Rahul wondered if it’s true that all former frames of reference are now immaterial, and if it’s true we’ve reached the end of history? Have the memories of this nation’s rulers and ruled been destroyed? Or maybe these times are simply ones of total change. This is a new world, a new world order where the entire terrain of the past is irrelevant. If this is true, how come so much “nationalism” of the past is stirred up when atomic bombs explode in Pokharan, or as a reaction to the Kargil War, or to violence in Kashmir? Is this nationalism the real thing, or just some brand of foul hate among religious communities—a hate intentionally awakened? Given the entire historical context, think of how utterly changed our relationship is now with England and America. So why are ancient matters from Babar and Aurangzeb’s time continually stirred up? If the Mughal emperor Babar’s mosque, the Babri Masjid, should never have been built in Ayodhya, as some Hindu extremists allege it was constructed over the birthplace of Ram, why isn’t it considered just as wrong to have built Lutyens’s Viceroy House, where the president of this country lives? And why isn’t India Gate just as wrong, the place where just a few years ago, fifty years of India’s independence was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance, and where A. R. Rahman sang “Ma, Tujhe Salaam”? If those British-built structures haven’t been torn down, then why that one in Ayodhya?
Rahul’s thoughts were taking him to a strange place. It was that night, the fifteenth of August, 1997, and as the TV broadcast songs sung in celebration of the Golden Jubilee of independent India, Rahul watched and listened, shivering with excitement, his eyes brimming with tears for his country, when, all of a sudden, he began to experience the moment in a different sort of way. He’d heard that the song sung in the temple in Bankimchandra’s Bengali novel Anandamath by the holy ascetics who lived there was sung against the “Yavanas,” or Muslim rulers at the time. The name of the song was “Vande Mataram,” by Bhavananda. This song is considered practically the second national anthem of India. At the time, to sing this song signified opposition to British rule and was considered seditious. Maybe this had been Bankimchandra’s intention all along. The holy ascetics of Anandamath who sang this song wore the typical saffron-colored robes.
Rahul instantly remembered the photographs in newspapers and magazines of the people who’d climbed atop the dome of the Babri Masjid in 1992. The people sitting atop that dome wore the same saffon-colored clothes. So was it Bhavananda and the same holy ascetics who climbed out of Bankimchandra’s novel and, on December 6, 1992, climbed up the dome and tore it down? And was it the same group who in 1997 had that song translated into Hindustani and had it sung by A. R. Rahman in Delhi, at India Gate, on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee of India’s independence? But those people were characters in a novel created by Bankimchandra in opposition to British rule! So why were these people singing that song—in what seemed to be a demonstration that they are the new rulers of India—standing beneath a Lutyens-built monument dating from the colonial era? Hidden inside the “nationalism” expressed by the song was hatred of Babar’s mosque from the Mughal Raj and slavery to Lutyens’s buildings from the British Raj. So they weren’t the revolutionary religious ascetics from Bankimchandra’s Anandamath at all, but others in disguise, whose nationalism was founded on the principles of malice toward Muslims and kissing English ass. And isn’t that why this brand of nationalism takes up arms exclusively against Pakistan, but when confronted with the new colonial powers of the West, lifts its tail and begins wagging it? Atta boy! Good doggie!
“Hemant, do you know what Lutyens, the man the great Indian middle-class elite are so proud of and the man who built the Viceroy House in Delhi and all sorts of other buildings of time, used to say about Indians?”
“No, what?” Hemant asked eagerly.
“He used to say that the dirtiest, ugliest, most barbarous race in the world were the natives of India. He subscribed to the theory that Indians were Darwin’s ‘missing link’ between apes and humans. To him they were semi or half human or, at most, a ‘developed’ orangutan,” Rahul said.
“Really? Where did you read that?” Hemant asked.
