The Great Indian Novel

by Shashi Tharoor

  Let us follow it, Ganapathi, in the form that seems most apt for these near- celestial sonnets of sophistry and sense. It is time for one last lapse from prose in this memoir; should we, too, not genuflect at the golden gate of contemporary taste, and pay iambic tribute to the tetrameter?

  117

  Arjun saw fathers, uncles, cousins

  Teachers, preachers, grandsons, friends

  Arrayed before him in several dozens

  Convinced their means justified their ends.

  Pity filled him. He spoke with sadness:

  ‘Krishna, this is simply madness.

  All these foes are our own kinsmen;

  Who will wash away their sins, then?

  My will fails me. My throat is parched.

  I think of it, and feel a shiver.

  I’ve always been for life – a liver.

  Though I was ready; my bow was arched,

  My mind’s in a tumult. I can’t continue.

  My resolve trembles in every sinew.

  ‘I can’t attack them for doing their duty.

  Duryodhani is Dhritarashtra’s daughter.

  She may not be a thing of beauty

  But she’s P M, she’s earned her hauteur.

  I admit her rule was not always just –

  She betrayed some of us, abused our trust –

  But still she is our nation’s Leader:

  India’s masses have shown they need her.

  If we attack and destroy our queen,

  Breaking the traditions of our ancient line,

  Won’t it seem acceptable, even fine

  To be disloyal to the next one seen?

  And then has not the Mahaguru taught us

  To hold our peace like the petals of a lotus?’

  Krishna took a deep long breath.

  ‘Why falter now, when we are ready?

  Why grieve before a single death?

  Why tremble when your grip is steady?

  The wise grieve not for the living or dead.

  Our selves are more than hands or head.

  You, and I, have always been;

  Our souls, our spirits, were ever keen;

  And we shall never cease to be.

  For one soul passes into another.

  Death is only rebirth’s brother.

  Don’t think too much of what you see.

  Transcend; and realize this is meant:

  What’s on this earth is transient.

  ‘Great heat, bitter cold, pleasure and pain,

  Victory, defeat; indulgence or fasting;

  All come and go like a burst of rain.

  None is permanent, none is lasting.

  That which is not, shall never please;

  That which is, shall never cease.

  The Spirit which moves both you and me

  Is immortal; it will always be.

  The Spirit exists, it does not destroy.

  Nor, indeed’, is it ever destroyed.

  It was not born, nor made like a toy;

  It does not feel, it is never annoyed;

  Unborn, enduring, omnipresent,

  Only the Spirit is permanent.

  ‘But the Unchanging Spirit ne’ertheless does change.

  Like a cloud that travels amidst great storms,

  It spans an enormous physical range,

  Altering, discarding its bodies and forms.

  The Spirit appears and disappears.

  It comes, it goes, it reappears.

  The persons and causes it does infuse

  (And the Spirit is all-pervasive, diffuse)

  Rise and fall, glow and fade, live and die.

  But the Spirit goes on, immutably.

  Its nature must be treated suitably.

  Respect it, Arjun; there’s no cause to cry.

  You need not fear knocking your kin to earth:

  For birth follows death as death follows birth.

  ‘In other words, Arjun, don’t waver.

  It’s unworthy to neglect your duty.

  Duryodhani is the country’s enslaver:

  She’s no village belle or city cutie.

  You must take a grip on yourself,

  Not flap like a maid on the shelf.

  Arise, stand, fight like a man;

  The police have lifted the ban

  On opposing Duryodhani’s government.

  So what if you help bring it down?

  It’s not the only show in town,

  While the Soul of India is permanent.

  Others will come and take its place

  And they too will soon fall from grace.

  ‘Of course there will be many fumbles:

  Some will run, some will fall, some fail

  But that’s the way, lad, the laddoo crumbles.

  You don’t have to shudder and wail.

  Moral doubts are often an excuse

  For those who wish to refuse

  To join the fight or the fray;

  But I’m telling you, today

  You can’t let us down, Arjun.

