transcript of Randy Diggs interview with
District Magistrate V. Lakshman (Part 3)
October 13, 1989
Oh — they’re here? Well, their timing isn’t too bad. Mr. Diggs, it turns out that Priscilla’s parents, the Harts, have shown up to see me. Ah, you know them, do you? Would you mind very much if I asked them to join us? They’ll have the same questions as you, and I suppose I could kill two birds with one stone, if that doesn’t sound too callous.
What’s that? Yes, of course you can tape it, if they don’t mind, naturally.
Do come in. Mr. Hart, Mrs. Hart, I’m pleased to meet you. [Scraping of chair.] I’m Lakshman, the district magistrate here. I believe you know Mr. Diggs of the New York Journal? He was just asking me about the events — the tragic events of two weeks ago. Would you mind if he remained here for our conversation and recorded my replies?
You’re quite right, Mr. Hart, you’re both interested in the truth. Indeed. The truth. You know, that’s my government’s official motto: “Satyameva Jayate.” “Truth Alone Triumphs.” It’s on all our letterheads — and on this visiting card I’ve just given you. Truth Alone Triumphs. But sometimes I’m tempted to ask, whose truth? There’s not always an easy answer.
Please do sit down, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart. Some tea? No? A soft drink? Ah, I’m afraid we have no Coca-Cola here. Would Campa-Cola be acceptable? No?
I do hope you have been comfortable in Zalilgarh. Yes of course, Mrs. Hart, I realize that comfort is not what you’re looking for here. Forgive me.
You’ve seen the Center where Priscilla worked? And spoken to her project manager, Mr. Das? Good. Been to her home? A rather simple place, I’m told. No, I’ve never been there, Mrs. Hart.
Yes, I knew Priscilla rather well. Or perhaps I should say, my wife and I did. Priscilla was a fairly frequent guest at our dining table. She was such pleasant company, you know. Such pleasant company. And Geetha and I took pleasure in helping her feel welcome in this little town. She seemed to cope with her loneliness rather well.
No, I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea why she was where she was when she was — killed. Forgive me, I feel a sense of responsibility, really, not merely because I’m in charge of law and order in this town, but because I’ve been haunted by the thought that perhaps — you see, I think she first heard about the Kotli from me. I was talking to her about the town, and I believe I mentioned it was the one place worth visiting for, shall we say, touristic reasons. I’ve been there myself sometimes and the sunsets over the river are spectacular. I fear she may have taken my advice.
Yes, of course I can arrange a visit for you there. I’ll do so immediately. And you too, Mr. Diggs, if you wish.
I’m afraid we’re — none of us is very sure what happened. It seems a group of Muslim troublemakers chose to use the abandoned ruin as a sort of storehouse to manufacture some crude homemade bombs the day before the riot. The day of the riot itself she seems to have stumbled across them, or they across her — no one knows. She was, as you know, stabbed to death. I’m truly sorry.
No, no, there was no robbery or any other kind of assault. It looks like Priscilla simply had the misfortune to go to that place at the very moment her assailants chose to use it. The killers probably thought she’d report them to the police. That they had to kill her to ensure her silence.
No, we didn’t find out till nearly twenty-four hours later. It was such an out-of-the-way place that no one really gave the Kotli much thought. Our energies were focused on the town, and particularly the Muslim quarter. That’s where the worst of the rioting occurred. I’ve been telling Mr. Diggs the details of the story.
What happened is that these fellows brought their bombs into town and began throwing them. We put a stop to that fairly quickly and caught one of the perpetrators. He didn’t mention Priscilla in his confession, but he did tell us about their having used the Kotli. It was in a routine follow-up visit to the Kotli that the police found — the body.
No one has confessed to the murder. The bomb makers all claim they never even saw her. Eight lives were lost in the riots, Mr. Hart, including one of a boy who worked in this office. Not one of them is linked to an identifiable assailant. That’s how it often is in riots. A confused clamor of hatred, violence, weapons, assaults. In the end, no one is responsible. Or perhaps a whole community is responsible. People pull out bombs or knives, then melt away into the darkness. We are left with the bodies, the burned and destroyed homes, the legacy of hate and mistrust. And it goes on.
I’m sorry I don’t have much more to tell you. Perhaps you ought to meet the superintendent of police. I’ll ask him to receive you. I’m afraid our rules won’t permit him to show you the actual police report, but I’m sure he’ll tell you what it says. I’ll give him a call and urge him to cooperate fully. We know you’ve come a long way on this very sad errand.
Would Sunday work for you? Good. I’ll try and arrange the appointment and get word to you. No, that’s all right, we work seven-day weeks here these days. And of course, we’ll organize a visit to the Kotli.
Your daughter was a wonderful person, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart. She will be greatly missed here in Zalilgarh.
letter from Lakshman to Priscilla
September 18, 1989
My dearest, most precious Priscilla,
For the first time in my life I genuinely do not know how to say something I must say to you. I cannot bring myself to say it directly, to your face, and so I must say it in this letter. We are supposed to meet tomorrow, Tuesday. I won’t be there.
Priscilla, forgive me, but I must end our relationship. I love you but I cannot leave my wife, my daughter, my job, my country, my whole life, for my love. I just can’t go on giving you the hope of a future together and returning home to the reality of my present. I believe it is more honest to tell you that what you want cannot be.
I cannot bear the thought that in writing these words I am hurting someone who has been nothing but good and loving to me. I cannot bear the knowledge that I am depriving myself of your love, which has fulfilled me in ways that nothing else in my life can ever compensate for. In writing this letter I know I am losing something I was lucky to have found in the first place — a good, lovely and loving woman, a chance of a different life, the second chance that comes to so few in this world.
Then why am I doing it? A dozen times in recent weeks I had decided to leave my marriage. Yesterday I told myself my decision was final, that I couldn’t live without you. Then last night I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining what my departure would mean to Rekha. I knew how Geetha would react — I was sure she would collapse in incomprehension and grief; she simply would not be able to deal with the shock. But Rekha would suffer the most horrendous trauma. I kept thinking not just that she would suffer the pain of a broken home, but of the small daily losses she would suffer — that she would not have her Daddy tucking her into bed at night or reading her an Enid Blyton story, that she would miss her Daddy at breakfast every day, that she could no longer turn to Daddy with her homework, with her questions about the world, about words, about life: the hundred small interactions that make up the texture of a father-child relationship. And I realized, then, that I could not deny these to her and still feel myself a worthy human being. That having brought her into the world, I had a responsibility, an obligation, to see her through those difficult years of growing up, secure in the environment of a predictable two-parent family structure. And that if I failed to fulfil this obligation in pursuing my own happiness, I would in fact find no happiness at all.