by Vikas Swarup
* * *
By the time I return to Rohini it is almost 5 p.m. Coincidentally, Karan enters the gates of the colony at the same moment as I do. He sees me alight from the Mercedes, does a double-take, and assumes the stiff posture of a professional soldier. ‘Ba-adab, ba-mulahiza hoshiyar, Mallika-e-Hindustan aa rahi hain. With respect, pay attention, be alert, the Empress of India is arriving,’ he intones, pretending to be a medieval sentry announcing the arrival of a Mughal queen.
‘Takhliya, dismissed,’ I reply with suitable hauteur, before breaking into a chuckle.
‘So, is this going to be your usual commute from now on?’ He jerks a thumb at the departing Mercedes.
‘I wish. Acharya was just getting me dropped back from his residence in Vasant Vihar.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘What were you doing in his house?’
‘Attending a bizarre meeting,’ I say and recount the stormy scene between Acharya and AK.
‘So finally AK is in the picture.’ Karan exhales. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘There’s obviously some kind of history between the two. “It’s strictly business, nothing personal,” AK said, but the truth seems to be the exact opposite. What I saw wasn’t business: it was strictly personal.’
‘For all I care they can both go rot in hell,’ Karan says. ‘I’m going to watch the match. See you later.’
The courtyard, which is usually bustling with residents, is completely deserted. India is about to bat and the entire colony is glued to its TV sets. As I pass by Nirmala Ben’s apartment, I discover a lock hanging on her door, definitely not a good sign.
‘Have you seen Nirmala Ben?’ I ask Ma, who is pleasantly surprised to see me come home early.
‘She came to return the scissors she had borrowed from me, telling me she was going away for a while.’
‘Did she tell you where she was going?’
‘No, but she behaved a bit strangely, embracing me as though she wasn’t going to return again.’
Dhiman Singh, the colony’s guard, confirms my fears. Nirmala Ben was seen leaving the colony at 2 p.m. with a small suitcase and a couple of placards. He has no idea where she has gone, but I have. I immediately hail an auto-rickshaw and tell the driver to take me to Jantar Mantar.
* * *
Situated on Parliament Street, Jantar Mantar is an astronomical observatory with instruments in masonry built by Raja Jai Singh II of Jaipur nearly three hundred years ago. These days it is better known as Delhi’s Hyde Park, the only place where political parties, ordinary citizens and activist groups are legally allowed to hold a sit-in when Parliament is in session.
The actual protests take place on Jantar Mantar Road, a leafy thoroughfare close to Connaught Place, where people with a grievance converge from all over the country, in the hope of getting a hearing, or at the very least, some media coverage. I generally avoid this chaotic and noisy showroom for our democracy, constantly teeming with slogan-shouting, placard-waving demonstrators. There are some groups who camp on the pavement for weeks on end, virtually making it their second home.
Today, the demonstrators are few and far between. There is a middle-aged couple from Madhya Pradesh, huddled in their makeshift tent. A handmade placard states that they are protesting against police inaction in tracing their teenaged daughter Parvati, missing since 6 January. Next to them is a traders’ association demanding that the government impose a blanket ban on the entry of multinational companies and big corporate houses into retail trade. A third group consists of a bunch of students from Delhi University with gas masks, rallying to save the Yamuna River from pollution. And finally there is a lone woman in a white sari, sitting on the dusty pavement against the drab backdrop of a faded bed sheet, which she has fashioned into a banner. ‘INDEFINITE HUNGER STRIKE AGAINST CORRUPTION’, declares the banner in red ink. In each of her hands she holds a rectangular placard with wooden handles, one saying ‘UNMASK ATLAS’ and the other ‘SAVE INDIA’.
Her eyes light up the moment she sees me. ‘Sapna, beti, you have come here to join my protest?’
‘No, Nirmala Ben,’ I reply. ‘I have come to take you home.’
