The Heat and Dust Project

by Saurav Jha

  The Dalai Lama in his role as the temporal head of the Tibetan government in exile has kept his people away from armed confrontation with the Chinese and has sought a political settlement whereby the Tibetans retain autonomy in spiritual and cultural matters while the Chinese have the responsibility of foreign affairs and defence. But therein lies the rub. Ever since the rise of Vajrayana Buddhism in Tibet, it has been a country where the Buddhist Sangha and the state have been inextricably linked to each other, with a common temporal and spiritual head. Moreover, Vajrayana Buddhism has not just been the purveyor of common culture but the key defining agency in all political matters. This explains why the Chinese communists have never been comfortable with merely consolidating their administrative hold over Tibet but have first repressed, then sought to control Tibet’s religio-cultural ethos.

  A key example of this would be the disappearance of the current Panchen Lama as a child and his replacement by someone the Tibetans consider a Chinese-sponsored impostor. The Panchen Lama, since medieval times, has played a key role in locating the reincarnation of an expired Dalai Lama, who is then reared to take over the reins of power in Tibetan state society. The Chinese are known to be worried sick about the possible location of the rebirth of the current Dalai Lama once he gives up his current physical body. Dalai Lamas are typically born in Tibet’s ethno-cultural regions and the sixth Dalai Lama was actually born in Tawang, Arunachal Pradesh, India.

  Unfortunately for the Chinese, both the Dalai Lama and other high officials of the Tibetan government in exile have repeatedly said that all territories within India that have historically been under Tibetan influence, such as Tawang and Ladakh, are an inalienable part of the Republic of India. Though it’s usually not much talked about, the Dalai Lama has given India a huge edge in the Himalayan great game by unabashedly endorsing its control over areas where Tibetan Buddhism is prevalent.

  The Chinese are clearly concerned that the next Dalai Lama may again be born in Tawang, thereby putting paid to any easy settlement of the Tibetan issue. What is worse, the Karmapa, who escaped from Tibet in 2000, despite doubts harboured by Indian intelligence agencies regarding his loyalties, is being mentored by the Dalai Lama to be the political beacon of the Tibetan cause, and is likely to serve as a regent till such time as a reincarnated Dalai Lama comes of age.

  ‘But they can’t squash things forever now, can they?’ D asks.

  ‘There is every chance that Tibet may turn violent after the Dalai Lama’s demise and China may not be able to keep a lid on things. What is worse, the Uighur Muslims, to the north of the Tibetans, seem to be on the warpath as well and things are looking quite dicey for the Chinese in these borderlands, the China Western Development Plan notwithstanding.’

  D turns to Permat. ‘What do you think, Permat, will happen in the future?’

  ‘People are unhappy’. Permat doesn’t say more.

  I drone on.

  ‘For India, there is an added worry that China may now simply be looking at Tibet as a resource colony and will retain control by force, chiefly to draw upon its water resources. There have been persistent rumours of the Chinese looking to divert the Brahmaputra at the Yarlung Tsangpo Grand Canyon where it “bends” from Tibet into India and even nuclear devices may be considered for this purpose. What lends weight to these fears is that China’s civilizational rivers are in very bad shape, with the Hwang-Ho actually not even reaching the sea any more on account of over-diversion for industrial and agricultural purposes. The Chinese have therefore instituted a sixty-five-billion-dollar north–south water transfer project that aims to divert water from Southern China’s rivers to the Hwang-Ho and the Yangtze in the north. It is not difficult to see them try and extend this to the Yarlung Tsangpo, which is what the Brahmaputra is called in Tibet.’

  ‘What about the West? Don’t they have a hand to play in this matter?’ D interjects.

