To my father, Natvar Jamnadas Paleja
1942–2015
“Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.”
—Jawaharlal Nehru, 1947
PROLOGUE
1947
VAROON WAS HALF ASLEEP WHEN his mother scooped him up in her arms and whisked him to her bedroom, where his father was frantically packing a suitcase. Varoon could hear crickets chirping outside the window and smelled smoke in the air. His mother began to help with the luggage.
“Pack all the jewelry. No clothes,” his father said.
“But we should take some clothes. How long will we be gone?” said his mother.
“There’s no time, jaan. If the Muslim League is behind this—we have to leave now!”
Varoon wondered where they were going in the middle of the night. He was about to point out that he was starting school soon. They’d bought him a school uniform, sent it to be laundered and starched. But Varoon was bleary-eyed and yawned while he watched his parents pack. A distant scream made his parents straighten immediately. His father slammed the suitcase shut while his mother scooped Varoon up in her arms again and they ran down the stairs in the dark.
Outside, Varoon could smell smouldering wood. His mother gripped him tight. His father led them to the gardener’s carriage, then whispered, “Wait under here. I’m going to the Desais’. I’ll be right back.”
Varoon had no idea what was happening and began to cry. His mother cupped her hand over his mouth and shushed him. They hid under the gardener’s carriage, behind a wheel with wooden spokes. The red earth they were crouching on smelled chalky. Varoon heard fires crackling. A nearby bungalow was ablaze and its amber flames were sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air.
His mother clutched him closer to her while praying quietly as they hid under the carriage. Om tát savitúr váreṇyaṃ bhárgo devásya dhīmahi dhíyo yó naḥ pracodáyāt Om. It was the gayatri mantra she’d been trying to teach Varoon, which all adolescent Hindu boys are required to learn by rote before their sacred janoi ceremony. Since Varoon was only five years old, he hadn’t yet memorized the entire mantra. His mother had taken the time to explain some of the ancient Sanskrit: Giver of life, Remover of pain and sorrows, Creator of the universe, Thou art most Luminous; We meditate upon thee . . . Varoon couldn’t remember the rest and as he watched his mother pray with her eyes shut he wondered if God could hear her prayers. They were so closely huddled together that Varoon could feel his mother’s heart racing. It was beating so strong he thought it would surely tear through her chest like the goat-skin drum he’d accidentally ruptured a few days ago. His father had warned him several times, “It’s a valuable piece of history—a beautiful heirloom.” Varoon didn’t have the nerve to tell his father how he’d broken it. Instead, he hid the broken drum among dozens of other items his father collected in the shop attached to their large bungalow, where he made fine chairs from local walnut and rosewood.
Under the carriage now, Varoon could hear distant shouts and screams. He was scared and cold and asked, “Can we get my sweater?”
Just then, a Jeep full of men approached and parked. His mother put a finger to her lips to remain quiet. As the men climbed out of the Jeep, she covered Varoon’s eyes. He tried to peer through a tiny chink between his mother’s fingers. It was dark but the fire provided some light. Varoon could make out that the group of men had sticks and machetes. About fifty feet away, they pulled the dhobi walla who worked by the river out of his hut.
Varoon would often meander down to the riverbank, looking for stones to throw into the water. He liked the ripples. He would go to the river where the dhobi walla and his wife laundered clothes by wringing, scrubbing, and beating them against rocks. Just earlier that week the dhobi walla had asked Varoon, “Want to learn a secret trick?”
Varoon had said yes.
The dhobi walla had scoured the riverbank for smooth, flat stones and told Varoon to do the same. The dhobi walla threw a stone into the river, and it did something incredible—it skipped several times over the water. Varoon asked, “Is it magic?”
The dhobi walla had laughed, flashing his white teeth against his dark skin. He taught Varoon how to hold a flat stone and throw it. After half a dozen tries, Varoon was able to make a stone skip.
The dhobi walla’s wife had said, “You’re a clever boy. I can tell you’re going to be a powerful zamindar one day.” Varoon had blushed at the compliment. His family owned a bit of land and employed some farmers.
Now the dhobi walla was kicking and screaming while Varoon and his mother hid quietly, waiting for his father. The men pulled the dhobi walla’s wife from the hut. She fell to her knees, begging, pleading. The dhobi walla was shouting and struggling to get free. Then one of the men stabbed the dhobi walla in the stomach with a knife. His wife shrieked. The man plunged his knife into the dhobi walla again. And again. The wife’s cries pierced the night and made Varoon’s mother’s hand tremble. Varoon only caught glimpses of what happened next. He heard the wife continue to scream while the group of men gathered tightly around her and stripped her of her clothes. She shrieked and with each cry Varoon felt as though he were being kicked in the stomach. The men threw her in the Jeep and her cries faded as the vehicle sped off.
Varoon’s mother was crying now, holding Varoon tightly. She released her grip when she realized that he too was crying silently. Keeping him close to her, she shushed him and kissed him in apology. He could taste salt in her hot tears. The faint scent of white jasmine flowers that she put in her hair every morning after her bath calmed him.
