by S L Bhyrappa
The chairperson’s refrain-like interjections, which she had duly ignored, were equally frequent: ‘Thank you for sharing your viewpoint. The audience has heard you. Please allow others to share theirs.’ A corner of her mind had told her that the professor would’ve long thrown her out of the session if only his daughter was not Nazir’s begum.
~
After she was back in Narasapura, she began to read material directly related to the seminar’s discussion topic—specific histories, primary sources and histories written by court historians. Then she began to prepare a list of citations. The idea was to print out copies of this citation and present it at the next seminar.
A month later, she received a letter from Dr Rajavardhan.
My Salaams to Madam Razia,
I write to you to express my delight at the prospect of meeting you again. I trust you will be attending the second seminar scheduled to be held on the 24th, 25th and 26th of this month. This time, I intend to talk to you in great detail about some aspects related to history. I trust you’re keeping well.
Sincerely yours,
Dr Rajavardhan
No invitation had reached her. He couldn’t have written this before receiving the actual invite letter. She was surprised. Then it dawned on her and she felt disturbed. Was this the way in which things worked in a country whose national motto was Satyameva Jayate—Truth Alone Triumphs?
~
She remained in a disturbed state for two full weeks. Then curiosity gnawed at her. She grew desperate to learn what happened at the second seminar. The obvious option was to write to Dr Rajavardhan but she decided against it. A written record could always prove risky. Telephone was a better option. She searched for the card he had given her on the last day of the first seminar. His home phone number was printed on it. Narasapura still didn’t have a single phone line, despite the government’s day-to-day promise of connecting all of India. She alighted at Kunigal the next morning and called him from a public booth. After four rings, he came on the line.
‘Raziaji! Congratulations! You have single-handedly changed the course of history writing in India!’ he said effusively.
‘I…err…can you please explain?’
‘Please stay on the line for a second. I’ll spit out this darned tobacco and join you.’ She heard the sound of the receiver being placed down. After about a minute, she heard him clear his throat, ‘You know, casteist historians…no, no make that communal historians…you know, communal historians are those who call Muslim kings religious fanatics…so these communal historians hold up Aurangzeb as the best example to prove the fact that Muslim kings were religious zealots. But then, you know, he was not a zealot…he was tolerant, secular…or…well, that’s what the folks in this seminar concluded. A panel of experts has been set up to conduct research on him and they’ll publish a series of articles, papers…a couple of books, which will portray him as a strict, but able and secular ruler. Wait for two years. Aurangzeb will change before our eyes.’ He chuckled, ‘Oh! And do you know how the Kashi Vishwanath temple was destroyed? So Aurangzeb was on his way to Kashi with his entourage, which included Hindu kings and their respective wives. When they were nearing Benares, the Hindu kings requested Aurangzeb to allow them to stay and worship Lord Vishwanath. Now Aurangzeb was not merely tolerant of other religions, he actively encouraged the beliefs of people of all religions. And so he not only granted their request but made elaborate security arrangements for them. Battalions of soldiers were stationed all through a distance of five miles leading up to Benares. The wives of the Hindu kings took their holy bath in Ganga and entered the Vishwanath temple. They finished their puja and came out of the temple. All except one queen… are you there?’
‘I’m listening. Please continue,’ she said.
‘Oh! I thought the line got cut. You must make some sound so I know you’re there. Heh heh…’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay. So all except one queen came out of the temple. A detailed search for the missing queen was launched. They combed every corner of the temple but failed to find her. When the badshah learnt of this, he was furious. Now he sent his top-ranking officers to search for her. These officers tapped and shook every idol until they discovered that a life-size Ganesha statue engraved in a wall was slightly loose. They pushed it hard and it slid back horizontally and revealed steps that led to an underground passage. They went down the passage and there, they finally discovered the missing queen. She had been raped and she was weeping continuously. This underground passage was directly below the Vishwanath temple’s lingam. The Hindu kings were infuriated and pressurized the badshah to find the rogue and punish him severely.
‘As an emperor who preached and practised austerity and settled for nothing less than absolute purity in religion, Aurangzeb instantly understood the angst of his Hindu kings. Their most sacred temple had been defiled. And the culprit could’ve been none other than the mahant, the head priest in charge of the Vishwanath temple. Nobody else had access to the sanctum sanctorum. So he ordered that the lingam be shifted, the temple razed and the mahant imprisoned. This shameful historical episode equally shows the kind of rot that had set into Hinduism. As we speak, our historians are busy finding material that will adorn him in this role…’
Lakshmi interrupted him. ‘Sure, he razed that temple because it was now defiled. So what explains the fact that he used the defiled materials of the destroyed temple in building the holy mosque? What exact kind of defilement took place in Mathura’s Keshavaraya temple? What fiction will they write about the destruction of the temple that stood in front of the Udaipur palace? And what about the hundred and seventy-two temples in and around Udaipur? And the sixty-three temples in Chittor? And what about the sixty-six in Amber? What will they say about the Masir-e-Alamgiri that records destruction after destruction of temples?’