  ‘Well, the romance of the West with Tibetan Buddhism is not the result of some post-consumerist guilt or even the desire to bring about a synthesis between science and spirituality. For Western strategists like Zbigniew Brezinzki, who has been national security advisor to two US administrations, the entire Himalayan region between India and China represents a so-called ‘Eurasian shatter zone’. Tibetan Buddhism, in particular, is attractive since it is the dominant religion of even the Russian regions of Tuva and Buryat in Siberia and of the autonomous republic of Kalmykia on Russia’s western Caspian shore. Kalmykia, incidentally, is the only Buddhist-majority region of Europe. Naturally, the West is keen to exploit this particular “Eurasian” fault line.’

  ‘So they will try to exploit this fissure between India and China?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Western activities also serve as a source for Chinese suspicions of Indian intentions. Western agents are active in Arunachal Pradesh, and other parts of India’s north-east, where the Americans often make requests to search for the remains of USAF pilots who crashed while ‘flying the hump’ over the Himalayas to bring supplies for the Allied war effort against the Japanese during the Second World War. This ‘history-seeking’ is dubious, and could be a cover for ‘shatter zone’ games ultimately detrimental to both Indian and Chinese interests. (Shatter zone is basically a place where people are not integrated with the mainstream. So the American agenda is to target these places and foment trouble.)This is precisely why a sixty-year-old demand by the Americans to set up a consulate in Kalimpong in Darjeeling district of West Bengal has been repeatedly turned down by the Indian side.

  ‘My father and brother are still in Tibet,’ Permat tells us. ‘They run a small business. But Chinese government takes a lot of money to grant permits for businesses.’

  ‘Officially or under the table?’

  Permat laughs after hearing the translation. ‘Officially, but if you want to get work done quickly, under the table helps.’

  ‘So don’t you miss your family?’ D asks.

  ‘I do.’ It turns out that Permat’s girlfriend is still in China in Ritong. Her father was sick when he left. They are no longer in touch, though he hopes to get her to India at some point.

  A group of young tourists comes upstairs now and sits at the next table, followed quickly by a local couple. The men must get back to work. We thank them for their time and venture out into the snow.

  The journey to Delhi is long. The first half is redeemed by the views, though. There is a mountain stream warbling down, its water greenish over white rocks. The road curves round it, a grey ribbon climbing up with steep mountains on either side. A man is painting his house lovingly. He’s chosen a vivid wisteria. In any case, the houses here favour bright candy colours. There are pine forests, grassy stretches dotted with red flowers and mustard groves. Little white goats nuzzle high up on the slopes. I balance the laptop on my knees, searching for a signal. It connects. ‘You might be happy to hear this,’ I tell D, ‘but we have a party to attend tomorrow night. Shantanu has written to tell me the book is in from the press. Apparently it looks good. He’ll bring his copy for us tomorrow. The six author copies would have been sent to Calcutta.’

  The book is out.

  It feels a bit unreal.

  ‘What are we going to wear?’ D pokes me.

  ‘We cannot afford to buy anything if that’s what you’re saying!’

  ‘I never said that, you always put words in my mouth,’ she says, and refuses to talk to me for an hour (except once, to ask about the book). Later, the hairpin bends make her nauseous and she orders me to get her a Coke; that’s when we start talking again. We have dinner at a dhaba and reach Delhi in the middle of the night.

  51

  It is at the dinner to which our editor invites us that we meet Ravi Aneja for the first time. We shall meet Ravi again, at a later date, and he is to tell us about cultural intelligence and other interesting stuff. But I am getting ahead of myself.

 
This party today, hosted by a renowned publishing house in one of Delhi’s finest five-star hotels, is to celebrate the launch of a new imprint – dedicated to only the best of literary fiction – and the guest list is distinguished. ‘The nomenklatura of the city as it were,’ says S. His eyes glint darkly, and I, nervous in my borrowed sari and heels, clutch his arm and whisper, ‘Be nice.’

  But it was a long journey from Kangra, and when we got to Major’s Den from Sarai Kale Khan at two in the morning, we had found our Ganesha room assigned to someone else. We are now installed in a tiny room on the first floor, with a bed that is far too small for S and with hardly any floor space to move around. (We had to get dressed at my friend Gee’s.) Something of the uncomfortable night and the Dharamshala cold seems to lurk around S, making him unpredictable, even though outwardly he’s all crisp shirt and polished shoes and even though inside the hotel, the temperature is perfectly adjusted for bare arms and bare shoulders.

