by Anil Menon
‘I still think we should have stayed on the road.’
‘Road, road. What is it with you and the road?’
‘This is too orderly, we’re protesting in the way they will allow us to protest. We have to disobey. Remember Gandhiji and his ticketless travel andolan—’
‘So you want to ride the metro without tickets? Yes, that will send the Lokshakti a message. You want us to make a nuisance of ourselves in the streets? Piss off Mister Middle Class?’
‘I know, I know.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just that, all this seems so predictable.’
‘Trust me, okay? I know how to fight Gandhi-style.’
That was true, she had to admit. Sawai had come up with some innovative moves. For example, his idea of mixing a blood drive and an organ-donation drive with the political rally. It had been a headache to organize, the hospitals had been skittish, but the effort had been well worth it in terms of the awesome visual payoff. Towards evening, even non-protestors had begun to join the queues. It hadn’t diluted the message as some of the CPI(N) politicos had feared it would.
He had borrowed one idea from her fab-jabs. The students had put up hundreds of fake movie posters made out in the vintage 70s Bollywood-ishtyle with Bhavi Itihaas’ slogans as movie titles: Jaago; Sampoorna Kranti; Vande Mataram. General Dorabjee, a wild-eyed, green-faced villain, always decked out in Lokshakti ceremonial uniform with its silly bling, had become an Advice Animal sensation on the net, endorsing everything from going commando to bringing back the bubonic plague.
‘If people think they’re clowns,’ Sawai had explained, ‘if people start to laugh at them, then the fear factor is gone.’
Sawai had proved to be a kickass start-up pitcher, but the question was if he could close the game. That would take stamina and guile, not brilliance. Sawai Gawai wasn’t Durga Dhasal. Without Dhasal, there was the sense the struggle had lost its moral authority. The CPI(N) had relied on Dhasal to bring in the youth vote, the Dalit vote, the minorities vote and deliver the election. In turn, the CPI(N) would defang the Lokshakti by stripping away its paramilitary resources. She wasn’t so sure. The Lokshakti combined a bureaucracy’s resilience with the teeth to inflict real damage. With Dhasal gone, the tide had turned in its favour. But at the conclusion of last night’s general body meeting, Sawai had been glorious. He’d given a fiery speech and the air had been speared with cries of Vande Mataram. Too bad the news channels had only mentioned it in passing.
The core team was protected by a barricade of chairs, carts, cartons and rubber tires. Sooner or later, Sawai had said, the inefficient and brutal khaki or their efficient and even more brutal mamu, the CRPF, would come to clear the square.
‘Then what happens?’ asked Kannagi.
‘Then we bleed.’
He said it calmly. Sawai could have been talking about when the next bus was supposed to arrive. Sampoorna kranti ab naaraa hai, bhavi itihaas hamaara hai!
Her cell rang. John Liu. Ah, fuck. He must be furious. Damn Murphy’s Law. Simon Loeb, Puneet Krishnan and Chuck Barsamian would prepone their visit by a day. But what was she supposed to do? She’d already committed to the morcha.
‘What’s with the angry bird face?’ said Sawai.
‘Work shit. Never mind.’
The air suddenly filled with the sound of police whistles. Sawai grabbed her shoulder, his face wild with—What? Excitement? Fear? Was he also afraid? She could not tell. He whipped out his cellphone.
‘The bastards are moving in,’ shouted Sawai into his cellphone. ‘Pande, make sure you upload the whole thing.’ Then he turned to her. ‘Kanno, this is going to get ugly. I’ve changed my mind. Oye Ashraf, take madam—’
‘No. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You stupid woman, they won’t care you’re a professor. This isn’t academia, this is reality. Leave with Ashraf.’
‘Kiss my ass.’
