Step Across This Line

by Salman Rushdie

  Look, those are the polluting chimneys of brick kilns smoking in the fields. Outside the city the air is less filthy, but it still isn’t clean. But in Bombay between December and February, think of this, aircraft can’t land or take off before 11:00 A.M. because of the smog.

  The new age is here all right. Zafar, if you could read Hindi you’d see the new age’s new words being phonetically transliterated into that language’s Devanagiri script: Millennium Tires. Oasis Cellular. Modern’s Chinese “Fastfood.”

  He wants to learn Hindi. He is good at languages and wants to learn Hindi and Urdu and come back without all the paraphernalia that presently surrounds us: without, to be blunt, me. Good. He’s got the bug. Once India bites you, Zafar, you’ll never be cured.

  Behold, Zafar, the incomprehensible acronyms of India. What is a WAKF board? What is an HSIDC? But one acronym reveals a genuine shift in reality. You see it everywhere now, every hundred yards or so: STD-ISD-PCO. PCO is personal call office, and now anyone can pop into one of these little booths, make calls to anywhere in India or, indeed, the world, and pay on the way out. This is the genuine communications revolution of India. Nobody need be isolated anymore.

  In the roadside dhabas where we stop for refreshments, they’re talking about Hansie Cronje. Nobody is in any doubt that he is guilty as sin.

  Bill Clinton visited the hilltop fortress-palace of Amber, outside Jaipur, but his security people wouldn’t allow him to indulge in the famous local tourist treat. At the bottom of Amber’s hill is a taxi-rank of elephants. You buy a ticket at the Office of Elephant Booking and then lurch uphill on the back of your rented pachyderm. Where the president failed, Zafar and I succeed. I feel glad to know—in a moment of schadenfreude—that somebody else’s security was tighter and more restrictive than mine.

  Clinton did, however, watch dancing girls twirling and cavorting for him in Amber’s Saffron Garden. He’d have liked that. Rajasthan is colorful. People wear colorful clothes and perform colorful dances and ride on colorful elephants to colorful ancient palaces, and these are things a president should know.

  He should also know that at a test site near Pokhran in Rajasthan’s Thar desert Indian know-how brought India into the nuclear age. Rajasthan is, therefore, the cradle of the new India that must be thought of as America’s partner and equal. (Clinton did raise the subject of the Test Ban Treaty but failed to persuade India to sign. After all, the United States hasn’t ratified it, either.)

  What should not be drawn to Clinton’s attention—because it has no place in either the colorful, touristic, elephant-taxi India or the new, thrusting, Internet-billionaire, entrepreneurial India that is presently being sold to the world—is that Rajasthan, along with its neighboring state of Gujarat, is currently dying of thirst, in the grip of the worst drought for over a century.

  What the president must not be permitted even to think is that the money spent on India’s ridiculous Bomb could have helped care for and feed the sick and hungry. Or that it’s absurd for Prime Minister Vajpayee to appeal to the people of India to help fight the massive destruction wrought by the drought by making charitable contributions, “no matter how small,” while the Indian government is still spending a fortune on Rajasthan’s other weapon of mass destruction.

  It’s hot: almost 110°F, over 40°C. The rains have failed for the last two years, and it’s still two months to the next monsoon. Wells are running dry, and villagers are being forced to drink dirty water, which gives them diarrhea, which causes dehydration, and so the vicious circle tightens its grip.

  When I was last here, a dozen years ago, the region was in the grip of the previous worst-ever drought. I traveled in Gujarat then and saw much the same sort of devastation as is apparent everywhere in rural Rajasthan today. As the gulf between the feast of the haves and the famine of the have-nots widens, the stability of the country must be more and more at risk. I have been smelling a difference in the air, and reluctant as I am to put into words what isn’t much more than an instinct, I do feel a greater volatility in people, a crackle of anger just below the surface, a shorter fuse.

  At dinner, Zafar eats a bad shrimp. I blame myself. I should have known to remind him of the basic rules for travelers in India: always drink bottled water, make sure you see the seal on the bottle being broken in front of you, never eat salad (it won’t have been washed in bottled water), never put ice in your drinks (it won’t have been made with bottled water) . . . and never, never eat seafood unless you’re by the sea.

