by Rohit Gaur
Parvati stepped out the front door pulling a shawl over her green sari. “Everything packed up, Tejinder? Is everyone else ready? We’re going to be so late!”
Within minutes, security guards were bustling around preparing for departure. One SUV would go first, with Parvati, Tarun, and Kumar following closely behind. A separate caravan would take Arjun down to his office at the Kashmiri state house. Dozens of stern faces hidden behind dark glasses swarmed around their driveway as Parvati pulled Tarun and Kumar into the backseat with her.
“You remember our first stop?” she asked the driver.
“Shataleshwar Bhairav, in the old district, right?”
“Yes, they’re expecting us first.”
The motorcade powered up and began slowly driving down toward the gates. Parvati turned to Tarun and Kumar.
“I expect you both to be on your best behavior today. No fighting, no chewing gum, and please, Tarun, try to cheer up. At least pretend you’re having a good time.”
“Sure, Mom.”
Tarun slouched lower in his seat. Off to a great start and they hadn’t even left the driveway. He turned around and looked back at the receding house. His dad was stepping out with his guards in tow. Looking down, Tarun could see one of the Ganesha statues peeking out of one of the boxes that had been stowed in the far backseat. Its elephant head had been painted a burnt orange color with red and gold accents on its crown. Its eyes were lavender and in between them had been drawn a silvery crescent moon, the symbol for lucky moments and the passage of time.
“What the—” Tarun suddenly muttered to himself.
He knew it was likely just the bouncing of the car down the road or the way that the morning sunlight glinted off the fresh paint, but, if asked, he would have sworn he had just seen Ganesha wink at him slyly.
Chapter 2
OMENS
Carrying armfuls of garlands and trays of sweets, Tarun, his mother, and brother wended their way through the crowds that had gathered along the banks of the Jhelum River. Since the buildings in Srinagar pressed up close to the river’s edge, the festival had been packed into a narrow stretch of ground that ran for several hundred yards in either direction from the Amira Kadal bridge, which connected two of the oldest neighborhoods in the city. Anyone attending the festival who looked up- or downstream could admire the mismatched colorful structures that revealed the layered history of the Kashmiri capital: ancient temples and mosques capped with spires and arches, stout wooden tenement houses, luxurious palazzos with marble facades, concrete office buildings, ramshackle homes assembled from scavenged lumber and sheets of corrugated iron. That afternoon, it seemed that every last occupant of those buildings had been emptied out to attend the Ganesh Chaturthi festival, whether to see the sights, sell homemade wares, or simply pay respects to the elephant-headed god himself.
Along the banks of the river a long row of Ganesha murtis of all sizes and colors—orange, red, purple, yellow, and blue—stood like sentinels at arms. Silk awnings had been set up over some of them, while others had been carefully placed on pedestals or low tables. Priests in red dhotis mingled among them, anointing their bellies with fragrant oils and sweetened milk and chanting prayers of consecration. Small piles of fruit and flowers lay around many of the statues, the offerings prepared and given by worshippers during pujas, rituals of blessing and celebration. Tarun could see that many of the people mingling in the crowd and watching the activities were Muslims rather than Hindus, no doubt appreciating all of the vivid colors and whirling sensations of the festival. They may not worship Ganesha, he thought to himself, but I bet they respect what he stands for: wisdom, loyalty, prosperity. Walking behind Tarun and his family, two assistants carried the Ganesha statue that they would place in the water later in the afternoon along with the assembled revelers. Flanking them on either side, Jay and Tejinder carefully watched the onlookers who turned to greet them and accept a garland from Parvati, alert to sudden movements or signs of danger.
Most people in Kashmir knew Parvati as the wife of the chief minister, but she had her own source of fame as well. A descendant of the Gandhi family, she was connected through blood to Indian politics. Working one summer on a cousin’s campaign, she met a young and handsome politician from the north named Arjun and the rest had been a fairy tale come true. Making Kashmir her home had been difficult at first but she had come to love the mountainous landscape, the pastoral valleys, and the slow pace of a region remote from centers of power. Within two years of setting up her home in Srinagar, Parvati had founded an orphanage for Muslims and Hindu Kashmiri children, many of whom had lost their parents in the civil war. To the people in the city, the orphanage became a symbol of the desire for peace and cooperation, and it had helped to ease tensions in the city in recent years. The goodwill she had accumulated in Kashmir had even helped to propel Arjun’s election to chief minister the year before. It had not been difficult for Parvati to show her love to Kashmir—and the people had responded in kind. Walking slowly along the path of the festival, she accepted graciously the thanks and prayers of those who passed by as she distributed fragrant and colorful garlands to everyone who stopped to speak with her.
At the moment, Parvati had embraced an old woman with a deeply lined face, and Tarun could hear her murmuring into the woman’s ear. “May Lord Ganesha bring you peace in the new year,” she was saying, “and to all of your family.” The woman was nodding back, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Kumar’s elbow suddenly found its way back to Tarun’s ribs.
“Bet you wish you were hugging that old lady,” he teased. “You two would be perfect for each other.”
“Shut up, Kumar,” he shot back.
