These days I am reading a book titled Reduced to Ashes by a Vienna-based human rights expert. Within its pages I found something I did not know, and it made me feel lucky, because my father was able to generate ten lakh rupees for the Inspector General of Police to secure my release. Thousands of innocent people ‘disappeared’ then and the police killed thousands in custody and carried out secret cremations. Vienna-based Ram Narayan Kumar spent the last two decades of his life uncovering the truth about the secret crematoriums. The police, he writes, also created a climate of moral revulsion, sometimes they would themselves engineer heinous crimes – just like the terrorist – killing innocent people.
Sometimes a feeling grows within me to stop everything and scream like the magic-realist dwarf narrator in that German novel called The Tin Drum. Scream and shatter all things made of brittle glass. The body that they tortured is still within me. Sometimes it dissolves completely and it feels as if the process of dissolution is irreversible, but then it swells again, becomes bigger than me. I don’t want to stay like this for the rest of my nights. I want the swelling to shrink, to metamorphose into an invisible dot, I want the weight within me to become weightless, I want to experience weightlessness.
Not a single year goes by when I don’t encounter a person from the diaspora who claims that ‘you Sikhs deserved what you got’. ‘Achha hua.’ Huge violence in those two words. Often such characters are highly educated professionals. When I narrate the short version of my story their eyes pop out – but we never meet again.
What hurts me more than anything else is that my father never painted after we moved to Chicago; he grew his beard long, but never recovered from the shock. He drove a cab and that is how he raised me. He gave up what he loved the most, he had rebelled against his family members to study the visual arts, and he gave it up to drive a cab. No more Picasso, Matisse, Lady in Moonlight, Jamini Roy, Karkhana paintings. He purged art from his everyday life. Even the cab stopped after thirteen or fourteen years, he aged before his time, he would stammer, and lost the use of both hands, he was unable to apply torque with his fingers, unable to unbutton his shirts, unable to put socks on by himself and tie shoelaces. I feel like writing my own book and dedicating it to him. The narrator would completely repress his painful memories; he speaks the language of silence. But silence is not a real language. My father was like that, and I don’t want to become him.
Next day, after a lot of unnecessary resistance, I took a taxi to Trilokpuri slum. The clean-shaven, dishevelled cab driver was around sixty years old and carrying more wrinkles than he deserved. An entire era was visible within the confines of that rugged face. He was a bit puzzled when I mentioned the destination. We passed by a big DLF mall and an ice factory, and just before the zebra crossing he accelerated. I don’t recall how our conversation turned to 1984. Bodies on fire. Generating ash and grit. The carcasses . . . He told me stuff that in essence resembled the account in the disintegrating paper cutting, the one I stole from the archives. Sitting in the cab, I thought back to my days in Shimla and the abrupt return to Delhi. The previous night in the hotel sauna I’d had a similar conversation with a rich old man. The temperature set at eighty-two degrees Celsius. Only the facts matter, the 65-year-old had said in a calm and collected manner, his towel as white as mine. His loose, flabby skin absorbed the same fragrant eucalyptus oil vapour, and the heat of the rocks. The more ‘facts’ he narrated, the more agitated he grew, his language more vulgar. We were the only two in the sauna. He checked if I understood Hindi. Chaurasi, he said. Tattey kaat deney chahiye thhey sab saalon kay? We should have chopped their balls off then? . . . Only then I understood. Did you see it from up close? I asked. He paused. Were you part of the mob? Did you burn a Sikh? He was sweating, but not because of what I asked. Slowly he turned his neck in my direction. Young man, all I can say is that the motherfuckers didn’t get enough.
The cabbie was driving at near Mach speed. I asked him to turn back just before the bridge over Yamuna River and make towards an alternative destination. ‘Home’. No longer my home. Amrita Sher-Gil Marg was no longer my marg. Red tiles, and thriving aeroelastic palm trees. A thought flashed inside my liquidating brain. What if? What if? The man dropped me, and within an instant, seeing large numbers of police guards by the gates, fled without payment. There I spent a few minutes with the well-tended plants in my father’s garden. The creeper on the brick wall had no roots just like old times; it derived nourishment from the particles of soil trapped inside the cracks. Our old gardener saluted me and carried on watering the patch of yellow hibiscus. I borrowed a cigarette and smoked. One never forgets no matter how long the gap of time. Then I walked into my father’s study, and scanned the books he surrounded himself with, the study where he translated my myths, or ignored them; this is where Father kept his diaries, the daily orders he received and the actions he took. Inspired by the legendary officer DGP Rustomji my father had started keeping thick diaries, and they were meticulously labelled. All the diaries were there. Only 1984 was missing. Why in his retired life was it missing?