  Zafar’s desert shrimp knocks him flat. He has a sleepless night: vomiting, diarrhetic. In the morning he looks terrible, and we have a long, hard journey ahead of us, on bumpy, difficult roads. Now he, too, needs to guard against dehydration. Unlike the villagers we’re leaving behind, however, we have plenty of bottled water to drink, and proper medication. And, of course, we’re leaving.

  TUESDAY, APRIL 11

  A day to grind through. Long, grueling journey to Agra, then back to Delhi. Zafar suffers but remains stoical. He’s too weak to walk around the magnificent Fatehpur Sikri site, and only just manages to drag himself around the Taj, which he declares to be smaller than expected. I am very relieved when I can finally get him into a comfortable hotel bed.

  I turn on the television news. Cronje has confessed.

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12

  CRONJE: I AM A CROOK say the banner headlines in the morning papers. The erstwhile cricketing demigod has admitted to having feet of clay: he has “been dishonest,” he has taken money, and now he has been fired from the South African captaincy and kicked out of the national team. K. K. Paul and his men have been thoroughly and dramatically vindicated.

  The money Cronje took was paltry, as it turns out: a mere $8,200. Not much of a price for a man’s good name.

  Meanwhile, back in South Africa, the predominantly white cricket-loving public (South African blacks are much more interested in soccer) rallies behind its beloved Hansie. Put him back in the team, say the opinion polls, and the media, too, back him to the hilt. In Durban, a crowd of whites attacks Sadha Govender, chairman of the KwaZulu-Natal Cricket Development Programme, who is repeatedly slapped and kicked. “Charros brought Cronje down,” the whites shout. (Govender is of Indian origin. Charros are Indians.)

  Hansie Cronje’s locker-room nickname—given him long before the present scandal—was Crime. As in crime doesn’t pay. He was notoriously stingy, the story goes, about buying a round of drinks. Now, as the South African government moves toward agreeing to his extradition to stand trial in India, and his lawyers warn him to expect a jail term, he must have started thinking of that nickname as a prophecy.

  I am impressed by the relative lack of triumphalism in the Indian response to Cronje’s downfall. “What are we gloating over?” warns Siddharth Saxena in The Hindustan Times: meaning, let’s not be self-righteous about this. The bookmakers were Indians, after all, and in the revelations that should now begin to flood out, we may learn that we’re no angels, either. One of the bookies, Rajesh Khalra, is already under arrest, and a suspected middleman, the movie actor Kishen Kumar, will be arrested as soon as he gets out of the hospital, where he is being treated for a sudden heart problem.

  At a roadside dhaba earlier today, Zafar saw a smiling young man in a Pepsi poster. “Who’s that?” he wanted to know. “That” was Sachin Tendulkar, India’s great cricketing superstar, the best batsman in the world. My God, I thought, if one day a scandal should touch Tendulkar, it really would destroy the game. People wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  Another alleged go-between, Hamid “Banjo” Cassim, a South African businessman, is named by the Indian police. He is said to have links with the bookie Sanjiv Chawla, as well as Mohammed Azharuddin . . . and Sachin Tendulkar. Azharuddin’s and Tendulkar’s denials of wrongdoing are instant and furious, and nobody actually accuses them of anything. But a shadow falls across the sun.

  Roper Starch Worldwide, a market research agency, has issued a World Happiness Baro
meter. On average, apparently, just 24 percent of the world’s population describes itself as happy. The happiest countries are the USA (46 percent), India (37 percent), and the United Kingdom (36 percent). India’s in the Happiness Silver Medal Position! Her right to a place at the world’s top table is confirmed!

  The unhappiest countries in the world are China (9 percent) and Russia (3 percent). Figures for the present happiness level of cricket fans in South Africa are not included.

  India’s national happiness level has been raised, this morning, by the good news that Indian-born Jhumpa Lahiri has won the Pulitzer Prize for her first book of stories, The Interpreter of Maladies. She’s on the front page of every paper, beaming at her good fortune, and in spite of the somewhat ambiguous attitude in these parts to the work “Diaspora Indians,” she is given glowing write-ups everywhere. She is a very talented writer, and I share the general feeling of pride in her achievement.