Kumar made kissing sounds with his lips: “Oh, Tarun! Make love to me, Tarun! I need you, Tarun!”
Tarun’s face grew hot. This was the side of Kumar that his parents never saw, that Kumar kept carefully hidden from teachers. His anger suddenly bubbling up, Tarun lashed out with his hand to hit the back of Kumar’s head.
“Tarun!” Parvati interjected, grabbing his arm. “Stop that right now and apologize to your brother.”
Of course, he thought. Of course she only saw what I did and not what he did.
Tarun looked at the ground and mumbled an apology. He knew that if he looked up at his brother, Kumar would be grinning at him behind Parvati’s back.
“This is an important day and I need you two to be good. Once your father gets here, people will be taking pictures. And Ganesh Chaturthi is not a day for fighting. I’m serious, this isn’t a joke,” she said.
Tarun nodded, poking the toe of his shoe into the mud on the path. He was listening but didn’t care. He was already thinking about how he would get Kumar back.
Twenty miles away in the chief minister’s office, Arjun and his advisers sat at a long conference table. Out the window could be seen a wide view of the city of Srinagar, the summer home of the government of Kashmir. Minarets and sikharas, announcing the location of mosques and temples, dotted the landscape alongside newer office towers and apartment buildings. Despite years of sporadic violence, the city had prospered. New constructions and expansions occurred daily, restaurants and other businesses flourished, and more tourists came to visit every year. But, Arjun knew, it was a fragile success. As long as the conflict remained high up in the mountains, Srinagar would continue to boom, but if it came back to the city, all their gains would be reversed. Tourism would dry up, businesses would close, families would move away. Preserving the peace needed to remain his top priority.
And Vishal Singh, the recently appointed chief secretary, agreed. “Yesterday’s outbreak of fighting,” he said to the group, “reinforces what we’ve been saying for months: it’s time to create a permanent solution to the violence this country faces from Kashmiri militants. No more negotiations, no more treaties. It’s time to stand firm. The legislation we have before us would do just that, authorizing the construction of a security wall around the Kashmiri vall
ey, securing Srinagar and our other cities from the threats that emerge from the mountains to the north. Instead of drafting hundreds of new soldiers and putting them into the conflict, we can seal ourselves off from the enemy. This wall will save lives.”
“We’ll still need to bulk up our security forces to patrol the wall,” one of the deputy secretaries added. “And to monitor the gates.”
“Would we use the same security protocols as border checkpoints?” Arjun asked.
“Absolutely,” Vishal responded. “Requests for passage will need to be submitted and authorized in advance, and all vehicles will be subject to full searches. No one gets in or out without us knowing about it.”
“This is not going to be popular in the north. What about the farmers who come to the city markets each week?”
“You mean the people actively aiding the militants? They are not our first concern. Sir, this wall is for the safety of our families. A little inconvenience to a few hundred farmers should not outweigh the security of the thousands of people who live in the city. This is the Third World War, the war against terror. If we don’t combat the militants now, we will regret it later. If we’re even around. Who knows? If the militants had it their way, the conflict would result in nuclear annihilation of both Pakistan and India. We just can’t take any chances right now.”
“What if we simply made the existing checkpoints stronger? Are we really sure a wall is necessary? I mean, the cost alone . . .” Arjun trailed off with a breath.
“The timing is crucial. We have public opinion on our side right now; if we wait, it might change and then nothing gets done. We have to pass the legislation now and begin construction as soon as possible,” Vishal replied.
“Does everyone agree?” Arjun asked, looking around at the faces surrounding the table. All twelve of them nodded.
“Sir, if I may?” one of the nodding faces said. “Chief Secretary Singh is right. Popular momentum is on our side right now. Polling shows high favorables for constructing the wall. A majority says that the government needs to be doing more to protect Kashmiris from the militants. I don’t see how we can ignore that.”
“I understand. And I agree, more should be done. I just wish our plans didn’t require the construction of something so permanent. So physical. I don’t want this to be my legacy to the Kashmiri people.”
“But, chief minister, it will be your legacy, a great one!” Vishal exclaimed. “You should be proud for what you’re doing for Kashmir. The day you sign this legislation will be a great day for this country.”
The faces around the table nodded and agreed.
Tarun and Kumar sat on a wide blanket by the river eating a lunch of cold samosas and fruit. Parvati was nearby chatting with some festivalgoers, and Jay and Tejinder were leaning against a large tree that sprouted out from the riverbank. A nearby guitarist played and sang for a semicircle of listeners, his melodies drifting out across the water. In the distance Tarun could see the row of office buildings that marked the central business district of Srinagar. His father was in one of those towers, probably having an important meeting. The rest of the hot afternoon lay before them: more walking and talking, examining the goods and sweets for sale, watching the dancers and musicians perform. Tarun liked the dancers but wished that he didn’t have to stay with his family. It would be better to explore on his own.
Lying back on the grass, he spotted a bird making circles in the sky. He imagined what it would be like to be able to take flight, to soar out over the festival and watch the people milling about below. He would glide in between the offices and apartment buildings and radio towers, swift and graceful, beyond the reach of anyone, freed of the weight of gravity and his slow, earthbound body. Up, up, higher, reaching for the clouds, the sun, the deep blue sky. As he daydreamed, Tarun closed his eyes and let his mind wander, feeling drowsy from the heat and the food.
