Having said this, he turned and left. After a few steps he spun around to add, “Did my words sink into that head of yours? Think before you act.” And he continued on his way.
O.P. looked at Rahul with deeply frightened eyes.
THIRTY-SIX
And now, the part of this unfinished tale that can be reported in any fashion.
This is a train. A Rajdhani Express. Train no. 2002. Anjali Joshi and Rahul are occupying berths 41 and 42 in compartment N-8. It is nighttime, and the clock reads eleven twenty-three. The Rajdhani Express is racing along at a fast clip.
There’s no sleepiness in Anjali and Rahul’s eyes. They’re looking at each other, wide awake. It seems that the very reason they’re awake is because they need to keep looking at one another.
Today is Anjali’s birthday. She’s a Capricorn.
Abha, Anima, Sharmistha, Neera Didi, Parvez, Pratap, Shailendra George, Shaligaram, Seema Philip, Chandra. . they were all in on the conspiracy that, under the pretense of a night at the movies for her birthday, plotted to spring Anjali from a monthlong house arrest. During the intermission at eight thirty, Anjali snuck out under a shawl to cover her face and got herself to the train station. Neither she nor Rahul, who had arrived first, was alone. The whole flock of conspiratorial friends was with them at the station, including the six-foot ostrich.
There wasn’t a hint of fear on any of their faces; rather, they showed strength, smarts, resolve, and joy, and their eyes twinkled with compassion. As the train pulled out of the station they all jumped up and down and waved their hands to bid them farewell.
Rahul and Anjali remained standing in the doorway, watching, until the train had gone some distance. Until his tears of gratitude and ecstasy erected a wall of water in front of his eyes, Rahul kept his eyes fixed on the smiling, wagging head that was fixed atop the longest, heron-like neck.
This journey was uncertain, but full of hope and longing. Rahul and Anjali stared at each other, never blinking, with the fixed posture of two celestial bodies.
It was five minutes to two in the morning when they heard the screeching sound of the train braking. After sliding down the tracks a bit, the carriages came to a halt. They’d stopped in the middle of nowhere; it was totally dark outside. Maybe someone had pulled the emergency chain, or the train engineer had received a red stop signal.
Suddenly there was a loud racket. Someone was forcing their way in the carriage by first banging on and then succeeding to break through the door. A dozen or so people barged into the compartment N-8, all bearing weapons. Their faces were flat. Two of them came forward and grabbed hold of Anjali. Another quickly covered her in a black blanket, scooped her up like a bundle and, in the blink of an eye, whisked her away.
Several people pounced on Rahul. Someone had switched off the main circuit breaker, and the entire compartment was plunged into darkness. Three or four people had seized Rahul, who was struggling to break free. He realized someone had leaked the information. Was all lost?
Through the darkness, Rahul could see a man bring in a big tin bucket and set it on the ground. Some wood was put into it and something like ghee was dumped in with the wood. A match was lit, it was set on fire, and the flames began shooting up.
A dark face with a ceremonial tilak mark of sandalwood paste on his forehead, black moth moustache, caveman-like apparition flickered in the flames.
Om bhuh swaha idamagnaye na mam
Om bhuh swaha idam vayave na mam
Om bhuh swaha idam brahmane na mam
The scary gorilla was chanting a mantra and stoking the fire with something. The flames leaped higher and higher.
The rest of the people were seated in a circle around the raging inferno. They had placed their guns, switchblades, swords, and billy clubs on the ground next to them and, god knows how, but they all now had books in their hands.
Om bhuh swaha idam na mam
Rahul saw one of them who was holding a copy of the Rigveda rip out a page and toss it in the fire. . swaha!
Another was stoking the fire with pages from Marx’s Das Capital.
Om bhuh swaha idam na mam
Another had a copy of the works of Gandhi.
Om bhuh swaha
Then they all ripped out pages and stoked the fire with Lohia, Narendra Dev, Buddhist scriptures, the Bible, the Quran.
Om bhuh
Om bhuh swaha
Swaha! Swaha!
The flames began licking the roof of the compartment. People who’d been sleeping on the upper berths jumped down and began to flee. At the other end were commandos armed with AK-47s.
Just then Rahul saw the potbellied goonda, broker, and rich-looking man stand up, just as fat, frightening, and loose as ever. He had his cell phone out and was dialing a number. “Hello! Hello! I’m Nikhlani here! Speaking on behalf of the IMF! Get me to the prime minister, okay?! Ask him to call me back on my mobile!”
He switched off his cell phone, picked up a long machete from the ground, and advanced toward Rahul.
Om! Bhuh swaha idam na mam! swaha!
Rahul was still being restrained at berth 42 by four men. The fat man slowly raised the blade of the machete. . Rahul froze in terror.
This was Parashuram, barbarous and cruel. His machete was covered in blood. It was the same one he used to separate his own mother’s head from the trunk of her body. But she had ten heads. Wait, that was Ravana. .
In a split second death from machete would fall on Rahul’s neck.
That split second was upon him.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock made of flesh in his heart was still ticking, and two tiny golden fish were still swimming in the red river of his veins. Two eyes, wet with tears, unblinking like stars. .
The machete fell on his neck. Rahul resisted with all his strength and screamed, “Hé Raaaaaaaam!”
His eyes sprang open. Anjali was planting kisses on his head and giggling. “So this is how you sleep? If I hadn’t grabbed hold of you, you would have fallen right off the berth onto the ground!” Anjali said. “You are really a crazy one, aren’t you!”
The light of the dawn was shimmering in through the window. The pleasant, murmuring warmth of the winter sun.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE TRANSLATOR
UDAY PRAKASH is one of contemporary Hindi’s most important voices. Considered one of India’s most original and audacious writers, he is among the most popular authors in India nowadays. Prakash’s texts describe the ongoing transformations of the contemporary Indian society.
Prakash is not an uncontroversial figure in the world of Hindi literature. He has been attacked from all parts of the political spectrum for his very individual approaches to the contradictory manifestations of modernity in contemporary Indian society as well as the challenges posed by the Hindi literary establishment to younger writers who wish to do new things with language and form.
Prakash is the author of poems, short stories, non-fiction, films, and documentaries. In 2010 he received the prestigious Sahitya Akademi literary award, one of India’s highest literary honors. He is professor-in-charge, Department of Mass Communication, Media, and Journalism, Indira Gandhi Tribal University, Amarkantak. He lives in Ghaziabad, India.
JASON GRUNEBAUM grew up in Buffalo, New York. He earned an MFA in fiction from Columbia University, and is currently Senior Lecturer in Hindi at the University of Chicago, where he also teaches creative writing. His stories and translations have appeared in many literary journals.
Grunebaum has been awarded an NEA Literature Fellowship and a PEN Translation Fund grant. His “Maria Ximenes da Costa de Carvalho Perreira” was selected by Salman Rushdie for a Best American Short Stories honorable mention. Grunebaum has also translated Prakash’s “The Walls of Delhi,” which was shortlisted for the 2013 DSC Prize in South Asian Literature.