by Javier Moro
At night, Rajiv shut himself in his workshop and got in touch with radio hams all over the world. He had bought a radio transmitter in a self-assembly kit and nothing made him happier than to connect up with Pier Luigi, Sonia’s childhood friend back there in Orbassano, on clear nights without any interference. Protected by anonymity, talking by radio with people all over the world was another way of travelling and, at the same time, forgetting who he was and relaxing.
On February 16th, 1980, one month after Indira’s swearing in, an extraordinary phenomenon occurred in India which had not been seen for almost a century: a total eclipse of the sun. Rajiv set up a telescope in the garden, helped by Rahul and Priyanka, who were very excited about the idea. In addition they had special dark glasses, which Rajiv had obtained from a pilot colleague. Sanjay amused himself adjusting the controls of a radio-controlled plane. His liking for making model aeroplanes had developed after the government took away his pilot’s licence without giving any reason. Now he was waiting to get it back in order to return to what had become his favourite hobby: flying. Long forgotten now was his passion for cars, buried by the Maruti fiasco. Pupul, who had been invited by her friend to see the event, was drinking a cup of tea on the veranda. When the time for the eclipse approached, Indira, influenced by the gloomy predictions of well-known astrologers who had announced earthquakes, floods and disasters of all kinds, sent Maneka to her room. Considered as a direct threat to the unborn child, no pregnant woman should be exposed to its evil influence. Even in matters that had nothing to do with politics, Indira was in touch with her electorate. Most people chose to hide in their huts. Hindus do not go out during eclipses since they are considered harmful because symbolically, the light is hidden. Some fasted, others made offerings or recited mantras to ward off the danger. When the moon began to hide the sun, a mysterious light enveloped the house and garden and the shadows disappeared. Indira stood up and went to lock herself in her room until the end of the eclipse. Her guru, Brahmachari, had told her that the eclipse was especially dangerous for her and for Sanjay, and she preferred to believe him. Rajiv, Sonia and the children, all with dark glasses on, watched in ecstasy as the moon passed in front of the sun. Pupul followed Indira to her room. “This was not the strong Indira of the days before the state of emergency,” she thought. “It surprised me how influenced she was by ritual and superstition. What was she afraid of? What shadow, what darkness walked beside her?”
The following months were marked by family harmony and happiness at enjoying a normal life again. The attention that Maneka received from her mother-in-law, her sister-in-law and her husband, who went with her to all the checkups because he said that she was terrified of physical suffering, made her feel like a queen. Just like his brother Rajiv, Sanjay joined in the whole process of the birth. Firoz Varun was born on March 13th, 1980 with no complications. He was the icing on the cake in the family’s improved fortunes. From that moment on, the spirited Maneka began to enjoy her role as mother and wife, advised by Sonia, on whose shoulders the early care of the baby fell. Indira was so happy that she had him in her room so she could sleep with him. She did not care if she did not sleep a wink.
Once again, because of his closeness to his mother, Sanjay enjoyed irresistible power. He was involved in all aspects of life in India, from the capital’s air corridors to the congestion in the hospitals, from plans for rural development to the protection of animals, a favourite cause into which his wife had dragged him. Word went in New Delhi that before a year was out he would be Prime Minister, but his mother was not prepared to allow that. When the members of the legislative assembly of the Congress Party in Uttar Pradesh chose Sanjay as their leader, they asked Indira to name him head of the government of that state, the largest in the country. Maneka could already see herself enjoying the perks that came with that job, including living in a palace full of servants. But Indira refused point blank. She told her son’s admirers that he still had a lot to learn before he could take on a responsibility like that. Sanjay protested and argued with his mother, but she did not give way. In the end, he calmed down and did not insist any longer.
