad to be on your side –

  Together we’ll give them a beating.’

  ‘Together?’ harrumphed his little host.

  ‘I’m not sure I quite understand.

  The Brits here have arready given up the ghost –

  And we noticed no Indians at hand.

  ‘In fact,’ he went on, warming to his theme,

  ‘The onry Indians we saw

  Were fighting on their side – that’s not a dream:

  Our prison camps have Indians garore.’

  ‘Of course,’ Pandu hastened, ‘but what could we do?

  Our boys were enslaved in their ranks.

  Now they’re certainly chastened, like bears in a zoo

  And dissension flows in their flanks.

  ‘Just let me at them, just give me some time,

  And I’ll deliver an army to you;

  The best Indian soldiers, fighters sublime

  Lined up for Tojo to view.

  ‘I’ll fire them with freedom and nationalist pride

  Urge them to enlist in our cause;

  Tell them it’s more easy with Japan on our side

  To kick the oppressor outdoors.’

  ‘Orright,’ said the Jap, (‘All light,’ said the chap),

  ‘We’ll give you the access you want;

  An ID card, cap, a jeep and a map,

  And permission to embark on this jaunt.’

  So Pandu set out, in full battledress,

  His topee at a jaunty angle;

  From exercise ground to officers’ mess

  The spurs on his booties would jangle.

  Namaskar! Sieg Heil! Now harken to me –

  All you wretched P-O double-yous:

  I offer the chance to save your janmabhoomi

  And pay Bharatmata her dues.

  ‘What kind of life is this? Just sitting around

  And waiting for your next dish of gruel –

  When you could instead be out of this ground

  And fighting the nationalist duel.

  ‘Or would you much rather sit and break rocks for the Japs

  Doing prisoners’ won’t till you die?

  Dig trenches, latrines, look for landmines and traps,

  Build a bridge on the nice River Kwai?’

  ‘But our oaths? Our careers? We must be true to our salt,’

  Ventured one or two men in doubt.

  ‘If the Brits couldn’t save you, it’s hardly your fault,’

  Said my son: ‘What’s an oath in a rout?’

  Ah, he struck a chord there, my pale son Pandu!

  He knew what would appeal to the men;

  If you’ve any doubt of what a golden tongue can do,

  Consider his triumph again.

  They flocked to him in the proverbial droves,

  Proclaiming their desire to enlist;

  Attracted, perhaps, by the fishes and loaves

  But also by Pandu’s raised fist.

  His message to them was loud, it was clear,

  To soldiers in prison immersed:

  ‘If you fight for the freedom of your nation so dear

  You’ll get your own freedom first.’

  Platoons, companies, divisions were raised

  Of the OO’s Swatantra Sena;

  In their political harangues Hirohito was praised

  But Chakravarti was the overall gainer.

  How he strutted, my son, how proud he became!

  You’d think he’d just won a battle.

  When in fact (as the Brits would snidely claim)

  His men just hung around like cattle.

  Oh, they trained, and they drilled, and they marched in parade,

  Their uniforms were ironed every day,

  But the ex-POWs of Pandu’s brigade

  On the war-front, made little headway.

  The Japanese were pleased as the numbers increased

  – It made very good propaganda –

  But when it came to the crunch, politeness ceased,

  And they spoke with ruthless candour:

  ‘Trust traitors? Oh, we know what you’ll say,

  “They’re not traitors, but patriots and heroes” –

  ‘But if the oath they had sworn can be broken today,

  Can’t they just as easiry break tomorrow’s?

  ‘We don’t blame them at all, for swallowing their pride –

  Our prison camps aren’t much fun;

  They make good P R, but we must set them aside

  When there’s serious soldiering to be done.’

  ‘So I’ll wait,’ swore Pandu, ‘what the hell!

  My forces will just bide their time;

  And though the Japs are now doing well

  Soon they’ll need us, as reason needs rhyme.’

  54

  But while waiting, my son was determined

  Not to suffer the grim solitude

  That in Berlin (with door locked, and food tinned)

  He had borne with such fortitude.

  So he smuggled a message to Madri

  Through a Japanese network of spies:

  ‘Your husband needs you very badry —

  Could you come? Discretion’d be wise.’

  Excited and anxious, our princess

  Wipes a tear of farewell from her eye;

  ‘Take care of my thonth’ (Kunti winces)

  ‘I mutht join my patideva – goodbye.’

  After a journey both risky and torrid

  Full of dangers (too many to relate)

  Madri arrived – ‘Oh dahling, ‘twath horrid!’ –

  In Singapore, to seal Pandu’s fate.

  ‘Overwhelmed’ would be an understatement

  To describe my son’s attitude;

  He beamed and glowed sans abatement

  In marital beatitude.

