The Girl with the Golden Parasol (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

by Prakash, Uday

The Vice-Chancellor is so technically dexterous and cunning in constructing a web of fiscal duplicity and abusing monetary funds to suit his purposes that there is no chance he’ll be caught for his corruption. During his tenure as VC he’s promoted only his yes-men, family members, and love interests. Ignoring wholesale the rules and regulations of the University Grants Commission, and without advertising the positions, Mr. Ashok Agnihotri appointed his flunkeys and in-laws, who had no proper academic qualifications, to various posts, totally at his whim, and then put them in charge of various projects, awarded them grants and fellowships, and sent them abroad. The person whom Agnihotri appointed as editor of the English list of the university press had a degree in Hindi, and couldn’t write a complete sentence in English. An individual made professor of psychology had received his degree from Pantnagar Technical Community College in horticulture. The new professor of mathematics had been in the bottom third of his graduating class in botany. But despite all this, no one dared open their mouths to speak against Agnihotri because most of them were greedy, cunning cohorts who’d been pressed into compliance by Agnihotri’s favors. Another main power base of his derived from the deep connections and caste ties he maintained inside the range of educational institutions and cultural foundations. To mark the occasion of his sixtieth birthday, a local institution used university money to publish a special commemorative volume on Agnihotri in which testimonials from twenty-eight writers—twenty-one Brahmins, three Baniyas, one Kayastha, two Thakurs, and one foreigner—proved that his fame had spread more widely throughout the world than even that of Emperor Ashoka, Akbar the Great, or Alexander.

  According to the de facto file, he’d received a nice commission from a secret deal to lease a few hundred acres of university land to some local real estate developers and businessmen. He considers university funds to be his own private bank account, and to drink a glass of water he goes to London, and to piss he goes to America. This corrupt vice-chancellor is allowed to be so powerful because the system itself is corrupt through and through.

  Kartikeya Kajle said, “Look, if nothing is done, this country will turn into another Haiti, Panama, Colombia, or Dubai. The Mafia Raj will take over, and come Gandhi’s birthday on October 2, they’ll be the only ones permitted at Rajghat. All other citizens will not be allowed to enter.”

  “Why are you talking about this in the future tense?” Pratap said, laughing. “It’s already happened, or about to.” Pratap may have been joking, but a sense of real distress hid behind the laughter. The darkness of the days to come flashed before his eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” O.P. said. “Maybe I should throw myself at the feet of the vice-chancellor, wrap my arms around his ankles, and say, ‘O invincible Satan of our times, I rub my nose on the soles of your feet and beseech you to find a place for me just as you’ve found a place for your lapdogs and concubines.’ I’m scared, Rahul!” he said. He was always laughing and garrulous. But the dark shadow of despair and defeat crept into his voice.

  Rahul, Hemant, O.P., Kartikeya, Praveen, Niketan, Parvez, Imroz, Masood, Ramesh Ataluri, Dinamani, Ravi, Madhusudan—all of these young men, age eighteen to twenty-four, had come here to study from various states, towns, and villages all over the country. Their parents weren’t the big businessmen, real estate developers, property agents, middlemen, or corrupt bureaucrats who trafficked in undeclared black money and lived in big metropolitan cities like Delhi-Bangalore-Chennai-Calcutta, but rather came from honest, hardworking families of farmers, small businessmen, and low-grade civil servants. Every month they’d cut corners and borrow money from somewhere so they could send money to their children, money steeped in their families’ tears, sweat, and dreams.

  These weren’t the people seen with great regularity on TV and in newspapers. When they watched the colorful, well-off Indian Middle Class on TV, with their living room, dining room, terrace, car in garage, cell phone in hand—their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Meanwhile, the plaster is peeling off the walls, the roof is cracked, the doors creak, the dal needs to be cleaned and cooked and flour kneaded into roti for lunch or dinner, all the while calculating the ever-rising cost of living, and interest on the money they’ve borrowed. Without dowry, their daughters remain at home, unmarried, and their sons, unemployed, are so ashamed they stay away from the house all day long. These sons can be found in groups hanging around railway platforms, standing on the side of the road, sitting near cramped workmen’s quarters or in a storefront with a public payphone or in some vacant, empty place, lost in wait for a miracle.

