by Liz Williams
Jaya said nothing. The British, the Americans, aliens, whatever. They all made promises. They all lied. Better to wait and see. She was not so worried about a cure for her own illness, whatever it was, but she could not help thinking of the boy in the sewers and the widows who thronged the ghats, and all the others like them. For a treatment for Selenge, Jaya was prepared to do whatever Ir Yth wanted. But it would be on her own terms, not those of the raksasa.
Ir Yth, like any deity, self-professed or otherwise, was definitely not to be trusted. In the presence of the raksasa, Jaya (mindful of the virtues of being underestimated) did her best to be humble and polite, causing Ir Yth to assume an air of plump satisfaction. It wasn’t easy. Jaya had been used to arguing each and every decision, ever since the day at the start of the revolution when she had discovered that, oracle though she might be, Satyajit Rakh intended to treat her as a figurehead and not a leader. The row had simmered for a week, with a worried Kamal caught in the middle. Then both Satyajit and Kamal had been caught behind enemy lines, and Jaya had been the one to rescue them. After that, there was no more talk of figureheads, however frail and ill Jaya had become.
You must not be afraid of me, Ir Yth would say, with condescending kindness. Remember, I am your friend.
“I will try not to be afraid,” Jaya would reply, meekly bending her head to conceal her gritted teeth. She wondered how long she could keep this up.
When she was alone, Jaya let the mock humility drop and paced up and down like a caged tiger, regardless of the pain in her joints. But aloneness was an increasingly difficult state to attain these days; the ranks of those who wanted an audience were swelling by the hour. Jaya found that the situation possessed a certain dark and obscure humor. Far from her being invisible or shunned, as befitted her untouchable status, all eyes were now upon her.
She intended to make the most of the irony. She had a meeting that morning, with Bharat’s minister of the interior, Vikram Singh.
Minister Singh was visibly nervous, Jaya was pleased to see. The guards let him into the temple, and he was obliged to walk down the long, hot path, flanked by muttering monkeys, to the chamber to where Jaya sat silent and watchful.
“Good morning,” Singh said after a moment. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the shadows. Jaya stared up at him, seeing a small, wiry man with skin that looked as dry as a lizard’s. He had been associated with the government for over forty years. It did not look as though it had been good for his health.
“Good morning,” Jaya echoed.
“Well,” the minister murmured. “This is most unprecedented.”
“It is, yes,” Jaya said, although she was not sure what he was referring to.
“It is an honor.” Singh spoke flatly, disbelievingly.
“What is?” Jaya reached for a cigarette. She had wrestled with her conscience over this—so disrespectful, in a temple—but unfortunately addiction had won out over deference. Still, every time she lit up, she had to stifle a twinge of guilt. Maybe Durga would understand.
“That our nation should be chosen, out of all the world, to represent the planet Earth.”
Jaya, gratefully inhaling smoke, replied, “Why should we be so surprised that these aliens have chosen this city, out of all the world, in which to make their first appearance?” Her voice dropped a seductive octave or so, the legacy of her days as an oracle. Now that she had so unnaturally aged, her voice was one of the last weapons she had left. “It is said that Varanasi is the oldest inhabited city in the world, conjured by Lord Shiva himself. Isn’t it told that it was above the skies of Varanasi that a pillar of fire jyotirlinga, first manifested thousands of years ago? And isn’t this supposed to be the greatest of the tirthas, the crossing places, where gods may meet us and we may meet gods? The cremation ground where the universe itself will come to burn?”
She was unable to stifle a pang of unease at that thought: the notion of everything in existence spiraling back to the long hot shores of the Ganges, to go up in Agni’s fire. She swallowed hard, and added, “After all, maybe they’ve been here before…”
Singh was circling her, stalking around the back of the wheelchair. Jaya felt the hair rise at the back of her neck and forced herself not to turn.
“Shrimati Nihalani. Receiver. What do they want?” He sounded almost plaintive, and for the first time Jaya could regard him with something akin to sympathy.