  ‘Now all’s well,’ he proclaimed to his helpmeet,

  ‘I can bear any weight, any wait;

  My companion is here to help beat


  All ennui, all frustration, all hate.’

  But to ease Japanese suspicions

  About his commitment to the cause.

  And to reaffirm his ambitions,

  Pandu enrolled her in the wars.

  ‘Captain Madri! How you’ll impress the Japs

  In your battledress of khaki!

  A little tight around the chest, perhaps –

  But you’ll shine in the General’s marquee!’

  And indeed she looked a sight to behold

  In the fatigues of the Swatantra Sena;

  The cut of her shirt was not itself bold

  But when she moved, no cloth could restrain her.

  For years, the thought of sexual functions

  Pandu had instantly banished;

  As he rigorously heeded the doctor’s injunctions

  All fleshly temptation had vanished.

  But the iron restraint of satyagrahi life

  Had grown flaccid in his forced exile

  And the new proximity of his bosomy wife

  Woke passions dormant the while.

  For weeks Pandu continued to resist

  As Madri stirred life in his loins;

  But despite meditation, he could not desist

  From contemplating a union of groins.

  ‘Oh fatal flaw! I can’t commit such a sin –

  What is happening to my concentration?

  The British offensive is about to begin –

  And I think of the wrong kind of penetration!’

  For yes, Ganapathi, the fortunes of war

  Had turned; now the Japs bore the brunt:

  Instead of ‘Attack India’, ‘Defend Singapore’

  Became Japan’s battle-cry at the front.

  At last Pandu’s man were given the chance

  To fight – but the going got rough,

  And his war-weary sainiks, unable to advance.

  Found Pandu’s slogans no longer enough.

  Oh, when it came to fighting the Brits

  Or traversing the jungle terrain

  Some sainiks were valiant, at least in bits

  With many heroes who battled in vain.

  But few soldiers can shoot at their brothers-in-arms

  And Pandu’s were also thus hindered;

  Under fire, forgetting his eloquent charms

  They fled, or simply surrendered.

  Disgraced, with defeat looming real and large,

  The Japs ordered Pandu to withdraw;

  In a rickety plane (he was offered that or a barge)

  He left the island of Singapore.

  55

  As the aircraft rose with a shudder

  Into the darkened tropical sky

  And the pilot pushed the rudder

  On a course for safe Shanghai –

  Pandu looked down into the failure

  Of the plans he’d left behind;

  ‘I couldn’t have been sillier,’

  Pandu sighed. His face was lined;

  There were crow’s-feet at the corners

  Of his tired and bloodshot eyes,

  And his pale face was like a mourner’s

  (Sagging with grief, you realize).

  ‘I had such hopes, my dearest one

  Of rising to the fore;

  With the swastika, and the rising sun

  I thought we’d win the war.

  ‘I’d hoped then to have proved my point

  To the Brits and Kauravas too;

  To Gangaji, who might then anoint

  Me his heir and Number Two.

  ‘But had he not, it wouldn’t have mattered

  What the non-violent ones thought;

  For the people, once the Brits were battered

  Would have crowned me, like as not.

  ‘Instead, Madri, my hopes lie shattered

  In the dust under British boots;

  The man who fought as the Kauravas nattered

  Now flees – and who cares two hoots?

  ‘As I look at you, my heart fills with sorrow

  At the fate that awaits you too:

  There is no hope of a bright tomorrow

  For the wife of brave Pandu.

  ‘If the Brits win, as now seems probable,

  There’ll be nowhere for us to hide:

  Their cops are smart, their judges not bribable,

  I’ll be arrested and summarily tried.

  ‘There’s not much hope of escaping the rope

  For inciting the men to mutiny;

  I wish I believed you’d be able to cope

  With the shame – and the ignominy.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ A teardrop shone

  On Madri’s glistening cheek;

  ‘Oh, thweetheart, I love you, the thought of you gone

  Maketh me feel empty and weak.

  ‘My darlingeth Pandu, let me thay to you

  – I thwear thith upon Vithnu and Thiv –

  If anything happenth to my deareth Pandu

  I thimply don’t want to live.

  ‘My husband, you gave me thuch wonderful joy

  By calling me to your thide in your need;

  Do you think I’m some thameleth Helen of Troy

  To trot off on another man’th thteed?

  ‘No! Pandu my lord, by your thide I’ll thtay

  Through thick and thin, better and worthe;

  We’ll fathe the Raj, fight on night and day –

  And I’ll help you, for whatever that’th worth.

  ‘Oh Madri!’ and here our Pandu was moved

  By the sincerity of her love,

  If anything, her declarations proved

  She was a gift from the heavens above.