His father returned soon after, breathing hard. He crouched down to speak to Varoon’s mother under the carriage. “Mr. Desai says the Muslim League have paid off the police. No Hindu is safe. There’s a five-thirty train to Amritsar. The Desais have agreed to give us a ride.”
Varoon’s mother said, “What about my parents and sister? I can’t leave without them.”
“But they’re the opposite direction from the train station.”
Even though Varoon was shivering, he noticed his father’s kurta was drenched with sweat. It was the same kurta that the dhobi walla washed every week. He wanted to tell his father about what had just happened to the dhobi walla. What would happen to his wife? But before Varoon could get his thoughts together, his father pulled him out from under the carriage and relented, saying to Varoon’s mother, “Come, let’s get your parents.”
Taking Varoon in his arms, his father ran along with his mother. Over his father’s shoulder Varoon saw the dhobi walla’s lifeless body lying on the ground, his white kurta stained with patches of crimson blood.
When they reached the Desai home, all five Desais were already in the car, ready to leave. Varoon and his parents squeezed into the back seat with the three Desai children, who seemed instantly resentful of the Sharmas. They were all packed together tighter than matchsticks in a new matchbox. With the headlights turned off, they drove in silence. Fires were burning, glowing in the night sky, and the air was permeated with a smoky haze that stung Varoon’s eyes.
When they reached his grandparents’ home, Varoon’s mother ran in and returned quickly, saying to Varoon’s father, “We should go in my parents’ car. They have more room. They just need some time to pack.”
“No,” Varoon’s father said. “They can meet us at the station.”
/> “But it’ll just take a few minutes.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Varoon’s father said.
Suddenly a car pulled up behind and honked, which immediately startled everyone, especially Mr. Desai, who was in the driver’s seat and jumped half a foot in the air.
“It’s just the neighbours,” Varoon’s mother reassured him and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Mr. Desai put the car in gear, turned to Varoon’s father, and said, “We’re leaving now. You choose.”
Varoon’s father hesitated and before he could speak, Mr. Desai began driving.
Varoon’s mother kept up with the car for a few yards, long enough to touch Varoon’s hand through the window, and said, “I’ll be right behind you.”
Varoon’s father leaned out the window and called to his wife, “See you at the station.”
It all happened so quickly. No one had asked Varoon if he’d rather go with his mother and he began to cry. His father held him tight. “Mama will be right behind us. I promise.”
The drive to the station was dark, quiet. Varoon sat on his father’s lap, looking up at the stars and tried to think of the gayatri mantra. Om tát savitúr—but the rest of it escaped him. He tried several times but couldn’t recall any more. Looking at the stars made him think of his kundali, his destiny prediction that a Vedic astrologer had rendered. His mother had tried to explain how wise men could read the position of the stars in the sky at the moment of one’s birth to determine a child’s destiny, but Varoon didn’t understand it. While sitting on his father’s lap now he asked, “Are those the stars that the panditji saw when he made my kundali?”
“Well, yes. But not everyone believes in kundalis. Some people think it’s just silly superstition. I don’t think that the stars all the way up there can tell you what your life will be like. You have the choice to make your life however you want, by your actions.”
At the train station, they scanned the chaotic platform where hundreds of people had either just arrived or were about to depart.
While passengers boarded the train, Varoon and his father remained on the platform. Eventually, the train blew a sharp whistle. Varoon felt a pit begin to form in his stomach. The train lurched into motion. His father picked him up in his arms. The iron wheels crunched the rails underneath. Varoon kicked and screamed in his father’s arms. “Mama! Mama!” They boarded. The train gathered torque and began to accelerate. Varoon kept kicking and screaming while the train chugged out of Lahore Station without his mother. His father held him tight while saying, “She’ll be on the next train,” and then repeated it again, trying to assure himself as much as his son. “She’ll be on the next train.”
Contents
Part I: Anush First Light
Chapter 1: 1983
Chapter 2: 1983
Chapter 3: 1983
Chapter 4: 1984
Chapter 5: 1984
Chapter 6: 1993
Chapter 7: 1995
Chapter 8: 1996
Chapter 9: 1996
Chapter 10: 1997
Chapter 11: 1997
Chapter 12: 1998
Chapter 13: 1998
Chapter 14: 1998
Chapter 15: 1998
Chapter 16: 1998
Chapter 17: 1998
Part II: Jyoti Celestial Glow
Chapter 18: 1997
Chapter 19: 1997
Chapter 20: 1997
Chapter 21: 1997
Chapter 22: 1997
Chapter 23: 1997
Chapter 24: 1997
Chapter 25: 1997
Chapter 26: 1997
Chapter 27: 1997
Part III: Varoon Luminous Brilliance
Chapter 28: 1964
Chapter 29: 1965
Chapter 30: 1965
Chapter 31: 1965
Chapter 32: 1965
Chapter 33: 1965
Chapter 34: 1965
Chapter 35: 1967
Chapter 36: 1973
Chapter 37: 1984
Part IV: Incandescent Coruscation
Chapter 38: Deepa 1998
Chapter 39: Varoon 1998
Chapter 40: Deepa 1998
Chapter 41: Anush 1998
Chapter 42: Jyoti 1998
Chapter 43: Anush 1998
Chapter 44: Anush 1998
Chapter 45: Jyoti 1998
Chapter 46: Anush 1999
Acknowledgements
About the Author
-1-
1983
SUNLIGHT FILED ANUSH’S ROOM AS his mother, Anju, pulled the curtains open and said, “Wake up, wake up, my morning star. It’s a special day today.”