“Do you know, Minister, I’ve been asking myself that very question. And not only myself, either. I have pestered Ir Yth as much as I dare, and every time I get a different story.”
“Trade? Invasion? Reciprocity?” The minister was guessing aloud.
Jaya said, “Trust me, Minister Singh, I intend to find out.” She smiled, but she was by no means as certain as she pretended. “Besides,” she added, “Bharat suffers from an inferiority complex these days. I imagine that similar questions were asked when the first European colonists arrived. Curious, how amenable we are to potential conquerors. I blame the caste system, myself.”
Clearly, this analogy had struck the minister before. A sour unease crossed his face, and he sighed.
“Yes. The caste system. Your appointment has been… not entirely appreciated… in certain quarters.”
“Given that the last fifty years have seen certain members of the upper classes immolating themselves at the possibility of my caste entering even the civil service, I can hardly say I’m surprised. Let alone the more… colorful details of my background. Minister, you know as well as I do that my caste have been woefully shortchanged. At the turn of the century, we could do any work we pleased, at least in theory. From shit shovelers to software engineers, in less than a hundred years. And then the government managed to get itself ousted by a bunch of right-wing self-professed fundamentalists who were only interested in lining their own pockets at the expense of the lower orders. Bharat’s a rich country, but as soon as that wealth looked as though it was about to start trickling down—well, we couldn’t have that, could we?” She was starting to sound like her father, Jaya thought.
“History will state that they stabilized the nation,” Singh said.
“Oh, come on. You don’t really believe that, do you? I’ve heard rumors of your lifestyle, Minister, in spite of your religious affiliations.” Jaya bit back the details of those rumors; she knew she should try not to antagonize him too much. She added, “And then there’s the Selenge virus, of course, which hasn’t helped. Yes, given all that, I should think the Brahmins are dabbing petrol behind their ears even as we speak.”
Singh said hastily, “I am not among them. I have always been on record as progressive, despite the problems with which your caste has been associated, and—”
“I know that, Minister. I want an assurance from you.”
Rising from the wheelchair, Jaya came to stand before the minister. Vikram Singh was not tall, but she still had to look up at him.
After a pause, the minister said warily, “What?”
“Your hired hyena, Amir Anand, has been after me. The man they call the butcher-prince. He pursued me into the hospital; if I hadn’t overheard him and fled, I imagine I’d be dead by now. It’s the third time that Anand has come close to killing me. It’s not a feud I ever invited. Call him off.”
Singh said dryly, “Amir Anand has simply been doing his job. If you had not entertained ideas above your station—” He coughed, and added, “Anyway, the past is the past. I’m ordering troops to surround the temple, but those are for your own protection and those of your people. I see you have imported some additions to the wanted list.”
“How do you know that?” Jaya asked before she could think better of it, then cursed herself for her naivete. The intelligence services would have all the technology at their disposal trained on the temple; she had been a fool to think she could smuggle anyone in unnoticed. She would never have been so stupid a few years ago. Was it the illness, or was she simply losing her touch?
The minister was watch
ing her narrowly. He said, “I’ve spoken to the antiterrorist squad. A temporary pardon is in place for you and your men. We are protecting the temple from intruders. As you’ll have noticed.”
Jaya nodded. She could hardly have failed to do so. The large square beyond the temple held a crowd of hundreds, and many more thronged in permanent encampments in the streets beyond.
“I’m grateful.”
Singh’s gaze traveled past her shoulder and the lizard eyes widened fractionally. Turning, Jaya saw that Ir Yth had appeared at the far end of the chamber. The raksasa floated a foot or so above the ground, lending her much-needed height.
“It’s for your protection,” Singh echoed.
“I can be sure of that, can I?” There were few circumstances in which she would trust any politician, and this was not one of them.
Singh said swiftly, “Whatever our… differences might have been in previous years, we are still both of Bharat.” He did not need to add: And still human.