Sawai Gawai raised his hand, then just as suddenly, grinned. ‘Maybe later.’ He grabbed her hand, pulled her behind him. He began to shout: Vande Mataram. Vande Mataram. Vande Mataram. Soon the cry was taken up. Kannagi tried to shout but nothing emerged. Oh god, oh god. Against the organized legions of the CRPF, the students didn’t stand a chance. Fists, batons, boots, discipline. She watched in a trance as the CRPF systematically divide the fleeing students into manageable packs. They’d enclosed the grounds so there was nowhere to run. Some students were trying to defend themselves with chairs and were cut down brutally. Vande Mataram, Vande Mataram. The CRPF had brought the water cannons and they used it to clear the asteroid belt of its protective objects. The force of the water smashed Jayshree against the podium’s base, jerked her around like a rag doll, tore off her blouse, and the CRPF men laughed. They pounded her breasts with water, creating dark hollows as the flesh desperately concaved inwards. Vande Mataram, Vande Mataram. Then they turned their attention elsewhere and Jayshree slid to the ground inert. Men, women, it didn’t matter. Vande Mataram. Vande Mataram. Falling like leaves, everything was flying in the air: chairs, pamphlets, bodies. Why wasn’t she getting wet? The field of bodies had a certain pattern, but it wasn’t clear until she saw the black Vajra heading straight towards them. A huge woman—was it a woman?— jumped out, came at a run, knocked down Sunil, Ashwin and Rajat with quick slashes to their kneecaps, shoulder-punched Sharmila right in her chest, all the time keeping those ferocious eyes fixed on her—no, on Sawai. Kannagi’s voice found her. Vande Mataram. Vande Mataram. Vande Mataram.
Kannagi heard the sound of measured steps outside the cell door. There was the grind of a bolt being drawn, then the door opened and the wolf stepped in with a clipboard and a chair. Kannagi shrank into herself. The woman sat on the chair backwards, and the pose seemed to put undue stress on her trousers. She studied Kannagi for some time, then took out a plastic bag of sunflower seeds.
‘Lieutenant Bilkis here. Your name?’
‘I want a lawyer. I want to make a phone call.’ Kannagi decided Hindi was a better option.
‘I want a pay raise and a holiday in Switzerland.’
Kannagi watched her snarf down some seeds.
‘What is your good name?’ repeated Bilkis.
‘Kannagi.’
‘Full name.’
‘I prefer to be called Kannagi.’
‘Hai Allah.’ But the officer didn’t seem unduly perturbed. More sunflower seeds. ‘I wipe my ass with your preferences, sister. One last time. Your full name.’ ‘Kannagi Pullampulli.’
‘Pulla—?’
‘Pullampulli.’
‘Pullam-pulli.’ The woman grunted, looked up, gave her the once-over. ‘Brahmin?’
‘Yes. Leprechaun jaat.’
The officer admitted she had never heard of the Leprechaun Brahmins and asked her to spell the word out. ‘So you are a Madrasi? Why won’t you Madrasis learn to speak Hindi properly?’
‘For the same reason you won’t speak Tamil.’
The woman seemed to think it a reasonable answer. ‘What is your involvement with known terrorist elements?’ Officer Bilkis wrote down the question just as she’d written down the answer to the previous one.
‘Am I under arrest? If so, I want a lawyer.’
A tall man with a red and black Lokshakti cap entered the cell. He bent down and whispered something in the officer’s ear.
‘Let me tell you something, sister. You are formally charged under Section 107/51 of the IPC and Section 10 comma 13 of the Unlawful Activities Act.’
‘Vande Mataram,’ said Kannagi, defiantly.
The Lokshakti officers laughed.
‘Let me tell you something else, sister. In fifteen minutes my shift is over. Once I walk out of this room, one of Kalki’s gentlemen will take over. You have heard of him? Colonel Kalki? Trust me, you don’t want to meet his gentlemen. Their questions will be far more personal.’
‘You can’t frighten me.’ Kannagi shifted to English. ‘I am a professor of Computer Science at Delhi University. I was protesting peacef
ully with my students. We were doing nothing illegal. I demand—’
Kannagi had no idea anyone could move so fast. Or be so strong. One instant she had been sitting facing the officer, the next she was gagging over the foul black openness of the latrine.
‘Listen bitch, I’m your lawyer, your mother, your father, your al’Awwal and your al’Akhir. I’m all that stands between you and dung. Now tell me, what is your real name? I met Kannagi Pullampulli at the People’s Studio and you look nothing like Kannagi Pullampulli.’