  Sri Lanka wants the United Kingdom branded a terrorist state, because it harbors so many terrorist groups: the LTTE (Tamil Tigers), Hamas from Palestine, the Kurdish PKK, the Kashmiri Harkat-ul-Ansar, and, according to the Sri Lankans, sixteen other groups on the U.S. terrorism list. I can’t help feeling that Sri Lanka has a point. The United States is presently accusing Pakistan and Afghanistan of forming a “terror hub” because they give house room to Osama bin Laden and various Kashmiri separatists. If it isn’t too sad-sack a question in the midst of all this happiness, why isn’t Britain being “chargesheeted” as well?

  Sometime in the 1930s my paternal grandfather, Mohammed Din Khaliqi, a successful Delhi businessman, acquired a hot-season retreat for his family, a modest stone cottage in the pretty little town of Solan in the Shimla Hills. He named it Anis Villa after his only son, Anis Ahmed. That son, my father, who later took the surname Rushdie, gifted the house to me on my twenty-first birthday. And eleven years ago, the state government of Himachal Pradesh took it over without so much as a by-your-leave.

  It isn’t easy to seize a man’s property in India, even for a state government. In order to get hold of Anis Villa, the local authorities falsely declared it to be “evacuee property.” The law pertaining to evacuee property was devised after Partition to enable the state to take possession of homes left behind by individuals and families who had gone to Pakistan. This law did not apply to me. I was an Indian citizen until I became a British one by naturalization, and I have never held a Pakistani passport or been a resident of that country. Anis Villa had been wrongfully seized, and provably so.

  Vijay Shankardass and I became close friends because of Solan. One of the most distinguished attorneys in India with, incidentally, a proud history of anti-censorship victories to his name, he took on the Himachal authorities on my behalf. The case took seven years, and we won. Both parts of this sentence are impressive. Seven years, by Indian standards, is incredibly fast. And to defeat a government, even when right is quite clearly on your side, takes some doing. Vijay’s victory has been much admired in India, and he deserves all the kudos he has received.

  For Vijay, the Solan case was just one part of the larger task of putting right my relationship with India, which has become, for him, something of a personal crusade. He has dedicated much time to it, testing the waters, lobbying politicians, working tirelessly on my behalf. The present trip would have been impossible without him. He is softly spoken, has quite exceptional gifts of negotiation and persuasion, and I owe him a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

  We regained possession of the Solan villa in November 1997. Since then, the roof has been fixed, the house cleaned and painted, and one bathroom modernized. Impressively, the electricity, plumbing, and telephone all work. In preparation for our visit, furniture and furnishings have been rented for a week from a local store, at the surreal cost, for a six-bedroom house, of one hundred dollars. A caretaker and his family live on the premises. Solan has grown out of all recognition, but the villa’s view of the hills remains clear and unspoiled.

  Zafar is just a few weeks shy of his own twenty-first birthday. Going to Solan with him today closes a circle. It also discharges a responsibility I have long felt to the memory of my father, who died in 1987. You see, Abba, I have reclaimed our house. Four generations of our family, living and dead, can now forgather there. One day it will belong to Zafar and his little brother, Milan. In a family as uprooted and far-flung as ours, this little acre of continuity stands for a very great deal.

  To get to Solan you take a three-hour ride in an air-conditioned “chair car” on the Shatabdi Express from New Delhi to Le Corbusier’s city of Chandigarh, the shared capital city of both Punjab and Haryana. Then you drive for an hour and a half, up into the hills. At least, this is what you do if you’re not me. The police do not want me to take the train. “Sir, exposure is too great.” They are upset because the manager of the hotel in Jaipur has blabbed to Reuters that I was there. Vijay has managed to squash the Reuters story for the moment, but the shield of invisibility is wearing thin. At Solan, as even the police accept, or say they accept, the cat will surely spring from the bag. It’s where everyone expects me to go. The day before yesterday, the Indian state TV service Doordarshan sent a team up to Anis Villa to nose around and quiz Govind Ram, the caretaker, who stonewalled nobly. Once I’m actually there, however, the story will surely break.

