We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  —Come to deliver a gift to the hosts. Koi hai? he says.

  —Nahinji. Surendraji is in Mumbai, Radha and Gargi Madam have gone to the north. Jivan Sir is with them.

  —I have brought Ranjit Sahib, he says.

  —Where are we? says Ranjit.

  At his voice, the chaukidar takes a step back. O! he says. Grins. Then, the gates swing open.

  Rudra takes the perimeter road to his father’s cabana. They pass no one; the smog has settled low over the ground and the car lights bounce off it, casting every tree and shrub into a many-fingered demon. Why does he expect to see the whole place ransacked? The grass is a neatly trimmed. The little flowers in pots and tubs are freshly watered. Over there a piece he had forgotten – a red sandstone sculpture from fifth century Uttar Pradesh, the boar avatar of Vishnu, rescuing the Earth in the form of a sunken woman, lost at the bottom of the sea – still presides over a pristine, lunar strangeness.

  He settles Ranjit on the outside porch. It is swept, the glass-topped table empty but for a crystal ashtray holding a box of Company matches, placed to instructions on its short side, contents waiting to burn. Inside, the rich smell of leather polish and dried roses soothes him, and he thinks of the food he will order, the drinks he can drink again. The soft bed is waiting: in an hour he could be clean, be full, be asleep. He opens the second bedroom cupboard. Finds a wool suit and a linen one, looped with a striped collegiate tie, hanging in dry-cleaners’ bags.

  He prowls up and down, not speaking; he stands for a moment in the dark panelled lounge, turning on the television, catching a Star Plus serial, switch, an add for a skin lightening face cream, switch, a new type of refrigerator complete with happy Bibi, keeping the goods fresh for longer, switch, a new kind of paint for the outside of the house that keeps itself clean, switch, some kids in Benetton brights, jumping fully clothed off a pier into the sea, to the slogan, Inko InCo pasand hai! Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun!

  Inhe, Jeet thinks; even the slogan is corrupt – the first word should be Inhe. He switches again: to a Hollywood film about the end of the world. The Statue of Liberty is submerged in water and only her torch is visible. The President of the United States is being taken to safety. It takes Jeet a moment – then he realises – the movie has been dubbed into Hindi, the white men are speaking brown. He switches again – NDTV – there it is: the end of the rally. The police are using sticks to push back the crowd. There have been reports of tear gas: a college girl is crying as she supports her friend from the grounds. Bapuji himself has gone. It is believed his youngest daughter Sita was with him. The Company concerns are at an all time low; the State must answer for this outrage. Who sent the police? Who is running the Company? Is this any way to operate when the Kashmir hotel is at stake? Jeet waits for the screen to go dark – for someone to realise the cameras have gone too far (does the whole country need to see this?). The reporter is called Nina; she’s a standard pretty girl, Jeet thinks, wearing glasses and a Nehru collared shirt. She says, What is really going on here? India has a right to know.

  Still holding the remote, Jeet goes back outside to his father. A golf cart is pulling up across the green. The driver jumps out, starts towards them.

  Jeet’s heartbeat slows then speeds up. He steps back, into the shadowed doorway to the house, feels a rushing in his ears, a sandstorm memory. By the neat jacket and rimmed glasses, by the unassuming posture, he knows who this is: Uppal.

  —Aré wah! Uppal comes grinning across the green, his hands up as if praising God. So the Chaukidar did not lie, he says. Here you are Ranjit, you mad old man, why have you come back here? Don’t you know there is a bounty on your head?

  He is at the porch stairs; he stands, grinning, waiting for Ranjit to answer.

  —All this time, Uppal says, we have been looking for you, while Radha Madam has been left a widow. You should die just for that.

  —Bhaiyya! My friend! shouts Ranjit.

  Jeet cannot move. Caught by the memory of evenings under the neem tree, listening to the boys and their questions, questions. And Uppal on the dhaba TV, always smiling, speaking for Gargi as if he were her father.

  —Who are you, meri bhen ki lodi?

  Jeet watches Uppal – knowing that his eyes will only see a Sage in orange robes and secondhand Company jacket, a beard that covers a face.

  —Why is this holy man here with you, Ranjit? Are you seeking spiritual guidance after all you have done? Do you realise he is only here to get some reward? And you, he says to Jeet. There is a prize for someone to hurt – are you ready to forfeit?