‘I am!’ choked Kannagi. ‘You can check my university ID!’ Then in a flash of insight she understood what must have happened. ‘You must have met my sister. She was there at the Studio, collecting my things. Akka must have told you she was me. She worries. Check my ID!’
She felt a hand rummage through her jeans’ backpocket, extract her credit-card clip. Then, just as suddenly, she was re-seated on the floor. The officer returned to her chair, picked up the bag of sunflower seeds.
‘Do you know Balbir Singh?’
Kannagi wiped her face. She sensed bad news. ‘Bilbo? I knew a Balbir Singh. He was my friend. He joined the army. Why? He has nothing to do with any of this. Nothing! Even you must see that. Has anything happened to Bilbo?’
For a long while Bilkis said nothing. Simply sat and stared. Then she sighed, got to her feet, drew to attention, an example for ramrods everywhere. Her face was composed and distant as if she had rehearsed what she was about to say many times.
‘Madam, the Indian Armed Forces regrets to inform you that Subedhar-Major Balbir Singh…’
#
(Tanaz emerges from her apartment complex, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a scarf, but her mouth has a downwards turn. A second later, she has a mysterious smile to match the glamorous sunglasses and scarf.)
I feel great! I love this time of year. I could walk to Hapur in this weather. That’s where I’m headed, Hapur district. It’s to the northeast of Delhi, about thirty-five kilometres. The place isn’t a big town, but thank God, at least it isn’t a bloody village. I’ll be there for at least a week.
Of course, that means I won’t get to see Vyas for a while, so that’s a minus. Still, I’ll be busy and he’s really busy, so I bet the week will be over before we know it. Whoosh, whoosh. Time flies, time crawls. In a way, this shows how normal things have become between us. Pati-dev’s return has been totally anti-climactic. He’s got more grey now but otherwise he’s totally normal. Which is awesome, because I’d been worrying about post-traumatic stress and other crap. From what I read in the online groups, things were really loony in Odissa and other places.
But he says it’s all exaggerated, and that his biggest stress involved improperly notarized paperwork. Oh God, our apartment is again full of paper. I’d forgotten. He asked me if I minded, and I said, God no, I love piles. And then there’s his chutiya Godrej typewriter. It sounds like one of those Diwali garland patakas that just go on and on.
Which is funny because the typewriter’s noise didn’t bother me before. I guess I’d either become used to it or I have changed. Now I look at our life and notice other things. At least I’ve got used to having him around the apartment. In the first week, I was, like, eek, stop right there or I’ll pepper spray. (Laughs.)
Yak, yak, yak. Who cares! The sun’s out, I’m out, everything will work out. I had a talk with my boss, Supriya-ji. I thought it was going to be the talk, I was that fed up. But we hashed it out, one bitch to another. (Laughs). She said some very nice things, even showed me an email she’d sent to HQ recommending me.
Okay I’m vain, I admit it, but it was so good to feel appreciated. I work hard, I don’t get paid very well and it can be demoralizing. But see, it’s not her fault. My promotion is being held up because of this Digital Access business. Lots of people have had to be shuffled here and there, we got new people coming in from Pillai’s company, it’s a mess, what else?
Anyway, HQ has been busy figuring out whether to spin everyone working on the Access project into a separate enterprise or continue muddling along as a partnership with Pillai. Supriya-ji told me the first makes more sense in terms of taxes and stuff but the second is better operationally. For example, she still has to manage people who’re working on the core data-gathering stuff. So if she’s part of the spinoff, they’ll need to find a replacement. But by muddling along, they can make her do two jobs for the price of one! I never saw it from her point of view. It’s more complicated than I thought. Supriya-ji really does have some gyaan. I guess having an MBA does make a difference after all.
It made me very restless, that conversation. I so badly want to go back to college, get a degree, upgrade my skill-set. Then I can shift to the management track for real. I know I’ll be good at managing people.
Supriya-ji seems to think so too. She says I just need a little polish. That stung, I have to admit. I feel more polished than most people around me. I mean, I’m a Parsi! I studied at Xavier’s, my English is fluent, I’ve been abroad. When Vyas and I went to Florida, this Greek dude in really tight speedos came up to me and started to jabber in Italian. He was Italian, I thought he was Greek; I was desi, he thought I was Italian. His junk seemed cosmopolitan. (Laughs).