  ‘Oh, Madri!’ He took her in his arms

  And kissed her long and wetly,

  Till, attritioned by her charms,

  His will collapsed completely.

  ‘No – Pandu – don’t!’ his loved one cried,

  As his hands explored her buttons;

  ‘Remember the doctor – when you nearly died –

  Let’th kith, but not be gluttonth!’

  ‘Twas of no avail, he was possessed

  By a need he could not define;

  After years of restraint, now obsessed

  To unite with his concubine.

  ‘I want you!’ his hiss was urgent

  As he peeled off layers of clothes;

  In the cold seat, his passion emergent

  Repulsed his wife’s feeble ‘No’s.

  Poor Madri! Denial was not in her nature,

  ‘No’ was not a word she liked to speak;

  Indeed (at the risk of caricature)

  Her flesh was willing, and her spirit weak.

  And Pandu was in no mood to be denied;

  His hands moved with a probing persistence.

  He caressed her: ‘I want you!’ he cried,

  ‘You’re the only joy left in my existence!’

  In love and heat, Madri conceded defeat.

  And yielded to her husband’s great ardour.

  Soon, despite her fears and the tilt of the seat,

  She was gasping, ‘Oh, yeth! Harder! Harder!’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ he breathed back in pneumatic bliss.

  ‘Onward! That’s my immortal credo!’

  But then his lips, after a pulsating kiss,

  Turned blue, and exhaled a croaking ‘O . . . O . . .

  Tracers exploded outside in the sky

  Shooting incandescent streamers of light

  Across the window where our lovers lie

  Entwined ‘tween the silence and night.

  ‘Thank you,’ Madri sighed in orgasmic relief,

  ‘You were wonderful – wath it good for you, too?’

  Then, looking at him, almost beyond belief:

  ‘P. . . Pandu! What hath happened to you?

  ‘Why are you tho limp? Why lie you tho thtill?

  My huthband, my lord, king of the OO?

  Pl
eathe rithe – pleathe thmile – oh tell me you will –

  Oh my God! You’re not . . .! Oh . . .! Oh no . . .!’

  She screamed; and it was as if her heart-wrenching cry

  Had carried her spirit to where his had flown:

  Soaring up and across the illuminated sky

  To its celestial home, where no one is alone.

  For in that terrible cry of desolation

  Was embodied a plea no god could deny;

  Her intense refusal to accept her isolation

  Carried its message to the forces on high.

  Two powerful beams of terrestrial light

  Criss-crossed on the wings of Pandu’s Zero;

  Revealing to Madri a last vivid sight

  On her breast, the beatific head of her hero.

  Then she knew; and she smiled, in the stillness that followed.

  The shell that was coming made scarcely a ripple.

  She lifted his head, kissed him, slightly swallowed;

  Then lowered him gently, his mouth to her nipple.

  When the shell hit she could have sworn she felt

  A life-seeking tug at her soft swollen breast;

  A split-second, perhaps, and then came a pelt

  Of death-dealing shrapnel that tore open her chest.

  For another split second the plane hung on there

  Spotlit in the beams of the gunners below;

  Then it burst into a flaming ball in the air

  Burning crimson, consuming my son – and widow.

  As Pandu plummeted to the fiery fate

  That all Hindus know as we leave this world,

  Madri, his devoted (though second) mate

  Kept the proud banner of Sati unfurled:

  She attained eternity – an all-too-rare case –

  In the glorious blaze of a purifying fire.

  Finding, in the flames of the plane, her place

  On her husband’s aluminium funeral pyre.

  That must have made Pandu happy, Ganapathi. With all his deep delving into the scriptures, his theological sanctions for procreative cuckoldry, he must have savoured the satisfaction of going like that - burning with his dutiful wife in fulfilment of the classic ideals of marital love. It must have gladdened his atrophied heart.

  When the news reached us here, it affected all of us deeply, even Dhritarash- tra, whose place at the head of his generation it made more secure. My blind son issued a touching little statement about his ‘immeasurable sadness’ and the ‘incalculable loss to the grieving nation’. He pledged to ‘keep the flame of my brother Pandu’s deep-seated patriotism aglow’. Ah, Dhritarashtra, for ever those visual metaphors.

  And what of Gangaji? The Mahaguru was moved enough to sit in silence and spin for hours, talking to nobody, immersed in reflection. He presented the cloth that emerged from that session to Pandu’s surviving widow, Kunti. But it was practically unusable - the woof was all warped, or was it that the weft was not right? - which showed that for once Gangaji’s mind had not been on what he was doing. Pandu’s loss diminished us all.