‘That I am not doing,’ she declares with a firm shake of her head. ‘I told you I will only leave this place when the government assures me that they will expose the people behind Atlas. Otherwise this fast will continue until my death.’
‘Can you see a single person supporting your fast?’ I ask in exasperation. ‘You have chosen the worst possible day to protest. Everyone is busy watching cricket.’
‘Some friends of mine from the Durga Pooja Association and the Gujarati Samaj have promised to come.’
‘Then why aren’t they here? Why don’t you accept the fact that they don’t really care for your cause?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Once a satyagrahi undertakes a fast from conviction, she must stick to her resolve whether there is a chance of her action bearing fruit or not. Barobar chhe ne?’
No amount of argument can dissuade Nirmala Ben from abandoning her fast. She is as stubborn as a teenager, reminding me of Alka. Equal parts frustrated and concerned, I sit down beside her, hoping that good sense will prevail upon her in the next few hours.
By 9 p.m. I am beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. I turn to Nirmala Ben. ‘Don’t you want to eat something?’ I ask.
‘How can I eat during a hunger fast? You go ahead and get some food. I will make do with this.’ She takes a bottle of mineral water from her suitcase and gulps down a mouthful.
An hour later a police constable wanders into the area. Rat-faced and corpulent, he looks suspiciously at us. ‘What’s all this?’ He taps his baton against the placard in Nirmala Ben’s hand.
‘It’s called a protest,’ I reply, the words laced with more sarcasm than I intended.
‘Have you taken permission? Where is your permit?’
‘I didn’t know we needed a permit to protest. We are living in a democracy, after all.’
‘Come with me to the Parliament Street police station,’ he leers, ‘and I will teach you the mechanics of democracy.’
‘Look son, we don’t intend to cause you any trouble,’ Nirmala Ben interjects. ‘This is a peaceful protest to make our country a better place.’
‘Listen, budhiya,’ the constable growls. ‘This is not your private property where you can hang a banner whenever you want. Now show me your permit or I will forcibly evict you.’
‘I will not obtain any permit,’ says Nirmala Ben. ‘And I will not budge from here.’
‘Stupid woman, trying to argue with me?’ He gnashes his teeth and raises his stick to strike her, when I rush forward and interpose myself between them.
‘Let’s resolve this in a civilised way. I will get you the permit tomorrow. Just allow us to stay here tonight. And please accept this little token of our gratitude.’ I open my purse and offer him a fifty-rupee note.
He snatches the note from my hands and inserts it into his top pocket. ‘Well, all right. I’ll spare you tonight because the entire city is engrossed in the World Cup. But pack up and leave tomorrow,’ he says sternly, and walks off jauntily.
‘Why did you bribe that policeman?’ Nirmala Ben berates me. ‘This is exactly what I am fighting against.’
‘If I had not bribed that bullying cop he would have hit you.’
‘Then you should have let him hit me.’ She smiles. ‘The essence of satyagraha is soul force against brute force. That is the only way to wean away such people from the path of hatred and violence.’
I cannot help being drawn in by her loving smile, suffused with kindness and courage. And I realise deep down that we are in this together. I may not believe in her method, but I believe in her cause. And I will walk with her, even if there is no one else who is prepared to follow her.
By now the night has darkened into a sinister black, and I know I have to head home. I do not want to leave Nirmala Ben all alone, but I draw the line when it comes to sleeping on the pav
ement. Reluctantly, I bid her goodbye and take the last metro back to Rohini.
I am still in the train when I get a call on my cell phone. It is Neha, screaming with joy. ‘Didi, where are you?’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘India has just won the World Cup, after twenty-eight years!’
A full brass band greets me when I alight at Rohini. There are horns and trumpets blaring, and a young boy wearing tricolour face paint doing cartwheels. The streets are jammed with cars and people and the sky is exploding with fireworks. It all seems a blur to me. The celebrations feel hollow, because one resident of the colony is missing. The entire nation has cheered for the Indian cricket team as it battled against Sri Lanka, but there is no one supporting a heroic woman, fighting a much more important battle.