Suddenly he found himself walking in a dark, shadowy forest among tall, ancient, moss-covered trees. He walked soundlessly on a thick carpet of the softest grass as birds chirped and sang above his head. In a patch of sunlight ahead of him, a low, ornately decorated, cubic structure beckoned him with its open door. As he approached, he realized that the small cube was actually a temple, adorned with scrolls and friezes and rows of columns. He walked slowly up the steps to the opening and peered into the darkness. Tarun could feel a cold dampness exuding from the interior. Stepping inside, he could hear drips of water running down the walls. A single candle flickered in the darkness, illuminating a figure or statue behind it. Tarun stepped closer, straining to make it out.
“Who is that?” he heard himself say out loud, as a droplet of water struck him on the face. Shaking it off, he asked again. “Who are you? Why am I here?”
The figure moved slightly and Tarun glimpsed a pair of long arms wearing rows and rows of golden bracelets that caught the candle’s glow. Its voice, when it spoke, was a deep, rumbling murmur, a voice that signaled age and authority.
“I am here to help you, Tarun,” the voice said.
“Help me do what?”
“To find your way back home.”
Another drop on the nose. The walls of the temple seemed to shimmer, edging into a bright light. Home? How had he gotten lost? He couldn’t remember.
“I don’t understand,” Tarun said finally.
“I will help you prepare yourself,” the voice went on, “to face the dangers that lie ahead.”
“Dangers? What dangers? What are you talking about?”
Tarun felt another drop of water fall on his neck and trickle under his collar. Suddenly, the walls of the temple shook and cracked, letting piercing beams of light shine through. The candle went out and the figure receded into the shadows.
“Wait!” Tarun screamed. “What dangers?”
He forced his eyes open. The bright afternoon sun hit him painfully and he squinted against its glare. Something wet and sharp hit him on the face again. Shielding his eyes, he looked up: Kumar had been flicking seeds at him while he slept.
“Stop it, Kumar! I’m going to tell.”
“Baby!” he chuckled, flicking another seed. “Wah, wah!” Tarun pinched the seed and flicked it back, but it veered off to the side. Kumar laughed. “Nice throw, Tarun. Been working on your pitching arm, I see.” Picking himself up from the blanket, he flicked one last seed before walking off.
Tarun rubbed the sleep from his eyes and thought about the dream. Who was the figure inside the temple? What was the danger it wanted to warn him about? He’d had plenty of bad dreams before, but this one had felt urgent and real. And, Tarun thought, ominous. But looking around at the festivalgoers, cheerful and talkative as they swayed to the music or greeted old friends, Tarun felt the chill of the dream slowly fade. The greens and browns of the riverbanks felt vividly bright and the sweet smell of the warm grass mingled with the scent of roasting lamb and mint. The sunlight glinted on the water in a shining crisscrossed pattern, gently moving with the current. It was just a dream. Everything is fine.
Pushing it from his mind, Tarun stretched his legs and stood up. He wandered down to the river’s edge and rinsed his hands in the cool water. A few feet down, a yellow Ganesha murti stood at attention, wearing several garlands of red and purple flowers. Tarun walked over and inspected the brightly painted clay sculpture. Legs crossed beneath him, Ganesha was sitting stiffly upright, his four long arms spread out around him. A red crown had been painted on his head and an array of multicolored necklaces, bracelets, and anklets on his torso and limbs. That’s strange, Tarun thought as he examined the statue closer. Those are the bracelets the figure in my dream had been wearing. The hairs on his neck rose.
Then he shook his head and turned away from the statue. Don’t be silly, Tarun. You probably dreamed that because you’ve been looking at images of Ganesha all day. Of course Ganesha would appear in your dream. Kumar was right: stop being a baby. He pushed his hands in his pocket and began walking back toward his mother, Tejinder,
and Jay. It was almost midafternoon by now and they would be eager to keep walking. Soon, Arjun would join them to tour the festival sights and watch the concert and dance performance that was scheduled to take place at sundown. Then, they would place the beautiful Ganesha murtis in the water as city officials lit up the sky and the water below with fireworks. Tarun was looking forward to that.
He found Parvati and she smiled at him. “Did you have a good rest?” she asked, cupping his head with her hand. They returned to the path and the noisy crowds, bodyguards and servants trailing closely behind them. The long summer day waned and the river beckoned.
Arjun looked out through the picture window of the empty conference room at the festival in the distance, the colorful saris and dhotis blending into a bright pointillist blur. He sighed and shook his head. Srinagar was a joyful place, full of energy and devotion. Hindus and Muslims worked together, played together, shared schools and restaurants and friendships. Why couldn’t the rest of the state share in that vision of peace and goodwill? Why did the militants in the mountains need to fracture that unity, fighting for separation and intolerance? Arjun understood that the wall his government would soon propose might make the situation worse, turning dissatisfied rebels into hopeless, reckless insurgents. He couldn’t make the decision alone, though, and his advisors had all agreed: the wall it would have to be.