On his desk, a Rubik’s cube and letters. One of them from Clara. It was open and I was tempted, but I know all the polite meaningless words Clara mails him in that old-fashioned way now and then. She maintains a correspondence with him; my estranged wife and my father have formed a mutual admiration club and exchange polite meaningless words every couple of months. She believes my problems with him are ‘normal’ and ‘usual’ problems ‘normal people’ have with normal parents or the older generation. She has no idea that being the son of a mass murderer is a dreadful condition. She has no idea.
Now that I think about it I decided to meet Father purely for the sake of maintaking my sanity. It was impossible to move forward without a brief encounter. If someone were to ask me: How did it go?, the first thing my body would do in response to that question is to shake mildly, not violently; the mildness would tell my interlocutor the intense hatred I feel, revealing also the truth hard to admit. That I must have loved him in a different season.
He was not home. My quick-witted aunt, who cooked for him and controlled his drinks (and she was still a little in love with him, and I could not understand how anyone could harbour such feelings) told me that Father had gone to the Doordarshan TV Channel to participate in a panel. Is the show today? It is on the security of the international athletes expected to attend the Commonwealth Games. I don’t know when they will air it. I turned on the TV. A panel was discussing censorship and art – the ninety-year-old painter (the Picasso of India) had been forced out of the country by men who belonged to the Hindu Party. Men in sinister khaki shorts, religious extremists, had slashed and destroyed two more canvases of his. The Picasso of India had ‘offended’ their so-called sentiment by undressing the gods and goddesses. The Picasso of India was unable to find an inch of space to hide himself in the whole of India. The TV camera focused on an overdressed liberal who was verbally attacking a right-winger. My aunt checked if I was going to join them for dinner. Don’t wait for me, I said. I got the car keys from her. Then I drove towards the Doordarshan TV building. Normally I don’t drive when in Delhi but that day the fear of the Indian roads disappeared. I drove carefully and carelessly (establishing my own rules), and that is the proper way to drive in the city of cows, jams and Bentleys. Delhi makes one a child again. Even the toll highways are bumper-car rides. The pedestrians? An afterthought for urban planners. In twenty-five minutes I made it to the Doordarshan parking lot. Full. I paid extra money to get in. From where I planted myself I could see Father’s car; the driver waved at me, and walked up close. Sa’ab is inside. ‘Yes, I know.’ Now I have to make a request: ‘when Papa comes out don’t tell him I am here, just go on driving wherever he is headed and don’t mention me.’ He gave me an odd look. Do as I say. Twenty or thirty minutes later Father walked out of the building, stick in his hand, but he really didn’t need it, he uses the stick like a bandmaster. He was not alone. Father was accompanie
d by a serving police officer; the two men entered the car chattering cheerfully. I followed. Behind the car was a security jeep. The car was headed to the airport. Before the exit to the terminals the car took a detour and made it towards Gurgaon. Then the service road to the statue. It didn’t take me long to understand.
The car stopped in front of the eighty-foot-high statue of Shiva. The monument of excess. Thermodynamics of new materials and materialism. A strong, reinforced god, looking authentically metallic with a little help from car paint.
From the parking area the two men followed the concrete path to the base of the statue. My father in civilian clothes, stick in hand. His companion, ten or fifteen years younger, in IPS ceremonial dress (khaki tunic, tie, belt, hat). I observed them from a distance.
They sat, the two dwarfs, next to concrete Shiva and watched the planes land just across the highway. The new terminal at the Indira Gandhi International Airport was ready. This is where Commonwealth athletes from seventy-one countries (ex-colonies) were going to land in the near future.
From the parking lot I marvelled at drive-by religion, and I marvelled at the tourists, picnickers, stalled motorcycle-wallahs and other devotees. They stood little chance of gaining proximity to the god; the ones closest were the birds. On Shiva’s hand, arm, snake, drum, trishul and fluted hair. Rose-ringed parakeets, pigeons, sparrows.
Twenty minutes later I stepped out of the car and walked slowly on sharp pebbles. The guard came after me. ‘Sa’ab, you forgot to lock.’ I used the remote control to lock the vehicle and resumed my walk to the giant foot of Shiva. Behind the statue the sun shone brightly. I looked up and up. God. There was a strange glint in those dark blue eyes. Two starlings circled and swooped around Shiva’s head before vanishing in his copper-sulphatish tresses. Father was a bit surprised. He didn’t hug (he rarely hugged me in public), and of course we did not have a model father–son relationship.
He introduced me to the IPS officer. ‘My son’.
‘Exactly like you.’
‘How is Father?’
‘Son, we just did a panel for the Doordarshan TV. How happy I am to be alive to witness this moment, this airport. This new terminal is nearly ready and, you see, our subway system is the best in the world . . . The panel was on the security of approximately seven thousand athletes . . . Our new Commissioner of Delhi Police –’ he patted the IPS officer on his back – ‘was there! He is a lucky fellow, he will provide holistic security. No such opportunity presented itself when I was active in service.’