But I know what she means. I need a professional degree. That became very clear to me after the conversation. Supriya-ji and I have the same background except she’s been to IIM-B. She has polish. She understands the big picture.
Supriya-ji hinted a promotion was in the works. She requisitioned a new laptop for me, the exact same Dell model they give field managers. If I’m made a field manager, then after a year I can apply for executive training at one of the IIMs. Another hint is that we’re hiring four new associates for our field office in Hapur and she asked me to do the interviews. I took some initiative and volunteered to help set up the field office for the access project. I could be the manager? She said I had no experience, to which I replied nobody has experience with this new super-WiFi stuff, at least I set up the wireless in my own apartment, and then she, like, just smiled that cat-smile of hers and said, let’s see, Tanaz, let’s see. The word ‘manage’ is an adjective, Tanaz, not a verb. Whatever. Crossed fingers.
Actually, I didn’t even know where Hapur was. She said, you’re going to Hapur, and I said, yay, where in Hapur? Then Supriya-ji says, Hapur is in Hapur. There’s Hapur city and Hapur district. The district’s new but the city’s really purani. The sthala-purana is that Hapur was founded by Raja Harishchandra. I know he’s like a role-model for mahaan Bharat but I never really understood why. I mean, he lost everything because he was such an uncompromising hard-ass about keeping his word. He didn’t care who got hurt in the process. The Raja was all about dharma. He even sold his wife and kid at one point. That’s pretty extreme!
Such people are scary. But I admire extreme human beings. Steve Jobs, Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela. That artist dude who cut off his ear? Van Gogh? Totally extreme. They don’t live to make other people happy. They know what they want and they go after it. How can you not admire that? They go somewhere, and lo and behold, there is a new sthala-purana. I guess if the new-Vyas had a sthala-purana, it would say: Vyas wasn’t here. (Laughs.) That’s mean. Also not true.
I’m glad modern places don’t have sthala-puranas. Modern places are different. How did Gokuldas Industrial estate come to be? Simple. First, X set up a factory to produce Y. Then his brother Z joined him. Later on A, B and C set up units for—get the picture? There’s no need to drag in Indra or Agni or any mantar-wantar. There’s just one solid fact after another. The causes are all things like cheap energy or having enough water or tax breaks. Even when we don’t know what happened, we don’t need gods anymore. We just have they. They invent everything. They do everything. In a few weeks, we’ll launch the first trial of the digital super-express. All the villages within a hundred kilometres of Hapur will be on the net. Just like that. Wow, who made it all happen? They. (Laughs).
I’m not sure why Hapur was
selected. It’s an agriculture centre, one of Asia’s biggest grain silos is here, that’s one reason. It’s also close to a bunch of big urban centres. There’s Modinagar, Ghaziabad, Meerut and of course, Delhi. If we build the test site too far off from Delhi we won’t be able to get politicos to pay attention. There’s dozens of Jat villages nearby. Sabli, Dastoi, Asodha, Tatarpur, Sirodhan, Kanvi, Kulanam, Simrauli. We’ll set up three broadcast towers and we’ll be able to hook them all up to the modern world. The unofficial reasons, who knows? Maybe it’s the sthala-purana, the connection with Raja Harishchandra. Everyone knows he was incorruptible. If he was around, there would be no corruption. Raja Harishchandra would approve of universal digital access. Anand-ji is very shrewd about these things.
Whatever. Doesn’t really matter how we got here, does it? We’re here now, and everything is going to change forever. The village girls are going to encounter Lady Gaga and Gangnam style. The boys are going to fry their eyes watching porn. Their teachers will have to deal with Stanford’s moocs and the Khan academy. Lovers will talk to each other in English. Grandma’s Harishchandra stories will compete with Jason Stratham. They’re going to realize everything they’ve believed is just made up. Wait, that’s not correct. They can continue to believe if they choose. But that’s the thing. They have to make a choice. There will be many things to choose from. These poor people have no idea what’s about to happen. I’m coming to take away all their stories. Then centuries will pass, Social Weather will be forgotten, I will be forgotten, and some poet will ask: who did this terrible thing? Was it a good person or a bad person? Who did this? And the silence will answer: they.