  Victory and defeat don’t matter.

  Non-involvement’s just idle chatter.

  We need action, and we need it soon.

  (Just as a pilot can fly any airbus,

  So scripture can be quoted for any purpose.)

  ‘Put aside gospel, banish all doubts.

  Our philosophy holds no attraction

  For those who don’t heed the shouts

  Of their friends who call them to Action.

  Accept good and evil alike;

  Acknowledge the real need to strike;

  Give up all attachment,

  Flow like rain through a catchment

  And join the election campaign.

  It’s a question of your self-respect.

  And Draupadi’s, which you’re sworn to protect:

  So don’t let your scruples cause pain.

  Think of this as working for peace.

  Do right, and your torment will cease.

  ‘So Arjun, abandon all hesitation.

  This is not a cause you can shirk.

  You can do just two things for the nation:

  Meditate, or take up good work.

  In our classics, it is clearly inscribed:

  “Arjun, do the duty prescribed.”

  Dutiful action, without care of reward

  Is the first step you can take toward

  Eternal bliss; for what you do

  Others will imitate; and thus uplift

  Your cause, yourself, and your great gift

  For initiating Action in others too.

  Look at me; there’s nothing I need to attain,

  Yet I act, and inspire this election campaign.

  ‘It is better to do your own duty, Arjun,

  Than another’s. But do it without desire.

  The course of Right Action confers a great boon;

  But as a womb wraps a babe, as smoke shrouds fire,

  The universe is enveloped in sick desire

  And the unselfish do-gooder’s often a liar.

  To surrender all claim to the result of your deeds

  Is the greatness of one who transcends his own needs,

  And that’s what we need in a man of right action.

  Someone to act in true selflessness,

  And restore order to our national mess.

  A disinterested sage rising above faction.

  Who’ll work, sacrifice, revitalize the nation.

  The reward of his action? True realization.

  ‘No misgivings need beset such an actor

  Who acts for the Spirit, not for personal gain;

  Who untouched by attachment, or any other factor

  Acts for the nation in this election campaign.

  He will no more be tainted by the sin of the Daughter

  Than the fresh water-lotus is wetted by water.

  As for whether Priya is adored by the masses,

  Don’t worry – too often, the masses a
re asses.

  He who acts for the Spirit must aim much higher,

  Knowing his action will purify the soul;

  Content that salvation will come from his role,

  As the act of flying fulfils the flyer.

  It is not right in this to shirk obligation.

  To avoid action through pity is wrong renunciation.

  ‘So Arjun, stop doubting; rise and serve India.

  Serve me, the embodiment of the Spirit of the nation.

  I am the hills and the mountains, Himalaya – Vindhya;

  I am the worship, the sacrifice, the ritual oblation;

  I am the priest, the sloka, the rhythmic chant:

  The do and the don’t, the can and the can’t.

  I am the ghee poured into the fire, I am indeed the fire;

  I am the act of pouring, I am the sacred pyre.

  I am the beginning and the end,

  The aimer and the goal;

  The origin, the part, the whole,

  The bender and the bend.

  I am lover, husband, father, son, Being and Not-Being;

  1 am nation, country, mother, eye, Seeing and All-Seeing

  ‘Serve me, Arjun, like the warriors of yore.

  If you can treat both triumph and disaster

  As impostors (but someone’s said this before)

  You will have acted like a true master.’

  Arjun turned, and his eyes were bright:

  His jaw was firm, for he’d seen the light.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘Thanks, dear Krishna!

  For playing vicar to my weak parishioner.

  I was silly to be so irresolute.

  Instead of thinking of the Spirit

  And acting without heed to merit,

  I’d wept and whined like a broken flute.

  That’s all over now! I’m ready to act –

  Let’s get the Opposition into an electoral pact!’