  These young men numbered tens of millions. They were not defective in either body or mind. They were young men full of limitless capability, talent, and hard work. But worry had made their cheekbones protrude.

  “I’ll make a million somehow and really show those sister-fuckers . . .”

  “I haven’t gone home in three days. The old man’s started counting the roti I eat. Got any money? Can you fix us up with some chai . . .”

  “You know that big finance guy, T. D. Gupta. The fat, macho bastard’s looking to settle down and he’s got his eyes on my sister. Last month she got a job, 800 rupees a month.”

  “Kundanani was saying, one trip to Singapore means 10,000 for me.”

  “And he’ll fuck you if you get caught. Is his papa gonna pay your bail?”

  “Yaar, if I could just get my hands on Rajan or Ibrahim’s phone number . . .”

  “5,000, that’s all I’m asking for, and I swear, I’d kill anyone.”

  “Ramashankar took himself a trip to Nepal and made out like a bandit. He was talking about taking me along next time.”

  “That Deepa, you know, the Khaddus Bakery daughter? Ever since she opened that beauty parlor, her parents’ luck totally turned around . . .”

  “Beauty parlor my ass. That’s just a cover for another hobby of hers. Junior engineer Sharma and builder Satvinder are both in on it, and in on her . . .”

  “Don’t let her brother hear that. He’ll fix your clock.”

  “Let him hear, the little bastard. He’s just a commission man. Give me 2,000 and I can take you over to see her right now.”

  “Hey, Kishore, didn’t you do an MSc in Physics?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve forgotten fucking everything. Now I think I’ll get into politics. Listen, I’ve got a plan. I’ll get some fake papers to make it look like I have a job, show them to some lucky parents, get married with a big dowry, have a humping week-long honeymoon, sell the wife, and take off for Dubai. God knows, I’m sick of this kind of life.”

  The Indian markets were crammed full of every kind of perfume, cosmetic, soft drink, electronic gadget, washing machine, cell phone, digital TV, and handicam. Every week half a dozen new car models were coming out. In Delhi, hundreds of fast-food joints like McDonalds, KFC, and Nirulas were opening their doors. Nightclubs were sprouting up in the capital and in other big cities, where half-naked models served whiskey and wine, and the children of ministers, government bureaucrats, and criminals were having great fun. Indian and non-Indian lottery games operated openly, addicting people to them and dangling dreams of becoming millionaires and billionaires in front of their faces. The amount of money that ministers and government bureaucrats of this country spend on lunch in one day could bring drinking water, schoolteachers, and blackboards to all the villages in India, bring electricity to fields and homes, and be used to install proper toilets for slum dwellers.

  But every person who thinks along those lines is considered to be a backward, out-of-step, old-fashioned stuffed ape in a museum. Every person with such ideas will be given a swift kick by the system, which will then shove him into the junkyard or label him a dangerous lunatic, and try to destroy him by any and all means.

  The Parliament of India has been filled with killers, smugglers, lackeys of foreign companies, profiteers, black marketeers—all dishonest. Five-star hotels bloomed like flowers. Rivers of booze flowed through them. Mountains, forests, rivers,
fields, minerals, ore, women, children, historical moments, conscience, religion, air, water, oceans: everything was being auctioned off. The prime minister was going to jail. Embezzlement, corruption, and thuggery cases were pending against multiple state chief ministers. The judge was on the take. Police were in cahoots with criminals, and each day of the turn of the century was smeared with the blood of innocent, honest, justice-seeking Indians.

  One Jallianwallah Bagh massacre occurred at the hands of the English; now, dozens of Jallianwallah Baghs happen every day. The bastard offspring of Ravana have hoisted the flag of Ram and consolidated their control over every facet of reality.

  Not a moment of peace, my friend

  Not a moment of rest, my friend

  And no end in sight

  The boys waiting for a miracle were singing. Their faces sank into a dark shadow that grew more thick and dense with each passing moment. The night was so late, the darkness so dark, the silence so silent that it was terrifying.