“Pick up a copy of William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns. Dalrymple wrote that one evening as the sun was going down he stood at India Gate and looked at Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Luytens-built Viceroy House, and while looking at the building with the sun setting behind, a chill went up his spine. The architectural style of this building reminded him of two others, images of which flashed through his mind. The first was of architecture in Milan during the time of Mussolini, and the second was of Hitler’s Berlin. All three styles shared the same bewildering majesty, meant to keep man under control, with a style of architectural menacing as if cursed. Dalrymple wrote that the British Empire, Nazi Germany, and Italian Fascism all maintained a balance between secrecy and intimidation.” Rahul’s voice trembled as if it were coming from inside a deep well. In that well, on the water’s surface, floated Sapam’s sandal after his suicide.
“It’s frightening to think that the number one citizen of this country, guardian of our constitution and commander of the three branches of our armed forces, lives in that building.”
So said Rahul, hardly twenty-three years old, who, in his dizzying infatuation for Anjali Joshi, dropped out of the anthropology department only to become a first-year student in the Hindi department.
“Rahul, I have calculated a list of data about Assam. If the rulers in Delhi were to leave Assam, and the people of Assam were to take control of their own natural resources, do you know what would happen? Assam’s per capita income would be greater than that of the United Arab Emirates. Assam would be the richest country in the world, but now it’s among the poorest and most backward in India. And the same applies to nearly every other state.”
So said Hemant Barua, himself hardly twenty-one, who had come here to do an MSc in mathematics at the same time he was enrolled in an e-commerce course at a private IT school.
Rahul wondered which “new generation” in India would be the one to shape the days to come. Would it be the new “X-Y” generation seen on TV, in movies, fashion shows, and in colorful English-language newspapers published in Bombay-Delhi-Calcutta-Bangalore, drinking Pepsi, playing cricket, dancing to pop music like hippies with half-naked girls? Or would it be the generation of those running off to America, Canada, and Germany, spitting on all of their parents’ values and beliefs and giving them a kick on the way out the door, just to make as much money as possible in a job with a big multinational corporation?
Or would it be the generation of those living in the dirt-poor, hellish places of Assam, Mizoram, Manipur, Andhra, Kashmir, Bihar, and Tamil Nadu, arming themselves with AK-47s and homemade explosives, taking part in desperate acts of sabotage and violence? Or would it be the generation of those taking their lives every day out of despair from lack of daily bread? Which is the new generation? The one with a Pepsi in hand, half-naked model on his arm, Visa card in the pocket; or him, the one with red eyes, whose parents have been plundered for fifty years by successive regimes, who has a weapon in hand and is killed every day in “encounters”?
Who was this freedom created for, the freedom that the old saint of Sabarmati gave birth to some fifty years ago, with neither shield nor sword but with only his own charisma, singing, Vaishnav jan to tene kaheye je pir paraai jaane re? Is that why they shot him dead, so he couldn’t perform his wonders in the future?
Rahul and Hemant regarded one another with blank expressions. The campus was deserted; an empty wasteland in which even the trees stood as lifeless as statues, sunk in mourning.
Not a moment of peace, my friend
Not a moment of rest, my friend
And no end in sight
Both of them started singing the song together, quietly. It was a pop song, very popular these days among students on campus, a song sung by Brian O’Connell, Salman Ahmed, and Ali Azmat of the band Junoon in memory of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
It wa
s surprising that this recording was of Pakistani pop singers. Could it be that an identical feeling of disquiet that transcended political boundaries and grew stronger every day had seized the hearts of all the simple, everyday people living throughout the whole subcontinent? It’s a bit like when fire spreads through the cramped part of town, showing no concern for whose house is burning, or whose fence, or whose gate, or whose name is inscribed on the nameplate hanging outside the door. A natural, innate, genuine fire. Agni, the same Agni that performs and concludes all sacrifices of fire.
Indram jagat sarvam daheyam bhasmikuryam yad endam sthivaradi prithivyam! Agni: the god of fire that reduces to ashes all that is visible in this world!
Not a moment of peace, my friend
Not a moment of rest, my friend
And no end in sight
Rahul felt as if someone with vast unseen hands was quietly writing a grand new national anthem on the beating hearts of the more than 1 billion simple, honest, robbed, cheated, oppressed, and tormented residents of this enormous South Asian subcontinent, a completely new song that, one day, would be sung in unison by the voices of tens of millions, echoing over the whole land. A New Mega National Song!