  Uppal reaches inside his jacket, Jeet steps forwards into the light. He sees Uppal’s mouth drop, his head go back.

  —You, he says. Returned?

  What happened next? Something was glinting in Uppal’s hand – Rudra saw something glinting – a blade – maybe the kind one uses to gut fish – and he thought: If Rudra dies now, on this night, there will be no one to witness his passing, or care.

  —Aré bhaisahib, Jeet had chattered. He heard himself high-pitched, strange. Na maro, main aapko haath jodke bolta hoon. Aré bhaiyya, joke mat karo – mujhe pata hain aap aisa nahin kar sakte, yahan mat aaya karo, mat aao, mat aao, keep out, no entry, Sir. Also something about mercy – yes – he begged Uppal for mercy. His throat dry, limbs shivering, blood surging, he had picked up the ashtray and brought it down hard on the corner of the glass table. It was stronger than it looked – the surface held, the ashtray splintered and Jeet had a ragged edged scythe made of glass in his hand. Behind him Ranjit was shouting, the sound rushed through Jeet right to his burning eyes. He had launched himself at Uppal, twisted his free arm, grappled him to the ground – as he used to when he was a boy and Jivan was the chiru and their father would shout,

  —Kill! Kill!

  Uppal screamed.

  Rudra leaned all his weight in, bending Uppal’s head back, finding the tender part of his throat, his windpipe an apple core. Then his arm tensed – Uppal’s eyes bulged as he struggled but he could not escape the deadlock of knees on chest on arms, hands on head, head bent back, neck exposed and begging. Jeet straddled the panting man, seeing a tongue, teeth, the dark cavern of the voice, then he ripped across skin in a deep gash. There was warm, thick redness. Uppal’s screams ended on a gurgle as his muscles and gristle split under the pretty shard in a red, red smile. The blood gushed out all over the grass, soaking Rudra’s hands, his knees. Uppal shuddered, went still. His face washed by tears. Whose tears? Falling from Rudra’s eyes onto skin stretched over bone, grinning in surprise that death could come so quickly, that hands could work in this way to clean the world of those who should not be in it.

  —Has he gone? shouted Ranjit.

  If you could only see, Jeet thought. What your son can do.

  He kicked the body. Its mouths gaped at him. He slipped his arm into Uppal’s jacket and found that his hand was clutching a silver phone: he pocketed it.

  Then he dragged the body to the side of the house. Blood, a red carpet trailing behind them. Uppal was heavy for a small man, and for the first time ever refused to cooperate. How accommodating he was alive – in death, he flopped this way and that. His blood escaped from his body to the earth. Jeet got to the back door of the bungalow and paused at the washing step. The body was warm: he was grateful for it. Then he bumped it down the stairs to the basement, its feet twisting, its hair tangling in his beard. Jeet swallowed some, he couldn’t help it. Defiled, he propped the body among the filing cabinets and shut the basement door.

  Killing is a natural part of war. Killing in sacrifice is not murder. Jeet stands in the bathroom, red from collar to heels. For the first time in his life he comprehends the sacrifice of appadharma, all conduct that must be undertaken in times of great crises. He turns on the shower, the water is bright orange; it washes his feet in blood.

  From his father’s mirrored cabinet he takes a gold phial; he rubs a mix of pure Jasmine and rose oil into his skin. His bones are near the surface, his m
uscles have hardened. He takes scissors, then a razor to his own head and face. Curls of hair drop onto the floor, into the sink. Jeet reveals himself anew.

  Savour his eyes and mouth and nose. Savour the piercings and clean lines of bones. Savour the rush in his blood, the ache, signalling something he has not allowed himself to feel for months.

  The things he left behind are here in his father’s cupboard. A silver kurta he cannot believe was ever his. His jeans. Washed, pressed, put away. He takes a T-shirt from Ranjit’s draw, he wears his jeans. He cannot fit his feet into his black sliders anymore, so keeps his basti chappals, with socks. Here is his own phone: his phone! His wallet, full of cards. He packs a small bag with as much money as he can find in the house. He keeps the Company cap, and wears it to shadow his face. He reopens the piercings in his ears.