  118

  They did; as in Hastinapur before the Siege, the various Opposition factions got together in a People’s Front. They were joined soon enough by the rats (and the Rams) deserting Priya Duryodhani’s sinking ship, as well as by those of her erstwhile supporters, like Ashwathaman, whom she had mistreated and jailed during the Siege. The electoral battle raged intensely. Even I rose from my bed to deliver speeches in the hoarse voice of wisdom that age and late passion had given me.

  Everyone took sides: there were few abstainers. Only the bureaucracy hesitated. This was, of course, in the fitness of things. Bureaucracy is, Ganapathi, simultaneously the most crippling of Indian diseases and the highest of Indian art-forms. No other country has elevated to such a pinnacle of refinement the quintuplication of procedures and the slow unfolding of delays. It is almost a philosophical statement about Indian society: everything has its place and takes its time, and must go through the ritual process of passing through a number of hands, each of which has an allotted function to perform in the endless chain. Every official act in our country has five more stages to it than anywhere else and takes five times more people to fulfil; but in the process it keeps five more sets of the potentially unemployed off the streets. The bureaucratic ethos dictated our administrators’ roles in the campaign as well. They stayed in their offices and waited for the outcome.

  Nakul and Sahadev, like their peers, took no part in the political conflict. Both had been requested by Krishna, for reasons very similar to the Mahaguru’s in respect of Vidur all those years ago, to remain in their functions, but unlike Vidur our bureaucratic twins had not leapt to submit their resignations. Nakul, if truth be told, was still far from certain his resignation was warranted; he was cynical, or sophisticated, enough to think things could be worse. Sahadev’s honest rejection of the government’s domestic policies fell afoul of his diffidence. (Our diplomatic corps, Ganapathi, is full of sincere people who feel they are so out of touch with the masses they can only speak for them abroad.) Both agreed, therefore, with alacrity to stay cool in their jobs as the electoral flames blazed and crackled around them.

  As for Bhim, there was a rumour at one stage that he might be tempted to intervene; but everyone urged against it, even Yudhishtir, and he remained in his military cantonment, keeping a baleful eye on the Kaurava campaign. I suspect, though, that he managed at least one leave. One morning when popular wrath against the excesses of the Siege was at its highest, Duhshasan was found tied to a tree not far from Delhi’s most famous red-light area. His pyjama trousers were down to his ankles, and the remainder of his elegant kurta-sherwani ensemble hung in tatters from his drooping shoulders. His bare behind was criss-crossed with the livid stripes of swelling red weals. He had, apparently, been mercilessly flogged just before dawn with a wet knotted sari whose pallav had then been flung derisively on to his genitals, to provide him with a shred of incongruous modesty.

  The Duryodhani camp emitted muted howls of outrage. The Prime Minister even spoke darkly of assassination attempts by the forces of violence and anarchy upon her supporters. But Duhshasan himself proved singularly unwilling to press charges, or even to identify his aggressor. Nothing similar recurred, and the episode was soon forgotten. It left its only trace in the smile of Draupadi Mokrasi, the smile of a woman who knows she will not easily be tampered with again.

  On election night I had another dream.

  This was a dream of Arjun: of Arjun, perhaps, on his Himalayan wanderings during those months of self-imposed exile that had brought him his mentor and his wife. And in my dream Arjun sat on a rock, clad in the loincloth of penitence, his hair long and matted with neglect, his ribs prominent with starvation, his eyes red with ascetic wakefulness. Prayer and self-denial on the mountaintop, Ganapathi: how many of our legends have not portrayed this scene, as a hero seeks an ultimate boon from the gods?