‘Oh, you have no idea! When you have unlimited government funding and a stubborn will to impose an ideological version of history, the imagination automatically becomes fertile. You can spin any fantasy you want.’
‘But didn’t you oppose this nonsense in the seminar?’
‘Raziaji, these concoctions won’t ever come up as discussion topics in any seminar. Carefully-chosen members of the inner circle craft these creations. Then they are slowly…almost casually slid into the public domain. Like-minded folks pick them up on cue and project them as authentic truths.’ He laughed. ‘Scotch helps, madam. They thought I was one of them when they included me in that discussion about Aurangzeb.’
16
All major publications featured reports about the National Integration Seminar. English newspapers plucked the juicy bits of the professor’s inaugural and closing address and published them as centre-page pieces. Other speakers got their due share of publicity. Lakshmi’s name was conspicuously missing. It was as if she had not only not attended the seminar; it was more like she didn’t exist. Editorials, opinion pieces, invited articles, syndicated columns and letters to the editor read alike. Only the words were different. The same refrain she was now used to, and she had once been part of: the British cabal of divide and rule created a deep mistrust between Hindus and Muslims who had lived in a perfect spirit of brotherhood for centuries. The cabal was hugely successful because there were some historians who still parroted the same lies. They didn’t want to accept the truth that Muslim kings had ruled in perfect accordance with Prophet Mohammed’s lofty precept of Universal Brotherhood. Unless such untruths were weeded out, no meaningful national integration was possible. It made for nauseating reading and it worried her. She concluded that the nation’s collective intellect was infected with a mad virus.
From then on, she began to comb newspapers every day and found that although their frequency began to decrease, such pieces made their appearance from time to time. She couldn’t spot a single article that showed an alternate or opposing view. After a month, Lakshmi decided to write that opposing view. She wrote a long essay that opened with her
visit to the seminar at Delhi and the questions she asked there and how she didn’t receive even one convincing and factually correct response. She went to Bangalore, got it typed out and made copies and sent one to a widely-circulated English daily and one to a Kannada daily, which prided itself for its ‘courageous journalism’.
A week passed, then two, then three, and then four. Nothing. Neither paper published it. She didn’t get even a line from either editor ‘regretting our inability to publish’. She wrote a letter to each of them ‘seeking an explanation as to why you haven’t published a contrary opinion’ and sent it through registered post.
Still no response.
She went to Bangalore and met the resident editor of the English daily. She knew Anandan from her days as a film-maker. He greeted her warmly and ordered Coke. She cut the small talk and came directly to the point.
‘Oh?’ he said, with open-mouthed surprise, ‘I…I don’t really know. I don’t know. I mean, I guess the sub-editor didn’t run it.’
‘Sure. Let’s call him and find out. This isn’t trivial. I can’t just let it go like this,’ she said in a cold tone.
‘You do realize it doesn’t look nice to subject him to questioning in the presence of outsiders.’
‘Fine then. Get a copy of my essay and read it now. I’ll wait. If you don’t have a copy…here, take this,’ she opened her bag and placed a bunch of papers on his desk.
The split-second change in his expression told her that he knew he was cornered.
‘Please leave it here. I’m…awfully busy now. I’ll read it. I promise you,’ he said. Desperation had now seeped into his voice.
‘All right then. Let me know when I should meet you again…and let me make it clear that I’m not in the least interested to see my name in print. This is more than me just wanting to have my writing published. It’s something that everybody needs to know, must know. A few years of solid research have gone in behind this piece. Don’t treat this lightly.’
‘These are policy decisions, ma’am. Not in my control. The head office decides this kind of thing. Don’t ask me questions which I don’t have an answer to.’ He lifted his hands and spread them wide apart, his palms facing the ceiling, a gesture of helplessness.
‘Then give me the address of your head office,’ she demanded.
‘With pleasure,’ he said and handed her a card.
She sent a copy of her essay with a covering letter to the paper’s head office. No response from there as well.
Then she went to the office of the Kannada daily. The editor greeted her very spiritedly and launched into a long verbal tour down the proverbial memory lane. Why did you leave the city? Are you fascinated with that village…what’s it called again? We miss you…the entire art world of Bangalore misses you. Such talent! Five years. Very long time. New trends in theatre. New stars. Oh sorry…I didn’t mean to lower your dignity by calling you a star but still… She smiled and nodded and replied in monosyllables as appropriate. The conversation suddenly turned personal.
‘You know, you and Amir shouldn’t have separated. I’m sorry. I mean, it’s not just me. Everybody out here is feeling bad for you. If he had to marry, why a burqa girl? Where was the dearth of intelligent women? He’s become like…like withdrawn after that. Well, who can ask him personal questions if he’s unwilling to open up?’