But you did get the opportunity, Father, and you were a disaster. I wanted to press charges. It was not the right moment. Father and I for a long time were not able to have any meaningful conversation because he would not listen to me and slowly I stopped listening to him.
‘Sir, I will make a move,’ said the new police commissioner. He saluted the old man and extended his hand towards me, and although I had nothing against the new chief I felt I was shaking hands with the Devil.
Father used his cellphone and asked the driver to drop the new hero at his bungalow.
Suddenly he looked frail and weak. No longer ‘significant’. But he has always looked terribly significant, even in old photos.
‘How is your health, Father?’
‘Nothing wrong with me, son. I am more worried about you. Do you remember? It was your mother’s anniversary last week. I called several times, left three or four messages. You didn’t even bother to return my calls. Are you still upset? Why didn’t I inform you about my surgery? Why didn’t I write to you before the operation was over? But, son, you would not have come anyway, you didn’t even come home for your own mother’s cremation.’
I felt like crying.
‘Keep Mother out of this.’
Father was tactful.
‘Is IIT keeping you busy?’
‘If you don’t need me here, then–’
‘Son, let’s have Scotch tonight. I do need your assistance. There is a girl.’
‘A girl?’
‘She is around thirty-two years old. A journalist. She has been after my blood regarding my alleged role.’
‘Your role in what?’
‘Remember ’84? In the month of December, gas leaked in Bhopal. The Union Carbide, it turns out, got the license to set up a pesticide plant with flawed and obsolete design, unfit for Virginia, during Indra Gandhi’s Emergency years. A few journalists are tracking everyone down who played any role, any small role, in facilitating the release of the CEO of Union Carbide. Warren Anderson. That man has blood on his hands. Bhopal was our country’s tragedy, bigger than 9/11, and we allowed Warren Anderson to flee. He lives in a big mansion in Long Island somewhere. All I did was follow the PM’s and the CM’s orders.’
‘And there are reports, Father, about your involvement in the anti-Sikh massacres?’
‘Oh, the Sikhs we can handle, but the Carbide case is bigger. I want you to help me. Last time you asked me if I wanted to emigrate to the US; I declined. What would I do there? But I have changed my mind. When are you headed back? I have a tourist visa anyway. We can leave at the same time.’
‘Father, will you give me time to think?’
‘What do you mean? If you need money, we can sell the house. Son, it’s yours anyway. It is, as you well know, worth a lot of money.’
There was a long pause.
‘Raj, I’ll help you raise your daughters. It is time you went back to your family. Clara is a kind-hearted, beautiful woman. It is time you stopped living recklessly.’
‘Reckless? That is the wrong word, Father. I would like to drive with you. I want to show you something really shitty and reckless. Please sit with me in the car, and we will drive around the city. That’s all. Lunch is on me (and I promise we will drink Scotch in the evening). In fact you will need a lot of Scotch. But first we will go across the river. Not far from the new stadium under construction for the Commonwealth Games. Tell your driver we don’t need him any more.’
‘I am glad you have started driving.’
‘It had to begin some day.’
And I drove him to the other side of Yamuna. The river looked tense, the volume of plastic and toxins more than water. My father knows most of the roads of Delhi and on the way he kept reciting their names, even the one named after the most intolerant Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb. Father feels rooted only in Delhi, and spouts a lot of trivia. He pointed out an unusual tree, one with red buds. They are ready, he said, ready to open and astonish with the beauty of their blossoms. More roundabouts reeled behind us. ‘Son, Delhi is inclement weather for trees and despite that they continue their business.’ My father, my navigator. We zipped past Type III flats, and then the road was empty. It felt strange. In Delhi the roads are never empty. ‘Son, there are powers in this world who don’t want India to become a superpower, they don’t want to see us becoming a permanent member of the United Nations Security Council. In the larger scheme of things all of these small issues from the past are raised to dismiss, diminish and disempower us.’
‘When I was a child, remember, you helped me prepare for the school UN exams?’
The memory surged out of me without proper processing.
‘Yes, you had to learn by heart all the data, when the UN was formed, and the names of the secretary generals.’
‘Do you recall my performance?’
‘How can I forget! You stood second in the exam.’
‘I was very worried I had not stood first, and I delayed returning home. I intentionally missed the school bus. The peon, by mistake, locked me in the classroom. You came to the school to collect me. I was still crying because I had come second, I had made a serious error. I hugged you outside the classroom and cried more. I had misspelled him. Kurt . . . Kurt Waldheim of Austria.’
‘Yes, he later on became the President of Austria.’
‘Well, turned out that Kurt Waldheim was a Nazi, Papa.’
‘I never heard.’
‘Of course. But
it matters to me.’
‘Did I say it didn’t matter?’
‘If they gave you a UN position would you accept it, Papa?’
Helium Page 21