“Well, I’m glad you remember that. I was under the impression that the bulk of your political career has been spent in doing deals with the West. Or the East, come to that—with industrialists like Naran Tokai.”
“Naran Tokai has invested heavily in Uttar Pradesh, even more so than his American counterparts. And his association with our nation goes back almost thirty years. I myself have known him for much of that time. Are you suggesting that we do without the pharmaceutical industry? Oh, I was forgetting—you relied upon the black market medicine trade to fund your revolution, didn’t you? But Western investment is not the issue here. That, I court. What I don’t want—” And here he leaned forward confidingly. The raksasa had faded from view, but Singh kept one eye on the place where she had stood. “What I don’t want is for this situation, this opportunity, to be hijacked by the West. By the Americans. The U.S. is still a superpower; it feels it has a right to be considered first by any… visitors. It may be that it is right to do so. I have already had talks with the U.S. ambassador, and I have been trying to downplay the situation. I have alluded to rumor, conjecture, scaremongering. The ambassador is an intelligent man. I do not think I can distract him for long, and the American media are already here in force.”
Jaya met his eyes. For once, they were in perfect understanding. “Agreed.”
“These beings have chosen to make contact here. I regard that as significant.”
“Believe me, Minister, so do I.”
“Find out what they want, and what advantages this may bring, before they realize that they might be better off talking to the Pentagon. In exchange, I’ll see to it that you receive an official and permanent pardon for your past… errors in judgment. In the meantime, I’ve told the butcher—I’ve instructed Anand that you are not to be touched.”
“Thank you. But I want assurances for the rest of my people as well.”
“Your people? You mean your cadre—Satyajit Rakh, Sakai, and the others? I think I can arrange that.”
“No. Not just for them.” Jaya took a deep breath. It was an outrageous demand and Singh wouldn’t consider it for a moment, but when you bargained, you went for the best deal first. “The dalit. I want the caste restoration program rescinded. Equal opportunities for untouchables, for all castes.”
Singh grimaced. “That might be difficult to pass.”
As expected, he wouldn’t consider it, but at least he hadn’t rejected it out of hand. That suggested he was reluctant to offend her. He went on, “It’s rather unpalatably Marxist, and there’s a lot of opposition in these uncertain times to any notion of change.”
“So I’ve noticed. Given that this country has one of the highest wealth differentials in the world, combined with manifold success in developing new technologies, I am rather unpalatably Marxist, too. However, Minister Singh, I have a hunch that the world is about to change forever. This is no time for either of us to hang on to antiquated hierarchical systems.”
“I’ll do my best. As, no doubt, will you.” The look in his eyes lay halfway between threat and grim amusement.
Jaya had to give him some credit, but she did so reluctantly. She did not say: Three years ago, you would have put a bullet in the back of my head. And your colleagues sent Anand after me, that hound out of Hell, to murder first my own father and then the only man I ever loved. So I don’t thinks I owe too much to you and your conniving government.
When Singh had left, Jaya hobbled across to the stairs that led up to the temple’s gallery. The wheelchair had been a thoughtful gift from Varanasi General Hospital—it had even come accompanied with a garland of flowers—but Jaya preferred to walk whenever she could; it reminded her of what was real and what was not. The pain acted as a useful antidote to Ir Yth’s smooth blandishments. Jaya got the impression that Ir Yth was failing to get her points across. There was a distinct air of frustration about some of the raksasa’s pronouncements, and sometimes she seemed to be waiting for answers to questions that had not, to Jaya’s knowledge, been asked. Their discourse had a gap, and both Receiver and raksasa were floundering about inside it. Ir Yth also seemed to be postponing real decisions until the arrival of the mediator…
Opening the door, Jaya hauled herself up the twisting stone staircase to the gallery that ran along all four sides of the temple. Looking across the temple, she could see an immense concrete pool, normally filled with water but now drained to accommodate troops, journalists, and a slew of bystanders. Beyond the temple courtyard, the street was also crammed with people.