  Outside, Ranjit is slumped in his chair, asleep. From shards of glass Jeet picks out the matches; he uses them to burn the remnants of Bapuji’s Shahtoosh. Phut! It is gone. So do truly pure substances burn.

  Where can he take his father? There is only one place where no one will think to look for Ranjit, where no one will take notice of his moans. A set of rooms above a butcher’s shop, where all that mattered was two young men together, bound by the names they chose. There, Jeet believed he would never grow old, nor die. There was love, and the only person Jeet has ever trusted. He will take his father back to Old Delhi with half the bag of cash. Money, faith, happiness. He will leave Ranjit with Vik.

  §

  TIHAR JAIL? Is that where you thought I was?

  Oh no, that was Kritik’s idea – he set it up for media report only. We did this for the cause, and as we gathered voices across the land, and as we gathered feet marching for us, people came to us. How to incentivise them? From all walks of life? This takes skill and strategy. Storytelling helps. We gathered a hundred, and another hundred, and another, and every hundred gave another hundred, mobilising towns and cities, sweeping us back into consciousness, reborn.

  We fasted and kept silent for purity of heart, thought, word and deed. For India, beloved country, we urged the crowds, keep your legs closed, mouth open, hand to mouth, eyes shut, receive the word through the orifice that cannot be blocked.

  Stories are a prison as much as a release.

  We gathered backstage at Ramlila Maidan and we waited for our cue. I had not spoken for days. And nor had I taken a drop. Of comfort, water, finger chips or sauce. For every grain of rice has my name on it.

  Fast girls, fast cars, fast times. Faster, faster through the years, tear through the pages to the end.

  Fast.

  The only thing I lost is weight. The definition of corruption? Money into goods, services into pleasure, bodies into her bodies, his bodies, their bodies all bathed in their value on this earth. Pay to escape, to remain. Is it all not so fleeting? We are all at the mercy of other tongues. Living our lives in translation. I am India, I told them. I am you.

  Burning ashes float on the wind. Red hot, scorching the night. Waiting to spark. Huff and puff and burn. When the wind changes, burn the books for warmth.

  Excuse me. Mr Stinku, is that you? Can you see me?

  The river at the back used to run fresh and fast. Five storeys falling down in this house – each panel, each joist was once carved and settled gracefully in its place.

  In the basement a bitch has given birth to a party of pups. Yip-yip! She growls, to keep us off them. We may hunt with them, or hunt them, see if we don’t! And see how she growls! They are safe. We are all safe here. We are watched over by this lovely angel with pretty brown feet, turning above our heads.

  I heard they threw the bodies of the Pandits and all the ones they wanted to hide into the Jhelum. I heard that some got eaten. No. This must be a lie. But see, they were the ruling class. And now, their schoolhouses are broken, their stories are kindling. That is the way of this world. So it keeps turning.

  Since then there has been torture and death. Whole temples devoted to this, in the name of the mother, Mama 2. I dwell on this? We all do. Profit on it, to survive.

  Before the end must come we shall have to dance. And offer some comfort, in the form of Sita. Kind hands, gentle eyes, yesterday. Under the forget-me-not sky.

  Tonight, Diwali night, there will be fireworks. A new Company citadel will open up its doors. The brightest lit, most hidden of houses between north and state. In the Kashmir corridor, the weapons to blind are made.

  Look up, and prepare to be amazed.

  Silence to the people!

  V

  Sita

  i

  And all of them are still waiting for her to say sorry. Sita lights her cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. She will not say where she has been all summer – there are other stories to tell. She will not tell them that she can now say ‘lost’ in the Tamil. Ilantu. And she can write this word in curling script: its first letter looks like a woman sitting crossed-legged, her dupatta cast over her. Ilantu. She does not know the word in Kashmiri, but has learned to say this, at least:

  —Vakhet kyaah aav?

  It has been a week since she came here. To Srinagar, city of her father-desires and mother-dreams. Driving through the night, straight from the protest in Delhi to Jammu, then resting in Jammu for a day and most of one more night before moving on to Srinagar. Kritik Uncle in the passenger seat, dressed as if he just came from the village: a turban tied to obscure most of his face. Sita in the back with Papa. He slept, mouth open, his head against the seatbelt.

