These young men numbered tens of millions. They were not defective in either body or mind. They were young men full of limitless capability, talent, and hard work. But worry had made their cheekbones protrude.
“I’ll make a million somehow and really show those sister-fuckers. .”
“I haven’t gone home in three days. The old man’s started counting the roti I eat. Got any money? Can you fix us up with some chai. .”
“You know that big finance guy, T. D. Gupta. The fat, macho bastard’s looking to settle down and he’s got his eyes on my sister. Last month she got a job, 800 rupees a month.”
“Kundanani was saying, one trip to Singapore means 10,000 for me.”
“And he’ll fuck you if you get caught. Is his papa gonna pay your bail?”
“Yaar, if I could just get my hands on Rajan or Ibrahim’s phone number. .”
“5,000, that’s all I’m asking for, and I swear, I’d kill anyone.”
“Ramashankar took himself a trip to Nepal and made out like a bandit. He was talking about taking me along next time.”
“That Deepa, you know, the Khaddus Bakery daughter? Ever since she opened that beauty parlor, her parents’ luck totally turned around. .”
“Beauty parlor my ass. That’s just a cover for another hobby of hers. Junior engineer Sharma and builder Satvinder are both in on it, and in on her. .”
“Don’t let her brother hear that. He’ll fix your clock.”
“Let him hear, the little bastard. He’s just a commission man. Give me 2,000 and I can take you over to see her right now.”
“Hey, Kishore, didn’t you do an MSc in Physics?”
“Yeah, but I’ve forgotten fucking everything. Now I think I’ll get into politics. Listen, I’ve got a plan. I’ll get some fake papers to make it look like I have a job, show them to some lucky parents, get married with a big dowry, have a humping week-long honeymoon, sell the wife, and take off for Dubai. God knows, I’m sick of this kind of life.”
The Indian markets were crammed full of every kind of perfume, cosmetic, soft drink, electronic gadget, washing machine, cell phone, digital TV, and handicam. Every week half a dozen new car models were coming out. In Delhi, hundreds of fast-food joints like McDonalds, KFC, and Nirulas were opening their doors. Nightclubs were sprouting up in the capital and in other big cities, where half-naked models served whiskey and wine, and the children of ministers, government bureaucrats, and criminals were having great fun. Indian and non-Indian lottery games operated openly, addicting people to them and dangling dreams of becoming millionaires and billionaires in front of their faces. The amount of money that ministers and government bureaucrats of this country spend on lunch in one day could bring drinking water, schoolteachers, and blackboards to all the villages in India, bring electricity to fields and homes, and be used to install proper toilets for slum dwellers.
But every person who thinks along those lines is considered to be a backward, out-of-step, old-fashioned stuffed ape in a museum. Every person with such ideas will be given a swift kick by the system, which will then shove him into the junkyard or label him a dangerous lunatic, and try to destroy him by any and all means.
The Parliament of India has been filled with killers, smugglers, lackeys of foreign companies, profiteers, black marketeers — all dishonest. Five-star hotels bloomed like flowers. Rivers of booze flowed through them. Mountains, forests, rivers, fields, minerals, ore, women, children, historical moments, conscience, religion, air, water, oceans: everything was being auctioned off. The prime minister was going to jail. Embezzlement, corruption, and thuggery cases were pending against multiple state chief ministers. The judge was on the take. Police were in cahoots with criminals, and each day of the turn of the century was smeared with the blood of innocent, honest, justice-seeking Indians.
One Jallianwallah Bagh massacre occurred at the hands of the English; now, dozens of Jallianwallah Baghs happen every day. The bastard offspring of Ravana have hoisted the flag of Ram and consolidated their control over every facet of reality.
Not a moment of peace, my friend
Not a moment of rest, my friend
And no end in sight
The boys waiting for a miracle were singing. Their faces sank into a dark shadow that grew more thick and dense with each passing moment. The night was so late, the darkness so dark, the silence so silent that it was terrifying.
Yet, on some leaf in this time of desolation and waste fell drops of cool dew, clear and uncorrupted, whose moistness still, occasionally, greened life.
TWENTY-TWO
Dr. Rajendra Tiwari’s class was over. He’d been lecturing about the poet Vidyapati. With half-closed, lust-filled eyes, he’d been explaining the “meanings” of words like bosom, teat, loin, and fornication. To him, it seemed, women equaled bosoms, teats, loins, and the three auspicious folds of the belly. The girls in class stared at the floor. The boys — Balram Pandey, Vijay Pachauri, Vimal Shukla, and Vibhuti Prasad Mishra — winked and smiled at one another.
Because of his connections through his brother-in-law, who was a member of the Rajya Sabha, Dr. Rajendra Tiwari had been awarded a prestigious Indian government Padmashree award. Among the professor’s habits were gawking at female students, spying on them in the library, and phoning their parents. He’d been beaten up twice for it. His favorite pastime was having big conferences organized in his honor in various cities and towns. He was famous for carrying a bag containing a shawl, a coconut, an envelope with 501 rupees, and a framed, printed certificate of appreciation wherever he went. The local headlines would read, “Special Function Held in City to Honor Renowned Hindi Scholar Dr. Rajendra Tiwari.” Every fortnight he would receive an award or prize, for which he had personally made the arrangements. The title of his PhD dissertation was “Erotic Sentiment in Krishna Poetry,” but no one had ever seen it.
The girls stood in the door to the classroom. Rahul, Shailendra George, and Shaligaram were leaving for the library. They needed to check out some books. As he passed her, Rahul touched Anjali’s elbow. She looked at him and began to follow behind with Sharmistha toward the library.
At the steps of the library, Anjali called out to him, “Rahul! Come here for a second!”
Rahul approached her.
“I need to talk with you,” she said.
“Now?”
“No. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come early.”
“What time?” Rahul’s heart started racing. Anjali’s face looked as if it’d been licked by the flames of fever.
“Eight thirty,” Anjali said, voice trembling.
“Done! I’ll be waiting,” Rahul said before running off to the library, where Shaligaram and Shailendra were standing at the circulation desk.
Rahul requested three books, The History of Hindi Literature, by Professor Ramchandra Shukla, Anamdas ka Potha, by Hazariprasad Dwivedi, and The Collected Works of Nirala, which contained the poem “How Rama Worshipped Shakti.”
As he left the library on his way back to the department, he thought for a moment, why are all three authors Brahmins?
And Anjali? Daughter of the state minister for the Public Works Department L. K. Joshi? She too, no?
What a paradox, thought Rahul, that the caste determined to eradicate him and countless others like him, whose immoral, unjust, and corrupt conduct has stretched this moment in time to the breaking point, is the same caste that claims among its numbers the writers whose works he’s reading, and a certain girl who pulses inside each and every tick of his heartbeat.