  We meet our publisher in the lobby. She’s just coming in herself. She hugs us both in turn. Advance copies of S’s book have come in from the printer’s yesterday morning; they look good. She has just assigned my novel to a copy editor and she’s sure I’ll love working with her; in fact, the copy editor’s supposed to come to the party too. She shepherds us into the elevator and asks about our travels. We both begin to talk at once. S talks about Dharamshala. I chatter about Paharganj and the German Bakery. I tell her that Himachal Pradesh is the most polite state. S tells her about Barmer and the oil question. It is invariably the case that when we meet her, like two attention-seeking kids around a favourite adult, we both start talking to her at the exact same time, as though each of us is aiming for one of her ears. Remarkably, she keeps track of both strings, and responds separately.

  The party is in full swing. The ballroom, glossy like the page of a magazine, is full of people. There is that soft swish of expensive clothes and large egos rubbing delicately. The moment we enter, mid-sentence, our publisher is whisked away by a lady with a large bouffant, who I think is a famous socialite. A tray comes floating our way, and by the time our publisher reappears – it was the famous socialite, they’re bringing out her memoir, and she’s a nightmare as far as edits are concerned – we are holding chilled flutes in which champagne bubbles and beads. Somebody else now claims her. It’s a nattily dressed young journalist who sees right through us and begins to earnestly talk about a panel discussion on the erosion of liberal values in public discourse. Would our publisher be one of the speakers? It’s going to be at India International Centre. We consider this our cue to move on and begin to work the room. Snatches of conversations come our way, along with trays of canapés. A group of foreign correspondents and their spouses stand in a huddle and discuss rents in Golf Links and Jorbagh versus those in Nizamuddin. I know two of them by face. They’re both writing books on India, hardbacks that are sure to have a few of the following words in the subtitle: India (well, duh!), Promise, Undone, Market, In spite, (Long) Road Ahead, Fabric, Democracy, Gigantic, Elephant, Exciting. Elephant, though, come to think of it, might actually be in the title and not the subtitle. Ever since Gurcharan Das’s The Elephant Paradigm was published, the metaphor has caught on.

  In a private corner, beside an immaculately curtained French window, two tall women in silk gossip. One of them, the willowy one in blue with shiny waist-length hair, asks a passing waiter to get her a sherry. Dry, she wags her finger at him. Very dry. We reach the end of the hall where the buffet table is laid out though there’s no food on the silver yet, and separate.

  I meet a few editors I know, lovely sparkling girls, and we laugh and catch up. One of them, in a dull gold shift dress and a pageboy haircut, introduces me to the best-selling novelist who’s the current toast of the town. Behind a giant porcelain vase, I can see a truly famous literary agent, the one behind many Indian successes on the international scene. He is surrounded by a little circle of admirers: three of his authors (who will not stoop to hang out with the published-only-in-India-but-write-in-English authors), one artist he has just taken on, and three or four women of indeterminate age who probably want to grow up and win the Booker. What I really want to do is find a powder room, pee, and then sit on the sofa inside, put my feet up, sip my champagne, take in the tinkling music that is playing, and make a list: things to do, money spent and left in the bank accounts, a review of the journey, plans for the future (short term), plans for the future (long term).

  But my publisher has appeared at my elbow and I change plans immediately; we march along to do some mingling. She introduces me to a lovely girl, half-Indian, half-Welsh, full American, early thirties, Harvard, Oxford, Harvard, who has come to India for six months to write a book. About women from diverse walks of life. ‘Not a book with clichés,’ she clarifies immediately. ‘I mean, I am literally not going to use the word exotic. I’d have axed colourful too but that would be plain churlish.’ She has just interviewed some midwives in Haryana and, before that, Dalit activists in UP. I’d have liked to keep talking to her – she has that sort of an arresting face and I also want to know which language she conducts her interviews in – but she’s leaving for another party.