Although he was still surrounded by a court of flatterers, Sanjay was not the same man as he was before. Even his detractors began to admit that, in effect, he possessed qualities that the country needed in that difficult situation. They recognized his enormous capacity for work and his proven ability to take tough, unpopular decisions. In fact, what was happening to him was what had happened to his grandfather, Nehru and to Indira. Everyone in the family had taken a long time to mature as adults, and had done so after facing great challenges. At the age of thirty-three, Sanjay was on his way to becoming a responsible man, without the stridency or aberrant behaviour of the past. His mother was convinced that, after a good political apprenticeship, her son would go from being an inexpert and impulsive young man to a visionary and energetic politician. He had all the genes to achieve that, she thought. The incredible thing is that many people in India also thought the same, something that was unthinkable only six months earlier. Either the country had lost its memory or the pull of the Gandhis among the people was still the only chance of salvation for millions of Indians.
Rajiv, Sonia and their children spent those months dreaming about the holidays. They had decided to spend a few days in Italy, and were thinking of doing it in June, when the heat is at its worst in New Delhi. They intended to meet up there with their friend, the Indian actor Kabir Bedi, who in those years was known all over the world for his starring role in the Sandokan series, and who had promised to visit them. In addition, this time they were thinking of driving round the north of Italy. They intended to hire a car and visit the region of Asiago and the village of Lusiana, where Sonia had been born. She wanted to show the children the place where she had been brought up, introduce them to the locals and the relatives that were still left there. A journey into the other family roots.
The day they left, before they said goodbye, Maneka showed Sonia a bag, which contained something she had bought, with the idea of using it.
“You aren’t going to believe it…”
“What is it?” asked Sonia, intrigued.
Maneka took a cookery book out of the bag. They both burst into laughter. It was the last time they would be seen laughing together.
26
If it had not been interrupted, that would have been a perfect holiday: relaxed, fun and interesting. The children perfected their Italian, Sonia got on with her shopping for European clothes and Rajiv did the same with his photographic material. In the end, they did not even have to hire a car: Sonia’s sister, Anushka, lent them a convertible that was the delight of the children. In it, they toured the north of Italy, in the opposite direction to that of the patriarch, Stefano, when he had left his home town of Lusiana in search of a better future in the industrial belt of Turin. Thirty-five years later, his daughter and grandchildren were returning to the Asiago mountains, like a normal Italian family on holiday. On the way, they stopped at beautiful Lake Garda, surrounded by olive groves, fields of lemon trees and thick cypress woods; they walked around Verona along the wide streets of red marble, were seduced by the charm of Venice and bathed on the beaches of the Adriatic. They went up the Asiago mountains through a countryside that reflected the splendour of spring. Mauve, white and yellow wild flowers grew at the side of the road that wound among beech woods. The fields where the cows grazed were swathed in an intense green colour and in the background the Alps reminded them of the view of the Himalayas from the plains. In Lusiana, the village the family came from, the air was so crystal clear that it made them feel like drinking it in. The temperature was perfect. And to think that now in Delhi, grandma, uncle and aunt and especially little Firoz would be putting up with temperatures of 45º in the shade while they waited for the rains to come! From the car, Priyanka and Rahul laughed when they read the signs over the shops: “Maino Bakery”, “Maino Trattoria”, “Café Maino”, “Maino Bros. Petro
l Station”… How the different branches of the family had prospered since the time after the war! thought Sonia. They were welcomed with great affection and curiosity: everyone wanted to meet the prodigal daughter of the town whose extraordinary destiny they followed in the Press. They were all surprised by the same thing: the family’s simplicity. Sonia was dressed with good taste, in tight trousers and sleeveless T-shirts, a luxury that she could not allow herself in India, where a woman could show her belly but it was considered poor taste if she showed her shoulders. They had photos taken outside the stone family home, the last house in Via Maino. It had stood uninhabited for three decades. They were treated like royalty, to such an extent that they had no time to accept all the invitations and all the visits.