Ma is the only one concerned about Nirmala Ben. ‘Take me to her, beti. I will persuade her to come back.’
‘She’s not prepared to listen to anyone.’
‘Then I will also sit on fast with her.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’ve never told this to anyone, but I owe my life to Nirmala Ben.’
I stare back in surprise. ‘What are you saying?’
‘It’s true. Six weeks ago, my blood sugar suddenly dipped very low and I collapsed in the kitchen. But for Nirmala Ben, who took me to the hospital, I might have died that afternoon.’
‘And you’re telling me all this now?’
‘I didn’t want Neha and you to be needlessly worried.’
‘Why do you always have to be the one carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders?’ I mask my worry with mock irritation. ‘Sometimes I feel you and Nirmala Ben are identical twins, cut from the same cloth.’
Ma wrings her hands. ‘I cannot sleep knowing that I should be with Nirmala.’
Neither can I. The thought of Nirmala Ben lying all alone on the pavement keeps me up all night. I owe her a deeper debt than I thought.
Both Ma and I arise before dawn and take the first metro of the morning to get back on Jantar Mantar Road.
* * *
Yesterday’s protesters are still asleep, wrapped in blankets inside their temporary tents. This motley group of students, traders and housewives do not inspire much confidence. In fact the entire stretch of the road looks less like a showroom of democracy and more like a museum of the powerless.
Nirmala Ben is the only one up and about. She has already finished her daily ablutions at a nearby public toilet and is singing ‘Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram’ when we arrive.
‘Ben, end this stubbornness and return home with us,’ Ma pleads, but she simply smiles.
‘How long can you stay like this without food?’ Ma tries again.
‘As long as I have inner strength. And as long as the government doesn’t respond to my demand.’
‘But the government doesn’t even know about your demand,’ I cry. ‘And what to talk of the government, even the man on the street does not know. A milkman just passed by on his cycle. I asked him if he supported your cause. He said he’s never heard of Atlas Investments.’
‘If you asked him about corruption he would have given you a different answer. Bapu said that truth is by nature self-evident. As soon as you remove the cobwebs of ignorance that surround it, it shines clear. My satyagraha is to wake up the powerless and shame the powerful,’ says Nirmala Ben. ‘You will see how my protest will swell into a movement that will change the course of history.’
I know then that Nirmala Ben will not return to the colony. Animated by a grand grievance and seduced by the grandiose vision of revolution, she will literally fast to death. But her death will be in vain. The powerless of the world can neither change history nor create it. We are condemned simply to study it.
* * *
‘Her blood pressure is rising and her heart rate has increased. It’s not life-threatening yet, but I don’t think she can continue without food much longer. She should call off her fast,’ says the doctor as he packs away his stethoscope and holds out his hand for his visitation fee. I hand him a hundred-rupee note and he shortly disappears into his hole-in-the-wall clinic.
It is Wednesday, 6 April, and Nirmala Ben has not had a morsel of food for four days. Even more worryingly, her protest has found no traction at all. She has attracted a few curious onlookers, but beyond that she could be fasting on the moon. Even the police have stopped bothering her, dismissing her as a crank. The fact is, without a brigade of slogan-shouting supporters and placard-wielding followers, her protest doesn’t resemble a protest at all: it looks like a homeless woman dumped in a corner of the city.
‘Do something, beti, or it might be too late,’ Ma frets. We have worked out an arrangement between us. Ma remains with Nirmala Ben all day and gives her company. I visit her whenever I can spare some time from the showroom, which is just minutes away.
Nirmala Ben has lost some weight but her crusading zeal and her faith in human nature are intact. ‘People will come, eventually,’ she says, still hopeful.
No one comes, of course, but during the lunch break I chance upon Shalini Grover, my friend from Sunlight TV. It turns out that one of the students with the gas masks protesting against pollution in the Yamuna is her nephew.
I look to her for advice. ‘How can we get the word out about Nirmala Ben’s fast?’