  One rather unattractive development: the police high-ups who telephone Akshey Kumar every five minutes to ask how things are going have developed the notion that the Jaipur leak was engineered by Vijay and myself. This germ of suspicion will shortly blossom into a full-blown disease.

  Zafar is feeling better, but I refuse to inflict what will be a seven-hour car journey on him. I put him on the train, lucky dog. I am to meet him at Chandigarh station with my inconspicuous “car-cade” of four black sedans.

  There’s another train leaving Delhi, a train whose existence wasn’t dreamed of the last time I was in India. This is the Samjhauta Express, the non-stop direct rail link between the Indian capital and the city of Lahore in Pakistan. Just as I’m preparing to celebrate this sign of improving relations between the old adversaries, however, I discover that the continuance of the service is now at risk. Pakistan complains that India isn’t providing its share of the rolling stock. India complains, more seriously, that Pakistan is using the train to smuggle drugs and counterfeit money into India.

  Drugs are a huge issue, of course, but the counterfeit money issue is also a big one. In Nepal, these days, people are reluctant to accept Indian five hundred rupee notes, because of the quantity of forgeries in circulation. Not long ago a diplomat from the Pakistan mission in Delhi went to pay his young son’s school fees, and used a mixture of genuine and funny money to do so. The boy was expelled, and although he was later reinstated, the link between the Pakistani government and the bad money had been clearly established.

  (On Friday the fourteenth, India and Pakistan agree to let the train continue running for the moment. But it can no longer be said to symbolize the spirit of friendly cooperation. Rather, it’s just another problem, another location of the struggle between the two neighbors.)

  I collect Zafar at Chandigarh, and as we go up into the hills my heart lifts. Mountains have a way of cheering up plains dwellers. The air freshens, tall conifers lean from steep slopes. As the sun sets, the lights of the first hill stations glow in the twilight above us. We pass a narrow-gauge railway train on its slow, picturesque way up to Shimla. For me this is the emotional high point of the trip to date, and I can see that Zafar, too, is moved. We stop at a dhaba near Solan for dinner, and the owner tells me how happy he is that I’m there, and someone else runs up for an autograph. I ignore the worried expression on Akshey Kumar’s face. Even though I’ve hardly ever been here in my life, and not at all since I was twelve years old, I feel like I’m home.

  It’s dark when we reach the villa. From the road we have to climb down 122 steps to reach it. At the bottom there’s a little gate, and Vijay, als
o in a state of high feeling, formally welcomes me to the home he has won back for my family. Govind Ram runs up and astonishes Zafar by stooping down to touch our feet. I am not a superstitious man, but I feel the presence at my shoulder of my grandfather, who died before I was born, and of my parents’ younger selves. The sky is on fire with stars. I go into the back garden by myself. I need to be alone.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 13

  I am woken at 5:00 A.M. by amplified music and chanting from a mandir, a Hindu temple, across the valley. I get dressed and walk around the house in the dawn light. With its high-pitched pink roofs and little corner turrets, it’s more beautiful than I remembered, more beautiful than it looked in Vijay’s photographs of it, and the view is as stunning as promised. It’s a very strange feeling to walk around a house you don’t know that somehow belongs to you. It takes a while for us to grow into each other, the house and I, but by the time the others wake up, it’s mine.

  We spend most of the day mooching around the premises, sitting in the garden under the shade of big old conifers, eating Vijay’s special scrambled eggs. I know now that the trip has been worthwhile: I know it from the expression on Zafar’s face.

  In the afternoon we make an excursion to the next town, the former British summer capital. They called it Simla, but it’s gone back to being Shimla now that they have left. Vijay shows me the law courts where he fought for Anis Villa, and we go, too, to the former Viceregal Lodge, a big old pile that once staged the crucial pre-Independence Simla Conference of 1945 and now houses a research establishment called the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies. The fabric of the building, of course, is badly neglected, and may soon become unsafe.