  I weave my way through the beautiful people as they drink and opine, and at some point I find I am walking next to a minister (who’s more renowned as an intellectual than as a politician, and has also been, if I recall correctly, a diplomat). Six waiters wheel in a giant cake from the kitchen – shaped, predictably, like the logo of the new imprint that is being launched – and we must stop. So I offer him a slight smile, and am startled to see his hand around my shoulder two-and-a-half seconds later. That was quick. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he says. ‘And you are?’ A series of possible answers flits across my brain (human, student, misfit, pagan witch doctor) but instead of mumbling, I decide to suddenly go all Delhi. ‘I’m a novelist,’ I say, for the first time in my life. He seems to like that. Novelist. The cake is now a safe distance away, and we are walking again. ‘Anything I might have read?’ he asks gallantly, his hand now firmly on my back.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s only going to be out later this year,’ I say. I smile. ‘It’s called The Vague Woman’s Handbook. And it’ll probably have two women on the cover. A shopping bag or two perhaps. I really really doubt it’d be something you’d read. And that…’ I stretch my palm outwards and clutch at familiar fabric, ‘is my husband.’

  S turns, and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He greets the minister with an appropriate opener, shakes his hand, and actually talks about recent legislation impacting his ministry for a minute or two. ‘Is that the book?’ I ask, and S hands me the first copy. The minister coos at it politely as one would greet a new baby. ‘Non-fiction, I understand,’ he says. ‘But it is fiction that I really admire. Something I have never attempted myself.’ He looks from one to the other and quips, ‘Of course, my detractors have often claimed that my political columns are pure fiction.’ We laugh.

  After ten-odd minutes, a woman walks up to us. She is about thirty years old, and very chic. ‘I’m off, Boo,’ she tells him. ‘What’s your latest number?’ He dictates a phone number, and she kisses him on both cheeks and clip-clops away. ‘I have no idea who that is,’ he tells us, shaking his head. ‘She told me her name. I thought it sounded like Moo. I said that. She immediately started calling me Boo. Maybe it’s one of A’s relatives.’ A is our host, the chairman of the publishing house. I have, however, not seen him yet. It’s that sort of a party. Apparently, one might not even be introduced to the host.

  At dinner, we find ourselves at a table for eight, and only just. The ballroom is very full now. All the tables are occupied. The people at our table seem to be in a dour mood, though one or two introduce themselves with clever self-deprecation. I think nobody got to sit with anybody who was their first choice and are now all sulking. They keep looking over at other tables, so the conversation is a bit erratic.

  To my left are a
couple of academics. They are deep in a conversation with each other about the cruelty of the state and the disbursement of grants, alternately, and it would have seemed strange to me that there is so much heartburn involved in being chosen as grantees of the repressive state they so abhor, but I’ve been in JNU long enough. I smile at them politely when they look towards me.

  ‘I am an anarchist,’ says the gentleman who recently retired as the MD of a big evil corporation.

  ‘Me too,’ says the young painter sitting next to him, slim and exquisitely featured, in a simple sari that must have cost an arm and a leg. She lives in Lutyens’s. (She’d told us so herself, three minutes ago. She’s converting the second garage into a studio, installing French windows on the garden side, but the carpenters have disappeared for a whole week! She has an important exhibition coming up.) Her parents are also painters, selling canvases for a few lakh each. Their work is in MOMA, she’d said. ‘I am an anarchist, and will die an anarchist.’

  ‘I am opposed to nuclear power,’ the former MD says.

  ‘Perhaps you should read this book then,’ Saurav says with a tight smile.

  ‘What do you think about the thorium question?’ asks the man sitting next to S, a tall man with a beard and an accent I cannot place. He introduces himself as Ravi Aneja – and they discuss the thorium question for a bit, while the rest of the people at the table ignore us, since they are all avowedly anti-nuclear. Ravi Aneja later tells us that he is a PIO and had served as a diplomat to India. One of the things he’d looked at in his tenure was the matter of uranium.