  They reached the city as dawn rose. The light was pale gold, and as they drove down the boulevards the chinar trees shed leaves on them as if they were the winners of some game-show final. The city was still, shuttered. Sita caught her first glimpse of the lake, so serene. On every side the mountains rose. They astonished her.

  *

  Kritik Uncle says the safe house is owned by a friend of her father’s. It is a concrete box, newly built, turning its grey shoulder to the old town. She asks about it – she knows her father cannot legally own land here; nor can she, or her sisters – she knows her mother’s childhood home is still standing, somewhere in the old town – she does not understand how the hotel has been allowed to blur the lines of Article 370, which tries to keep everyone a part of its control. She knows the law on paper – and so, she knows the Company hotel should not exist. She asks, as loudly as she can:

  —Why are we even here?

  Kritik Uncle does not reply. He begs her to keep quiet for her father’s sake. They are in Srinagar for her, for him, for the campaign. Opening night is coming. He’s planning something. What?

  For now, the safe house. Five rooms on each of the three floors. Most are unoccupied. Each room dark, unpainted concrete, bare light bulbs. Unadorned walls, doors to ante rooms, doors to bedrooms, inner doors to bathrooms. All of them stark, barely furnished. She has a set for herself.

  Her own bathroom has two inner doors, connecting her resting place to Papa’s. All of the rooms have such small windows.

  When they reached Srinagar, a male nurse was waiting. The house also had a cook, a potwasher and a bearer. They insisted Sita undress her Papa herself. Since then, everyday, she has had to see him almost naked. Underneath his kurta are two surprisingly pointed breasts, crowned by mahogany nipples puckered like lips always waiting to be kissed. His bones are a visible cage keeping his heart in place. Trying not to look at his body, she sees instead a crumpled map. She does not want to read it, but she has to. Now the tributaries of his veins swell blue beneath his skin then fade as if running dry. His hand trembles when he gestured for her to come close. She has seen his wasted muscles; he makes sucking noises as if kissing her doggies, they used to yip-yip around him. Then he stares up, for applause. She smiles at him – but he becomes uncertain. He stretches his hand out to her: his fingertips are splitting open in sharp, vertical cuts. The nurse says he is exhausted, that all he needs is time.

  Papa’s room is the same as most of the others in this hous
e. Empty except for thick, handwoven carpets laid wall to wall. The only real furniture is an interloper: a steel hospital bed-chair, its sidebars and straps keeping him safe. Sita thinks he should be in rural England being nursed by aristocratic girls with names like Abby (for shelter), Florence (like the bulbul) or Megan (her skin pale as flushed pearls). Better he go to Switzerland or Dubai and rest at some hushed private clinic, where cutting edge medicine would restore him. But Kritik Uncle says that to leave India right now would look bad: Bapuji needs to be here, in Srinagar, for the opening of his hotel. My protests – Sita thinks – the streets – my plans. There is no leaving. Campaign ke liye, yahin rehna hain, Kritik Uncle says.

  So. Here is the bed-chair, and Papa. Sita’s hands learn to administer, her voice to soothe, her ducts to shed tears.

  Papa is just a man, lying, exhausted. When he sits to eat, he stretches hairless, skinny arms, palms pink and empty across his knees. Waiting for her to feed him.

  His body is bony yet his flesh is heavy. When Sita tries to turn him, he grabs at the ends of her dupatta, forcing her spine to curve backwards. When she takes his weight her muscles scream. Kissing him feels as if she is kissing herself. The texture of his skin seems to become hers when he grips her: her own hands have aged sixty years. He smells sweet – the way baby monkeys do after milk. His head nods towards her breasts, and she wants to run, to bite, to kick, to do anything other than be gentle and smile. Outside she knows there are little birds, punk-haired and brown-breasted. They come chasing, whistling through the trees, and land on her window sometimes. She wonders if her grandmother sees them, hanging out of the balcony of her sickroom in Napurthala.

  Kritik Uncle has been coming and going from this safe house, for all of these months. Keeping an eye, he says, on the progress of the hotel. Papa’s followers from Delhi, from Jammu, from Srinagar itself come and go. Most are men she has not met before now. They either try not to look at her, or gape at her like cows, without the intelligence. She has tried to speak to them – hello, please, thank you – but they are listening for her to say – what?