They went back to Orbassano, where Stefano and Paola were waiting eagerly for them. They had been so worried when they followed the turn of events in India during recent years that now they felt a pang in their hearts every time their daughter and their grandchildren went away, even if it was only to the Veneto, or just to spend the afternoon in Turin. Added to that disquiet was the worry they felt for their youngest daughter, Nadia, who had married a Spanish diplomat who had just been stationed in New Delhi. On one hand, they were happy because the two sisters were going to be able to keep each other company; on the other hand, they did not like having them so far away. They joked that they could not escape the karma of India. The eldest daughter, Anushka, who lived in the flat in the lower part of the house on Via Bellini, intended to open an Indian handicrafts shop in a shopping centre near Orbassano. She had called her eldest daughter Aruna.
Rahul and Priyanka were happy to return to their grandparents’ house because their cousins, Anushka’s children, lived downstairs, so the children had a wonderful time in that large family house, playing in the garden or the street. They played the same as Sonia when she was a girl, when she wrote the days of the week in chalk on the road and spent hours hopping from one box to the next. Stefano felt very happy with those family gatherings. He had built the house to have all his daughters and their families under one roof, hadn’t he? They joked that he must have been Indian in another life as all the family liked India so much… Sonia’s old acquaintances were surprised that their old friend should still have such a humble attitude and dressed so simply, with only small, discreet jewellery. One local lady said laughingly, “The Cinderella of Orbassano didn’t let the marriage she made go to her head”. That is how the local press described her since her marriage: “the Cinderella of Orbassano”, a name that made Sonia feel embarrassed: “How twee,” she said. For Rajiv too the holiday in Italy was the best relaxation he could have wished for. Getting away from New Delhi was a luxury. Jumping on Pier Luigi’s orange Vespa and going to the Allegro electronics shop in Corso Rei Umberto to buy parts for his radio that he could not find in India and not being recognized was a pleasure, as was visiting the fabulous Egyptian Museum—where Sonia, as a teenager, used to meet up with her friends to get out of the cold in the streets—without being immediately surrounded by a mass of people asking for an autograph or pointing at them. But the pleasure would not last long. At the end of June, Sandokan’s visit to Orbassano caused a real stir. Suddenly the children and young people of the town came to Via Bellini to have a close look at this prince of Borneo who had sworn revenge on the British in the imagination of Emilio Salgari. There was such a fuss that Sonia suggested they leave the house. They ended the evening in a pizzeria in the nearby town of Avigliana, happy and laughing.
And suddenly, at dawn on June 23rd, the phone rang. Sonia felt a knot in her stomach. It was not a normal time, and she immediately thought it could be a call from India. Her mother confirmed it, on tiptoe and in a whisper, in order not to wake the rest of the family. “It’s a long-distance call… from New Delhi.” Sonia got up, wrapped her dressing gown about her and went into the sitting room to pick up the phone. Amid all the interference, she recognized the nervous voice of one of her mother-in-law’s secretaries. Now she was certain that it would be very bad news. “Madam… Sanjay has had an accident… He’s dead.” Sonia’s mind went blank and she did not hear the hurried explanations the secretary gave her. When she hung up she was stunned. She went back to their room. Rajiv was stirring. She waited a few moments to tell him, as though she wanted to give him a few more seconds of happiness that she knew, once he was awake, he would not see again. In the deepest part of her being, Sonia knew that this catastrophe was going to affect her life and that of her family profoundly.
A few hours later, they were flying towards Rome on their way to catch the Air India flight that went from London to New Delhi. They travelled in first class, together with other friends and acquaintances, among whom were Maneka’s mother and sister, whose holiday in the English capital had been interrupted. Also on board the plane there was an ex-minister, an industrialist and a businessman, all of them old family friends and very upset by the circumstances. Each of them had got hold of information about the accident and during the long flight they were able to work out what had happened.
Sanjay had crashed at the controls of his latest toy, the Pitts S-2A, which he had acquired thanks to the mediation of the corrupt guru, Brahmachari. At seven o’clock in the morning, he had turned up at the New Delhi flying club and had invited a pilot friend out for some acrobatic exercises. His friend was unwilling to fly with Sanjay because he knew he lacked experience, but in view of his insistence, he ended up agreeing. They were doing loops in the sky and diving over New Delhi for twelve minutes, then they flew over number 1 Safdarjung Road, where he had been talking to his mother barely an hour earlier.