Would there again be a widespread mutiny, this time against the Western corporate Raj, throughout all of South Asia? This time too, like in 1857, would the struggle for independence be brutally crushed by the army of the “Indian corporate government” and, afterward, would a half-naked, loincloth-wearing man emerge out of this darkness as the new symbol for the wretched and cheated, to challenge—unarmed—the corrupt Brahmin-businessman market system of the financiers, criminals, and thugs? This Market Empire on which again the sun never sets he would set for them once more, either in the Bay of Bengal or in the Indian Ocean.
Or would another Nathuram point-blank make the saint sleep the sleep of death? And then seize power?
Hé Ram!
Hemant put an arm around Rahul’s shoulder and whispered, “See, see, look over there!”
Rahul looked. Under the shade of the neem tree next to the library, where yesterday stood Chaitanya, now lay the yellow parasol. It was the same yellow color that entered his eyes, floated through his veins, and swam in his blood. Music warmed by a sweet, lapping flame within began to hum inside Rahul. His blood carried the music of his heartbeat ringing clearly in his ears.
Dhak . . . dhak . . . dhak . . .
Next to the parasol in the shade of the neem tree was Anima and her, Anjali Joshi. Rahul stood, mute. Hemant took his hand. “She’s all yours. C’mon, let’s go over there and talk with them.”
“I’d rather not,” Rahul said, reluctant, but Hemant had already taken hold of his hand and was leading him in their direction.
Anima and Anjali were happy to see Hemant and Rahul. They’d come in the hope that the library might be open, but it was closed, so the two had plunked themselves down right there.
“The student who passed away—he was your friend?” Anjali asked Rahul. Yesterday she’d been watching as Rahul cried in the corridor of the department.
“Sapam was a wonderful kid. He lived in our hostel, on my floor,” Rahul said. “We played badminton together.”
“Haven’t the police arrested the goondas who attacked and robbed him?” Anjali asked, concerned.
“What can the police do? Where’s the evidence against them?” Rahul said.
“The same police shot his big brother dead in Imphal,” Hemant said angrily. “Every day organized criminals kill innocent people. The media hides this daily news.”
“You should speak with your father! He’s a state minister, he might be able to do something,” Anima said, turning to Anjali.
“What’s the point of that? It’s only because of the goondas that he’s a state minister.” Startled, Anjali looked at Rahul.
Anima laughed and pinched Rahul’s left ear. “This boy’s tragic flaw is that he opens his mouth without thinking. And the poor thing always tells the truth. Know why?” Anima took Rahul’s hand and spread his palm flat. “See here on his palm how the head line, heart line, and life lines all join together. Whatever’s in his heart gets thought by his head, throwing his life into a tangle.”
Anjali, Hemant, and Anima turned to examine their own palms; but either the head line was separate or all three lines were separate or only life and heart line were joined. None had all three lines intertwined. Hemant and Anjali both found this amusing.
“Have you shown this to an astrologer?” Anjali said, genuinely astonished.
“Yes,” Rahul answered. “He said that according to the book of palmistry, a man with these lines becomes either a dictator, a fakir, he goes crazy or . . . it doesn’t matter.” Rahul stopped short.
“Oh, come on, tell us! Pleeeeeeease,” she said, like a stubborn child.
“C’mon, yaar, let’s have it. He’ll go crazy or . . . ?” Hemant was excited.
Rahul thought about it for a second and then said, “ . . . or he’ll kill himself.” His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. Then, slowly and hoarsely, he added, “Like Sapam.”
“Hey!” Anjali reproached, saying it so loudly that she felt embarrassed. Anima and Hemant both started laughing.
“Do you really believe in palmistry?” Hemant asked Rahul.
“No, I don’t. They say Nehru had the same lines. Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. He wasn’t crazy, or a fakir, and he didn’t commit suicide,” Rahul said.
“But a dictator, perhaps?’ Hemant countered. “Otherwise how did his family rule India for so long?”
“In my opinion he did commit suicide—after the war with China,” Rahul said.