‘Didn’t the Women’s Lib folks tear their lungs out? I mean, polygamy, injustice, and the rest?’ she asked.
‘You know how it is. Minorities. Nobody opens their mouth. Creative deafness. And shall I tell you why you’ve come here?’ He paused and gave her an almost mischievous but knowing look, and said, ‘You’ve come here to ask me why I didn’t run your piece. Am I right? That’s a piece of masterly work. I can imagine the kind of back-breaking effort you’ve put in. And I’m scared. I can’t publish it. I won’t. They may mob my office. They may pelt stones, smash the furniture and attack my staff and me. They may set fire to this place or pour petrol on our vans en route and light a matchstick. Anything can happen. Hell, they might even murder me. Even if none of this happens, I’ll lose my job for sure. I’ll be fired for irresponsibility: as an editor, wasn’t I aware of the consequences of publishing certain kinds of articles? Like I said, I can’t risk it. Then there’s the ruling party that keeps an eye open to monitor precisely this kind of writing and the papers that publish them. If it decides to make trouble for us, believe me, it can in a million ways. You can send your essay to any paper: I guarantee you, every editor will think like me.’
What kind of democracy are we living in? Freedom of research, expression…freedom of the press is restricted. Fear. Worrying thoughts.
She thanked him and left and reached Narasapura in the evening and thought hard. By now she had read everything in her father’s library, as well as the books she had bought. There was plenty of additional material in the world and she could begin reading them, but what was the point? It would only mean collecting more evidence but it wouldn’t bring any change in mainstream society. She could write a history book but she had no enthusiasm. She decided to polish her novel one last time and publish it.
~
It took her less than three weeks to finish the novel. It was more a novella than a full-fledged novel. She got it typed and sent the manuscript separately to four publishers. Her fame as a film-maker helped her a little. They had heard her name and welcomed her manuscript with open arms and read it with genuine interest. Their feedback was the same: it’s a superb piece of work but we can’t publish it. They’ll create a massive ruckus. They might burn our shops and harm us physically. Or the government may ban it. Sorry, but we can’t publish this. You write something else. We promise to publish it without delay.
‘I’ll pay for the paper, printing and binding. If it sells, you can pay me back. If there’s an untoward incident, it’ll be my loss.’
They were stubborn in their refusal.
She seethed.
I’m a bloody artist. I’m a goddamn writer who’s written a new novel. I don’t need to be scared of this voiceless terrorism that prevents them from publishing my creative work.
She walked into what she thought was a good printing press and made enquiries about the rate. The owner said it would cost thirty thousand rupees to print one thousand copies. The sum also included binding. She paid him some advance and returned to Narasapura.
The printer delivered the books on schedule. She sent a review copy each to major dailies and periodicals with a covering letter requesting them to review it. She sent honorary copies to well-known intellectuals and academics requesting their feedback. Then she approached three popular bookstores and gave hundred copies to each and told them to give her money if her books sold.
No feedback came. Nobody even wrote a card or called her to acknowledge that they had received her book. She spent her days feeling morose and upset at the intellectual conspiracy behind this silent treatment.
And then it came. In the form of a longish review in the Sunday supplement of a widely-circulated Kannada newspaper.
A NOVEL THAT BETRAYS THE NATION
When this great nation was partitioned in 1947, our brothers who stayed back here out of love for their motherland became India’s minorities. At the outset, this novel seems to have been written solely with the intent of hurting their sentiments and to provoke hatred against them. In some parts of the novel, the provocation is so grave that it might inflame the passions of certain elements of the society to inflict physical violence against our innocent brothers, who are being victimized for no fault of theirs. This novel simply exposes the stink in the rotten mind of its author, Lakshmi alias Razia Begum. It oozes the pus of irrational hatred for Islam, page after page, when the whole world knows that the meaning of the word ‘Islam’ is ‘peace’. But the author has characterized Islam as a terrorist religion, thereby insulting the beliefs of our minorities. We don’t fail to notice the other sinister goal that she has tried but failed to accomplish:
that of whitewashing the atrocities of the hierarchical Hindu society, which Manu established five thousand years ago.
More than anything, the author has abused the Constitution itself. In the garb of exercising her right to free expression, she has penned a dangerous book—which carries serious literary pretensions—that has immense potential to inflame communal hatred. This is a hazardous book and if it is not banned immediately, the government of the day will be answerable to the ugly consequences that are sure to follow.
—A Reviewer
The reviewer had not used his or her real name. Lakshmi knew the type. They were two-bit people who lent their shoulders in the service of ideology and so their real names didn’t actually matter. The abusive review didn’t disturb her. She thought it was good in a way. At least word would spread that such a novel existed. In its wake, she began to feel a little worried at the real prospect of a book ban. If it was indeed banned, she had no idea what she could do about it. Today was a Sunday. Government offices and bookstores would be closed. She decided to go to Bangalore tomorrow and visit those bookstores to check how her novel was doing.