  But in my dream, no god appeared to disturb Arjun’s meditation. Instead, an animal shimmered across his consciousness, a Himalayan deer, dancing playfully before him as if offering herself to the starving man. The Arjun of my dream picked up his bow and shot the deer, but before he could pick up his trophy, a strange apparition interposed itself - a primitive hunter, dressed in bearskins, also bearing a bow. Before an astonished Arjun, the hunter picked up the deer, heaving it lightly on to his immense shoulders. Arjun protested, laying claim to his animal: in the clear wordlessness of the dream, the hunter spurned his imprecations. Arjun, enraged, shot his arrows, but the hunter contemptuously side-stepped them, and when the young hero flung himself bodily on the intruder, he found himself spinning back in my dream to crash senseless on to the ground. The hunter laughed. Arjun awoke, returned to his prayers, and invoked the name of the god to whom he had been offering his austerities: Shiva. And then, in the kind of transformation only a miracle or a dream can bring about, the hunter turned into the god. Shiva himself, most powerful of the gods, blue-skinned Shiva clad in gold instead of bearskin, with his hunter’s bow metamorphosed into a trident.

  Arjun prostrated himself in my dream, begging forgiveness for having fought with no less a being than Shiva in his ignorance. And the god, victorious, pleased with the ascetic privations of his supplicant, forgave him and asked him to seek his boon. Arjun raised his head, all the power of his spirit shining through his gaze, and asked for the one favour Shiva had never before been called upon to grant - the use of Pashupata, the ultimate weapon, the absolute.

  The god tried not to show his surprise: no one had dared to ask for such a potent instrument of destruction before, one which required no launchpad or silo, no control-panel or delivery-system, but could be imagined by the mind, primed with a thought, triggered by a word, and which flew to its target with the speed of divinity, inexorable, invincible, irresistible.

  And Arjun said: ‘I know all this, but still I ask, O Shiva, for this weapon.’

  And Shiva replied, his third eye opening, ‘It is yours.’

  in my dream, Ganapathi, the very Himalayas shook with the gesture, the mountain ranges trembled
as the knowledge of Pashupata descended to mortal hands, whole forests swayed like leaves, the wind howled, tremors passed through the earth. The figure of Shiva ascended to the heavens, atop a blazing golden chariot, emanating shafts of fire, dispersing singed clouds, and as the circle of flame made a halo for the chariot, Arjun rose to mount it. The stars shone in the lustre of the day, meteors fell and shot their sparks in fiery trails across the sky, the planets were illuminated, flaming spheres of transcendence, and still Arjun rose with the chariot, his unblinking gaze fixed on a spot on earth far below him. And just one word resounded like the echo of a thousand thunderclaps through the firmament: ‘Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!’

  119

  Sahadev pushed his way through the milling crowd outside the newspaper office. The noise was deafening: shouts, exhortations, muttering, even prayers, rose from the throng. The election results were filtering in, and this was the place to get them as they came. No one believed the radio any more.

  Now there, Ganapathi, lay a sad irony. Despite being controlled by the government, Akashvani - the voice from the sky - was also the voice of millions of radio-receivers, transistors and loudspeakers blaring forth from puja pandals and tea-shops. Its ubiquitousness reflected the indispensability of radio in a country where most people cannot read, its content - despite the often heavy hand of bureaucracy on its programmes - the range of the nation’s concerns. From the anodyne cadences of its newsreaders to the requests for film-songs from Jhumri Tilaiya and other bastions of the country’s cow-belt, All-India Radio mirrored the triumphs and trivialities that engaged the nation. But its moderation also meant mediocrity, and during the Siege it came to mean mendacity as well. It is Priya Duryodhani’s legacy, Ganapathi, that today when an Indian wants real news, he switches on the BBC; for detailed analyses, he turns to the newspapers; for entertainment, he goes to the movies. The rest of the time, he listens to Akashvani.

  A small peon in khaki shirt and white pyjamas, standing on the top rung of a rickety ladder, was putting up the letters on the display board with excruciating slowness. ‘D - H - A - N - I.’ That made Priya Duryodhani. What next? People at the front of the crowd were yelling to the man to let them know the news first, orally, before he put up the remaining letters. He remained impervious to their pleas. Perhaps he couldn’t hear them above the din. He had the aluminium letter-boards he needed to hang up: maybe he wasn’t sure what they meant himself. It was possible that he knew just enough of the English alphabet to put up the headlines on the ‘Spot News’ board every day without understanding what the newspaper was announcing through him.