“It’s frightening to think that the number one citizen of this country, guardian of our constitution and commander of the three branches of our armed forces, lives in that building.”
So said Rahul, hardly twenty-three years old, who, in his dizzying infatuation for Anjali Joshi, dropped out of the anthropology department only to become a first-year student in the Hindi department.
“Rahul, I have calculated a list of data about Assam. If the rulers in Delhi were to leave Assam, and the people of Assam were to take control of their own natural resources, do you know what would happen? Assam’s per capita income would be greater than that of the United Arab Emirates. Assam would be the richest country in the world, but now it’s among the poorest and most backward in India. And the same applies to nearly every other state.”
So said Hemant Barua, himself hardly twenty-one, who had come here to do an MSc in mathematics at the same time he was enrolled in an e-commerce course at a private IT school.
Rahul wondered which “new generation” in India would be the one to shape the days to come. Would it be the new “X-Y” generation seen on TV, in movies, fashion shows, and in colorful English-language newspapers published in Bombay-Delhi-Calcutta-Bangalore, drinking Pepsi, playing cricket, dancing to pop music like hippies with half-naked girls? Or would it be the generation of those running off to America, Canada, and Germany, spitting on all of their parents’ values and beliefs and giving them a kick on the way out the door, just to make as much money as possible in a job with a big multinational corporation?
Or would it be the generation of those living in the dirt-poor, hellish places of Assam, Mizoram, Manipur, Andhra, Kashmir, Bihar, and Tamil Nadu, arming themselves with AK-47s and homemade explosives, taking part in desperate acts of sabotage and violence? Or would it be the generation of those taking their lives every day out of despair from lack of daily bread? Which is the new generation? The one with a Pepsi in hand, half-naked model on his arm, Visa card in the pocket; or him, the one with red eyes, whose parents have been plundered for fifty years by successive regimes, who has a weapon in hand and is killed every day in “encounters”?
Who was this freedom created for, the freedom that the old saint of Sabarmati gave birth to some fifty years ago, with neither shield nor sword but with only his own charisma, singing, Vaishnav jan to tene kaheye je pir paraai jaane re? Is that why they shot him dead, so he couldn’t perform his wonders in the future?
Rahul and Hemant regarded one another with blank expressions. The campus was deserted; an empty wasteland in which even the trees stood as lifeless as statues, sunk in mourning.
Not a moment of peace, my friend
Not a moment of rest, my friend
And no end in sight
Both of them started singing the song together, quietly. It was a pop song, very popular these days among students on campus, a song sung by Brian O’Connell, Salman Ahmed, and Ali Azmat of the band Junoon in memory of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
It was surprising that this recording was of Pakistani pop singers. Could it be that an identical feeling of disquiet that transcended political boundaries and grew stronger every day had seized the hearts of all the simple, everyday people living throughout the whole subcontinent? It’s a bit like when fire spreads through the cramped part of town, showing no concern for whose house is burning, or whose fence, or whose gate, or whose name is inscribed on the nameplate hanging outside the door. A natural, innate, genuine fire. Agni, the same Agni that performs and concludes all sacrifices of fire.
Indram jagat sarvam daheyam bhasmikuryam yad endam sthivaradi prithivyam! Agni: the god of fire that reduces to ashes all that is visible in this world!
Not a moment of peace, my friend
Not a moment of rest, my friend
And no end in sight
Rahul felt as if someone with vast unseen hands was quietly writing a grand new national anthem on the beating hearts of the more than 1 billion simple, honest, robbed, cheated, oppressed, and tormented residents of this enormous South Asian subcontinent, a completely new song that, one day, would be sung in unison by the voices of tens of millions, echoing over the whole land. A New Mega National Song!
Would there again be a widespread mutiny, this time against the Western corporate Raj, throughout all of South Asia? This time too, like in 1857, would the struggle for independence be brutally crushed by the army of the “Indian corporate government” and, afterward, would a half-naked, loincloth-wearing man emerge out of this darkness as the new symbol for the wretched and cheated, to challenge — unarmed — the corrupt Brahmin-businessman market system of the financiers, criminals, and thugs? This Market Empire on which again the sun never sets he would set for them once more, either in the Bay of Bengal or in the Indian Ocean.
Or would another Nathuram point-blank make the saint sleep the sleep of death? And then seize power?
Hé Ram!
Hemant put an arm around Rahul’s shoulder and whispered, “See, see, look over there!”
Rahul looked. Under the shade of the neem tree next to the library, where yesterday stood Chaitanya, now lay the yellow parasol. It was the same yellow color that entered his eyes, floated through his veins, and swam in his blood. Music warmed by a sweet, lapping flame within began to hum inside Rahul. His blood carried the music of his heartbeat ringing clearly in his ears.
Dhak. . dhak. . dhak. .
Next to the parasol in the shade of the neem tree was Anima and her, Anjali Joshi. Rahul stood, mute. Hemant took his hand. “She’s all yours. C’mon, let’s go over there and talk with them.”
“I’d rather not,” Rahul said, reluctant, but Hemant had already taken hold of his hand and was leading him in their direction.
Anima and Anjali were happy to see Hemant and Rahul. They’d come in the hope that the library might be open, but it was closed, so the two had plunked themselves down right there.
“The student who passed away — he was your friend?” Anjali asked Rahul. Yesterday she’d been watching as Rahul cried in the corridor of the department.
“Sapam was a wonderful kid. He lived in our hostel, on my floor,” Rahul said. “We played badminton together.”
“Haven’t the police arrested the goondas who attacked and robbed him?” Anjali asked, concerned.
“What can the police do? Where’s the evidence against them?” Rahul said.
“The same police shot his big brother dead in Imphal,” Hemant said angrily. “Every day organized criminals kill innocent people. The media hides this daily news.”
“You should speak with your father! He’s a state minister, he might be able to do something,” Anima said, turning to Anjali.
“What’s the point of that? It’s only because of the goondas that he’s a state minister.” Startled, Anjali looked at Rahul.
Anima laughed and pinched Rahul’s left ear. “This boy’s tragic flaw is that he opens his mouth without thinking. And the poor thing always tells the truth. Know why?” Anima took Rahul’s hand and spread his palm flat. “See here on his palm how the head line, heart line, and life lines all join together. Whatever’s in his heart gets thought by his head, throwing his life into a tangle.”
Anjali, Hemant, and Anima turned to examine their own palms; but either the head line was separate or all three lines were separate or only life and heart line were joined. None had all three lines intertwined. Hemant and Anjali both found this amusing.