  Yet, on some leaf in this time of desolation and waste fell drops of cool dew, clear and uncorrupted, whose moistness still, occasionally, greened life.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dr. Rajendra Tiwari’s class was over. He’d been lecturing about the poet Vidyapati. With half-closed, lust-filled eyes, he’d been explaining the “meanings” of words like bosom, teat, loin, and fornication. To him, it seemed, women equaled bosoms, teats, loins, and the three auspicious folds of the belly. The girls in class stared at the floor. The boys—Balram Pandey, Vijay Pachauri, Vimal Shukla, and Vibhuti Prasad Mishra—winked and smiled at one another.

  Because of his connections through his brother-in-law, who was a member of the Rajya Sabha, Dr. Rajendra Tiwari had been awarded a prestigious Indian government Padmashree award. Among the professor’s habits were gawking at female students, spying on them in the library, and phoning their parents. He’d been beaten up twice for it. His favorite pastime was having big conferences organized in his honor in various cities and towns. He was famous for carrying a bag containing a shawl, a coconut, an envelope with 501 rupees, and a framed, printed certificate of appreciation wherever he went. The local headlines would read, “Special Function Held in City to Honor Renowned Hindi Scholar Dr. Rajendra Tiwari.” Every fortnight he would receive an award or prize, for which he had personally made the arrangements. The title of his PhD dissertation was “Erotic Sentiment in Krishna Poetry,” but no one had ever seen it.

  The girls stood in the door to the classroom. Rahul, Shailendra George, and Shaligaram were leaving for the library. They needed to check out some books. As he passed her, Rahul touched Anjali’s elbow. She looked at him and began to follow behind with Sharmistha toward the library.

  At the steps of the library, Anjali called out to him, “Rahul! Come here for a second!”

  Rahul approached her.

  “I need to talk with you,” she said.

  “Now?”

  “No. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come early.”

  “What time?” Rahul’s heart started racing. Anjali’s face looked as if it’d been licked by the flames of fever.

  “Eight thirty,” Anjali said, voice trembling.

  “Done! I’ll be waiting,” Rahul said before running off to the library, where Shaligaram and Shailendra were standing at the circulation desk.

  Rahul requested three books, The History of Hindi Literature, by Professor Ramchandra Shukla, Anamdas ka Potha, by Hazariprasad Dwivedi, and The Collected Works of Nirala, which contained the poem “How Rama Worshipped Shakti.”

  As he left the library on his way back to the department, he thought for a moment, why are all three authors Brahmins?

  And Anjali? Daughter of the state minister for the Public Works Department L. K. Joshi? She too, no?

  What a paradox, thought Rahul, that the caste determined to eradicate him and countless others like him, whose immoral, unjust, and corrupt conduct has stretched this moment in time to the breaking point, is the same caste that claims among its numbers the writers whose works he’s reading, and a certain girl who pulses inside each and every tick of his heartbeat.

  Who has power over my heart and mind? Who rules my thoughts and deeds, and who controls my perceptions? The language in which I speak, write, and think is under the authority of whom?

  O bastard offspring of Ravana, cackling through the centuries, seizer of socioeconomic power, head of the caste system, I truly don’t know whether I love you or hate you!

  Rahul was struck numb. A strange battle was being waged inside him, like the process in which an antibiotic, injected into the bloodstream, fights the disease-causing bacteria by giving birth to the same microbe, in the same body. His own brain had become a hellhole and host of a bitter struggle. The struggle in his blood between disease and treatment, affliction and cure, was fearsome.

  Rahul opened The Collected Works of Nirala and began reading:

  Oh night of deep silence! The heavens vomit darkness; all sense of direction lost, even the wind’s flow stilled; thundering behind them the vast unconquerable sea; the mountains as thought plunged in thought, only one

  torch burning.

  Again and again doubt rocks Lord Rama, and gradually with the dread of Ravana’s victory in the universe . . .

  These lines were from the poem “How Rama Worshipped Shakti.” Rahul, strangely, had opened the book to find that particular poem right in front of his face.

  So? It means that . . . there is someone, observing this struggle being waged in my consciousness. Silently. Invisibly. Thank you . . . thank you. A cool gust of wind came from the direction of the neem tree, providing Rahul with a sense of peace.