Anush moaned, “But it’s summer holidays. No school today.” He and his cousin Paresh had been playing till late in the night with Anush’s new football in the back courtyard.
His mother yanked at the soft cotton sheets but Anush resisted. Eventually his mother relented the tug-of-war and lay next to him. She began to trace circles on his back, then letters that spelled his name. It was a long-established ritual from Anush’s childhood that had somehow lingered and even though Anush was now nearly ten years old, he savoured this habit. On school days, there was never enough time in the mornings to indulge like this. When he was younger and had nightmares or couldn’t sleep, his mother sang him a song from a popular romance, Kabhie Kabhie, starring Amitabh, Anush’s favourite Bollywood hero. As he lay on his stomach she’d lightly trace his name on his back with her fingertip while reciting verses. But last year he’d overheard his father complain to his mother, “A nine-year-old boy needing his mother every time he wakes up in the night?” Anush was aware of the insinuation that he lacked courage, but he liked the way his mother’s hair smelled faintly of coconut oil—it never failed to soothe him. Her voice was so tranquil and sweet when she sang quietly to him:
Kabhi kabhi, mere dil mein, khayaal aata hai . . .
Sometimes, in my heart a feeling emanates
As though you’ve been created just for me;
Before this, you existed among the stars somewhere,
And now, you’ve been called down to earth only for me . . .
The song had a special meaning because she’d explained to him when he was younger, “Your name, Anush, means beautiful morning star.”
After humming a verse now, Anju whispered in her son’s ear, “Remember, your father is expecting you to be on your best behaviour today for the guests this evening.”
All of a sudden, Anush was reminded of the report card that he’d kept hidden from his father, who had warned that if better grades were not achieved, Anush would be sent to a boarding school. Anush was waiting to give him the report card later that evening, when he would be in a good mood from the whisky with his friends.
Later, after breakfast, when Anush was playing with his new football in the drawing room, he heard his mother from the kitchen. “Anush! Don’t play football in the house!”
He was forbidden to play indoors, but he also knew his mother was busy in the kitchen making preparations for the big dinner that evening with Colonel Advani and other important guests. Anush had just smuggled a few ice cubes from the freezer into his water glass—something he was also forbidden to do this late in the afternoon as the ice was reserved for the guests’ drinks that evening and because of the summer heat it took a full eight hours for the water to freeze solid. His mother was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, cutting slits into small eggplants, which Chottu, the head servant, stuffed with a dry mixture of tamarind, red chilli, turmeric, cumin, coriander, and poppy seeds before they would be sautéed in oil with garlic, ginger, and onions.
The ceiling fan above provided little comfort from the summer heat—the fan only swirled around the heavy, humid air, which was why Anush preferred playing in the breezy drawing room by the large bay window.
“Anush, will you please come help? There’s lots to be done before the guests arrive.”
“But, Ma, I’m practicin
g for the game in the back courtyard this afternoon,” Anush said from the drawing room, trying to keep the football in the air using only his knees.
“No but-ma fut-ma. No football in the house.”
Anush had broken two glasses earlier that week, but now he was on a roll. Once he got past his old record of fourteen he got excited and lost count. Each consequent knee bump was slightly less controlled, sending the football into higher and wider arcs, making Anush follow the ball around the drawing room. It was sheer luck that he kept going as long as he did, but somewhere in the early twenties the football butted against a plate of tomatoes on the dining table and sent it smashing to the floor.
“Anush!” his mother cried.
Anush was already sprinting to the front door, keen to make a quick escape. In the outer hall, he buzzed for the lift.
The lift at Sea Face Terraces, like most residential buildings in Bombay, wasn’t automated and required an operator. On each floor, you could see through the slits in the collapsible iron gate and hear the buzzer as it rang in the lift and reverberated through the shaft.
The morning lift boy was new. A few years older than Anush, he was in his teens—a thin, dark-skinned boy trying to grow a moustache. No one knew him by name; everyone simply referred to him as “Lift Boy.”
Anush rang the buzzer, but the lift boy didn’t come right away so Anush kept the buzzer ringing. The bell echoed up the long shaft. There was no reason the minion should be taking this long, Anush thought, and kept the buzzer ringing even after the lift arrived to the ninth floor. It was a standoff: Anush would not stop ringing the buzzer until the lift boy opened the gate, and the lift boy would not open the gate until Anush stopped ringing the buzzer. The lift boy said, “The lift doesn’t go faster if you keep pressing the buzzer.”
Anush hated being condescended to. Didn’t the lift boy know Anush lived on the top floor in the largest flat? That his father was Varoon Sharma? The building president? The richest man in the building? And how dare this peasant imply that Anush was stupid?
Anush gave the collapsible iron gate a swift kick to put the lift boy in his place and said, “Open it, gandu!”
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 1