“Be very careful,” Indira had told him. “They tell me you’re very rash…”
“Don’t take any notice,” Sanjay had answered.
According to a witness, the plane went up into the sky like an arrow and then began a dive as though it was preparing to do a loop, but it could not recover. It crashed in the diplomatic district, on some empty land, less than a kilometre from number 12, Willingdon Crescent.
A month before, the director general of Civil Aviation had informed his superiors that Sanjay persistently violated the security protocol and was therefore putting his life and the lives of others at risk.
“The director of aviation told the Air Force Minister, who agreed to talk to your mother about it, but, for whatever the reason, he did not.”
“If no one did anything, it was out of fear of going against Sanjay, I imagine…” said Rajiv.
Later they would find out what had happened exactly. The report from the director of civil aviation had fallen into Sanjay’s hands and he had reacted, in his usual way, by forcing the man to take voluntary leave without pay. He had replaced him with his second-in-command, a malleable man who would not give him any problems. The fact is that Sanjay had died because he was rash and arrogant, because his thirst for power was such that it accepted no limits.
Nightfall in flight was very quick, because of the speed of the plane and because of the rotation of the Earth. They must have been over Syria, or perhaps Turkey. Below, turquoise-coloured lakes could be seen and the little lights of the cities as they embraced the night. No one was watching the film. No one in the group of friends and relatives wanted to eat a thing. Amteshwar, Maneka’s mother, was visibly upset. “A widow at 23… and with a three-month old baby,” the woman kept saying. In under three years she had lost her husband and her son-in-law. She had gone from being at the top to being ostracized, and then back to the top again… And now what would happen?
“You have to do all you can to keep the families united,” the three family friends advised Maneka’s mother. “Now that Sanjay isn’t here, you have to close ranks around Rajiv.”
Sonia’s hair stood on end when she heard that being said. She was about to shout “No!” loudly, but she stopped herself. She knew they would try to persuade Rajiv to fill the vacuum his brother had left. Sonia was very clear about it: that meant the end of their happine
ss. She was prepared to fight tooth and nail to prevent that happening.
The plane landed in Delhi at two in the morning. A wave of intense heat welcomed them. The funeral chapel had been set up in the Safdarjung Road house where a line of people—ministers, friends, strangers—had filed past the remains throughout the day, silently and in good order. Indira, very nervous, had been going from one room to another all night long asking if there was any news of the travellers, because subconsciously she was afraid that another misfortune could occur.
Rajiv, Sonia and the children had already been informed of what they were going to find but even so the shock of arriving home in those circumstances was terrible for them. When they saw Sanjay’s body lying in a coffin in the sitting room, among those walls that still seemed to echo with the sound of his nervous, open laugh, Rajiv and Sonia went to pieces. And when Indira saw Rajiv crying disconsolately, she also broke into sobs. Once she recovered her serenity, Sonia observed Indira: her eyes were red and swollen behind her dark glasses, her complexion was ashen, and she walked with a stoop as though she found it hard to stand upright. “Where am I to go after this, daughter?” she asked her in a ragged voice. As she said it she pressed her hands over her stomach, in a gesture that poor peasant women make when they weep for their dead. They embraced again and stayed like that in silence a long time. Less than ten days previously, Indira had set Sanjay up in his first official office, after naming him secretary general of the party. Now, suddenly, there was only a dead body lying there: she had been left without her son, without a companion, without an advisor and without a successor. Then Sonia saw Maneka, whose movements seemed disconnected. She had spent the whole day crying and repeating: “Sanjay no, please… Anyone but not Sanjay…” Rajiv hugged her and said a few affectionate words to her. Sonia too could not hold back the tears when she hugged her. The children, tired and upset, took it all stoically. The distant crying of their cousin, little Firoz, broke the silence.