“Look! Over there, here comes a camel,” Anima pointed toward the hostel. Everyone looked. Coming toward them was a six-foot-three-inch-tall skeleton, skinny like a bamboo rod, bobbing at the neck with every step.
“Over here, skeleton boy! We were waiting for you,” Rahul shouted.
O.P stopped halfway. “I’m going to go scrounge some snacks, yaar. I’m dying of hunger,” he shouted from the road.
Both Rahul and Hemant were also hungry. The night before no food was served, in mourning for Sapam. Nothing today for breakfast, either. Their stomachs grumbled loudly.
“But the canteen’s closed today. Where are you going to find food?” Anjali asked.
Hemant stood up. “Jang Bahadur lives in the yard behind the canteen. He’ll hook us up.”
Hemant walked off toward O.P., and Anima began to follow. “Chalo, I’ll go with you. Maybe we’ll get our hands on something . . .”
“Should I come along?” Anjali said, getting up.
“You two stay here. Discuss your Hindi literature. We’ll be right back. See you, Anjali!” Anima smiled and winked. Anima, Hemant, and O.P. left for the canteen.
EIGHTEEN
Rahul and Anjali sat in the shadow of the neem tree. The yellow parasol that lay nearby trembled intermittently in the tiny gusts of wind. It seemed that if the wind blew just right, the parasol would spread its yellow wings with a start and take flight in the form of a butterfly.
A real butterfly, which had somewhere lost its way, fluttered by and landed for an instant on Anjali’s shoulder.
“Shoo! Shoo!” Anjali leapt up, startled.
“What happened?” Rahul asked, concerned. The butterfly flew from Anjali’s shoulder and hovered around the parasol before landing on its tip. What was amazing was that the butterfly shared the same yellow color as the parasol. A living, breathing, yellow, capable of flight, both alive and afraid. Fear made it fly from Anjali’s shoulder.
“It’s just a butterfly. What’s there to be afraid of?” Rahul said, smiling at Anjali’s alarm.
She sat down again in the grass. “What if it stings?” Anjali said.
“Butterflies don’t sting.”
“How do you know butterflies don’t sting? What if this one did? Then what?”
“Butterflies don’t sting,” Rahul argued. “Bees do.”
&
nbsp; Anjali tried to put an end to the discussion, either to conceal her embarrassment or to avoid admitting she was wrong. “They’re all the same, butterflies and bees.”
“The same? What are you talking about? Butterflies never sting. Bees do—sometimes, anyway.” Rahul clearly wasn’t in the mood to quickly put the matter to rest.
“Have you ever been stung by a bee?” Anjali asked.
“Sure, a couple of times,” Rahul said. “Back in the village, Papa built a big open tank next to the tube well in the field. We called it the hamam, and it was a lot of fun bathing in it during the summer.”
“Did you ever go in?” Anjali asked.
“Of course. During summer vacation I’d run down there at night with a bar of soap and a towel and jump in. It was great fun. Even the soap had a strong scent there that it doesn’t have here.”
“How’s that possible? Soap’s the same everywhere.”
“No, it’s not. In the forest, near the fields, and at night, soap smells sweeter. It’s true,” Rahul said. “There were jasmine bushes growing next to the tank, and at night the blossoms smelled even more fragrant.”
“What are you talking about?” Anjali was getting a bit irritated. “First you were talking about the sweet smell of soap, and now jasmine?”
“Oh! Well, if you ever go there, you’ll see. When I swim there at night, the soap and jasmine both smell sweet. Sometimes I feel like I’m washing myself with jasmine instead of soap. And sometimes I could swear soap bushes are growing next to the tank. But since you’ve never swum there at night, how could you have any idea?” Rahul was also getting a bit irritated.
“But you were talking about bees. What do they have to do with all this?” Anjali looked at Rahul with slight displeasure.
“The bees are during the daytime. In the afternoon they hover around the water flowing near the tank—swarms of them. One afternoon when I went swimming, I hung my clothes and towel on the pipe of the tube well. A bee stung me when I started to dry myself off after I got out. They’d hidden in the towel.”
The Girl with the Golden Parasol (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 8