‘You have to get TV cameras here,’ she says. ‘That is the only way to start a chain reaction.’
‘Can you come with a camera crew?’
‘We are an investigative channel not a general news channel. And even the news guys don’t cover a protest unless it is significant.’
‘Well, what makes a protest significant?’
‘Either the subject should be catchy, or the numbers should be massive. Have you ever wondered why a thousand journalists cover the glamorous models strutting down the ramp during India Fashion Week, but I was all alone reporting on farmers’ suicides in Vidarbha? Bad news doesn’t sell. Nirmala Ben’s fast against a nebulous front company just isn’t sexy enough. But, if she were to get the women of Delhi to organise a SlutWalk kind of protest march, like the one which took place a couple of days ago in Toronto, it would instantly attract eyeballs and become a media event.’
‘Atlas Investments is only a symbol. Her real target is high-level corruption.’
‘Don’t make me yawn. No one gives a damn for corruption in this country. Half the middle class indulges in bribery and the other half just isn’t bothered to come out on the streets and do something about it.’
‘Don’t you think you are being a bit unfair on the middle class?’ I protest.
‘I’m simply expressing a harsh truth. The middle class doesn’t care about anything – we neither vote nor fight elections – so nobody cares about the middle class.’
The next day also brings no new supporters to the cause. The only change in the situation is that Nirmala Ben’s health deteriorates even further. ‘Her pulse rate is eighty-eight and her blood pressure is a hundred and fifty by ninety. Urgent medical attention might be needed in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Please keep an ambulance on standby,’ says the doctor as he completes her medical examination.
Nirmala Ben has lost over three kilos in the last six days. Her complexion has turned darker because of dehydration, and her face has acquired a dangerous gauntness, emphasised by dark circles under her eyes. She no longer has the strength to sit up all day. Most of the time she is curled up on a sheet. But her mind is still lucid and sharp.
‘Nirmala Ben, please end this madness,’ I implore her. ‘Let’s just accept that we failed this time. You have to live to fight another day.’
‘No,’ she says firmly. ‘Now only my dead body will leave this place.’ Her terrifying fixity of purpose chills me.
Vinay Mohan Acharya comes visiting at noontime. He claims he heard a brief mention about Nirmala Ben’s fast on Sunlight TV. ‘Is this the people’s revolution you were promising me?’ He gazes at the
Gandhian lying all alone. ‘But where are the people?’
‘Nirmala Ben is dying.’ I wring my hands. ‘And no one seems to care.’
‘I told you she would be wasting her time on Atlas.’ He lets out a derisive snort. ‘I, too, tried to be an agent of change, but to usher in a revolution in this country is impossible. History tells us that for a revolution to succeed you need one of two things: either a ruling figure who is universally hated or an opposition figure who is universally liked. In India we have neither. We Indians have neither too much hate nor too much love for anyone.’
‘Is there nothing we can do to galvanise people in support of her cause?’
‘Forget it. People can be galvanised into action only on an issue that touches their heart. And removing corruption, I am sorry to say, is still not an emotive issue with people. They feel it is too pervasive to be removed.’
The industrialist leaves after delivering his homily, but I am not prepared to accept defeat so easily. Back in the showroom, I rack my brains for a solution. I know it is time for a new approach. People will not come on their own to support an unknown woman with no organisational backup. It is a cardinal rule of marketing that you have to build presence in the consumers’ minds before you can get them to buy your product. This is what advertising is all about. But how do you market a protest?
That is when my eyes fall on a giant billboard towering over Jantar Mantar. It shows actress Priya Capoorr, her face glowing brightly, holding up a tube of Amla herbal skin cream. The answer comes to me in a flash: Nirmala Ben, too, needs celebrity endorsement.
I still have the number for Rosie Mascarenhas, the PR manager for the actress. I call her up and explain my proposal. ‘Do you think Priya will agree to say a few words in support of Nirmala Ben’s fast? It’s for a noble cause.’