  “What happened, Rahul-ji? Are you lost somewhere?” Shaligaram said.

  Rahul put his hand on Shailendra George’s shoulder and said, laughing, “No, Shaligaram-ji, I’ve been swept away with the feeling . . . ki kariye, ki kariye.”

  “You’re a funny one, yaar Rahul brother!” Shailandra George said, placing his arm around Rahul’s shoulder.

  TWENTY-THREE

  In the morning, Rahul stood next to the window in Room 252 brushing his teeth. It was barely seven thirty. O.P. was showering in the bathroom. Rahul stared out at the winding road that ran alongside the playground below.

  The yellow meandered its way up from the residential development. Rahul, startled, looked over to the clock on the wall: seven thirty-two. What had happened? She was supposed to come at eight thirty.

  Rahul wiped the window with his hand and looked carefully. It was the same yellow butterfly from the other day that had changed into a parasol. There was no doubt, none at all. The blood in his veins picked up pace. Desire seized him. The sound of his throbbing heart went straight to his ears. Tick . . . Tick . . .

  The words tumbled out of his mouth: “That’s the one! I’m sure of it.” He jumped right into his pants, dried his face with a towel, threw on his shoes, and ran out, leaping down the stairs three at a time.

  Anjali absolutely glowed—she wore a white salwar with a scattershot-dotted almond and light green kurta. Her chunni was light green. Her hair was clean and shiny, blowing every which way with each gust of wind.

  She spotted Rahul. “Jeez! How did you know I was here? You’re completely out of breath!”

  “I was standing at the window of my room.”

  “So that’s where you’re posted these days, standing at your window?” Anjali asked, looking around. She seemed a little nervous. The morning sun shone far off in the distance; the grass on the playground was still moist with dew.

  “Can we cut through the park instead of going by road?” Rahul asked, touching Anjali’s elbow. “And weren’t you coming at eight thirty?” he added, slowly sidling up to her. He inhaled deeply the sweet fragrance of her body and clothing.

  “I was getting bored. Papa’s never around since the state assembly is in session. My brother stays up until three in the morning and then sleeps until noon.”

  “Do you ever think abou
t me? Even sometimes?” Rahul touched her arms.

  Anjali stopped. Her eyes were timid and anguished. She looked at Rahul as if expecting his insides to react to her distress. “Why just sometimes?” She fell silent for a moment as if she were searching for her lost voice. “Each and every moment, Rahul!”

  Rahul’s insides jumped. He was seized by that sweet fever, penetrated by deep desire, one barely audible to the ears. Why was this? Rahul thought. Why was it that the moment he neared Anjali, or saw Anjali, the mysterious churning began inside his body, like some kind of chemical reaction, slowly encasing his sense of being, taking his breath away; why was it he’d never felt like this before?

  This life belongs to me. So how did it change itself without my consent?

  Rahul thought, I’d wanted to pump myself up in the gym until I became a cheetah or sleek panther, ready to pounce on my prey. So who was that Shahrukh who bloodied the girl he fell in love with? He raped her. Called her on the phone, frightened her. I thought girls went for this sort of guy, the violent kind who leaves scars. But between Anjali and me there’s nothing but butterflies and parasols. On TV you see a woman in a bathing suit lounging on a beach under a palm tree, wearing sunglasses, arm around the waist of her man—that feeling must be the same as I’m feeling for Anjali, no?

  Rahul looked at Anjali. And she looked at him. He took Anjali’s right hand into his. And that was that. He immediately felt the electromagnetic storm begin to surge through his body. Anjali’s face reflected the morning sunlight, giving it a dusky copper color. Now the storm had become an inescapable whirlwind that caught Rahul like a helpless stalk of grass, unbound.

  “Should we go over there?” Rahul suggested. At the base of the hill leading up to the hostel were huge rocks, the ground covered with semal and babul trees, sirkin and lentina shrubs. There was a small storeroom tucked away where sports equipment was kept. It was always locked. Behind it were more bushes, and no one.

  Rahul brushed aside the strands of hair that had fallen in Anjali’s face. For the first time, she gave Rahul’s hand a tight squeeze, with all her strength. Then she smiled at him.