Even for Bharat, it was mayhem. Opposite the temple, onlookers hung out of the upper story of the Krishna laundry, which, Jaya reflected, had to be making a fortune in viewing fees. All traffic had been stopped, with the exception of the bike rickshaws, who had latched onto the presence of foreign journalists on expense accounts with the avidity of vultures. Jaya grinned. Not even the most hard-bitten hack stood a chance against the average Varanasi businessman. Everyone in this town had the confidence bestowed by three thousand years of practice in fleecing the faithful.
Up here, she could hear the cries of vendors, flogging charms and garlands and plastic UFOs and God knew what else. Maybe she could persuade Ir Yth to take a break from impersonating deities and go souvenir shopping.
As she took a careful step down onto the gallery, the monkeys, who had been chattering and yelping and throwing orange rinds at the men below, fell suddenly silent and watched her with bright, anxious eyes. At the end of the gallery, Ir Yth turned to greet her. The raksasa was indistinct; she seemed to fade in and out of view. Jaya thought that this must have something to do with the orbit of the ship, where the raksasa’s real body was located. Jaya made her way along the roof to where Ir Yth was standing.
What are those people doing? the raksasa asked.
Jaya looked over the edge of the roof at the crowd gathered below. Soldiers lined the outskirts of the temple, giving credence to rumor. Every media network on the planet seemed to have sent a representative, and Jaya had already imposed a caste system of her own upon them: the local networks at the front, CNN at the back. She was mindful of Singh’s concerns—keep the Americans out of this, for as long as possible. Added to these were pilgrims of a multiplicity of religious persuasions; scientists; tourists; lunatics. It reminded Jaya uneasily of the old days at the ashram. She was doomed to be the center of attention.
One of these days, she told herself, I’m going to become a normal person, neither invisible nor the focus of everyone’s gaze. But the only person who had ever seen her as ordinary—as a girl who liked parakeets and hibiscus flowers and green tea, who got sick and scared that she couldn’t cope—had been Kamal. And Kamal was dead. For the thousandth time, Jaya thrust the memory away.
I asked you a question, the raksasa said.
“Which people in particular do you mean?” Jaya replied.
A permanent small group of Brahmin students were waving placards, protesting Jaya’s appointment. Yesterday there had been a riot in Delhi, and
there were likely to be more. The raksasa pointed a rudimentary finger at the students.
“Oh, those. They’re objecting to me.”
The raksasa’s mouth pursed and curled in a gesture that possibly indicated surprise. Please explain.
Jaya sighed. “I’ve told you that I am of a certain caste, that there are hierarchies in this society.”
The raksasa gave a careful movement of her head, a gesture she had learned from Jaya.
Yes. Hierarchies are something that I understand very well.
“I have told you that there are certain things I am allowed to do, and others that I am not allowed to do.”
What is permitted to you? Ir Yth asked.
Jaya swallowed an old shame. She had avoided the particulars of her position up until now. She said, carefully, “To handle corpses, excrement, leather, earth. It used to be different; there was a period back last century when almost all work was open to us. We were organized—a self-empowerment movement called the Dalit Panthers emerged, based on an earlier struggle in another country. Then the government changed.” She thought back to her conversation with the minister. “It started closing off our privileges. There was protest—a lot of people objected to the government’s attempts to restore the caste system. But then a great many of my caste became ill, with a virus they call Selenge. It mainly affected us—no one knew why—which led to my caste’s being persecuted.” She held out her scarred wrist. “We were branded again as untouchables, as disease carriers, even if we weren’t even suffering from the illness. If it were left to some of my fellow citizens, I would probably be one of the last people on Earth to be chosen as any kind of representative.”
It is not a question of choice, the raksasa said irritably. That is what you are. Caste must be accordingly revised. Please instruct your hierarchical regulators of this fact.
“I’ll point it out to them,” Jaya replied, smiling. Ir Yth made it all sound so simple.
