Arundhati Roy: The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

Thankyou Comrade for reading this.

Red Salute! Lal Salaam!

Revathy

“LAL SALAAM ALEIKUM,” was Anjum’s inadvertent, instinctive response to the end of the letter. That could have been the beginning of a whole political movement, but she had only meant it in the way of an “Ameen” after listening to a moving sermon.

Each of the listeners recognized, in their own separate ways, something of themselves and their own stories, their own Indo-Pak, in the story of this unknown, faraway woman who was no longer alive. It made them close ranks around Miss Jebeen the Second like a formation of trees, or adult elephants — an impenetrable fortress in which she, unlike her biological mother, would grow up protected and loved.

What came up for immediate discussion in the graveyard Politburo, however, was whether or not Miss Jebeen the Second should ever know about the letter. Anjum, the General Secretary, was absolutely unambiguous about that. While Miss Jebeen the Second stood on her lap and almost twisted the nose off her face, Anjum said, “She should know about her mother of course. Never about her father.”

It was decided that Revathy should be buried with full honors in the graveyard. In the absence of her body, her letter would be interred in the grave. (Tilo would keep a photocopy for the record.) Anjum wanted to know what the correct rituals were for the funeral of a communist. (She used the phrase Lal Salaami .) When Dr. Azad Bhartiya said that as far as he knew there were none as such, she was a little disparaging. “What kind of thing is it, then? What kind of people leave their dead without prayers?”

The next day Dr. Azad Bhartiya procured a red flag. Revathy’s letter was put into an airtight container and then it was wrapped in the flag. While it was buried he sang the Hindi version of “The Internationale” and gave her a clenched-fist Red Salute. Thus ended the second funeral of Miss Jebeen the Second’s first, second or third mother, depending on your perspective.

The Politburo decided that Miss Jebeen the Second’s full name would, from that day onwards, be Miss Udaya Jebeen. The epitaph on her mother’s tombstone simply read:

COMRADE MAASE REVATHY

Beloved mother of Miss Udaya Jebeen

Lal Salaam

Dr. Azad Bhartiya tried to teach Miss Udaya Jebeen — she of the six fathers and three mothers (who were stitched together by threads of light) — to clench her fist and say a final “Lal Salaam” to her mother.

“…’al Salaam,” she gurgled.

I’m still here. As you must, no doubt, have guessed. I never did check in to that rehabilitation center. It lasted on and off for almost six months, the binge that started when I first arrived. However, I’m sober now — sober for now, is probably how I’m meant to put it. It’s been well over a year since I touched a drink. But it’s too late. I’ve lost my job. Chitra has left me and Rabia and Ania won’t speak to me. Oddly, none of it has made me as unhappy as I imagined it would. I have come to enjoy my solitude.

Over the last few months, I’ve lived the life of a recluse. Instead of binge drinking, I’ve been binge reading. I have made it my business to pry into every last piece of paper — every document, every report, every letter, every video, every yellow Post-it and every photograph in every file in this apartment. I suppose you could say that I brought the attributes of an addictive personality to this project too — by which I mean single-mindedness coupled with acute guilt and useless remorse. Once I had been through the whole, weird archive, I tried to make amends for my prurience by putting some logic and order into its chaos. Then again, maybe that just counts as further transgression. Either way, I’ve refiled the papers and photographs and packed them into sealed cartons so that, if and when she comes, she can take them away easily. I’ve taken down the noticeboards and made sure the photographs and Post-its are packed in a way that she can put them up again in the same order with little difficulty. All this to say that I have moved in. I live here now, in this apartment. I have nowhere else to go. The rent from the flat downstairs constitutes the better part of my income. Tilo does continue to pay rent into my account, but I plan to return it to her whenever, if ever, I see her again.

The upshot of my prying, I should admit, is that I have changed my mind about Kashmir. It might sound a little cheap and convenient for me to be saying this now, I know — I must sound like those army generals who wage war all their lives and then suddenly become pious, anti-nuke peaceniks when they retire. The only difference between them and me is that I’m going to keep my newly formed opinion to myself. It’s not easy though. If I wanted to, and if I played my cards right, I could probably parlay it into some serious capital. I could create a political storm if I “came out,” so to speak, because I see from the news that Kashmir, after a few years of deceptive calm, has exploded once again.

From what I can tell, it’s no longer the case that security forces are attacking people. It seems to be the other way around now. People — ordinary people, not militants — are attacking the forces. Kids on the streets with stones in their hands are facing down soldiers with guns; villagers armed with sticks and shovels are sweeping down mountainsides and overwhelming army camps. If the soldiers fire at them and kill a few, the protests just swell some more. The paramilitary are using pellet guns that end up blinding people — which is better than killing them, I suppose. Although in PR terms it’s worse. The world is inured to the sight of piled-up corpses. But not to the sight of hundreds of living people who have been blinded. Pardon my crudeness, but you can imagine the visual appeal of that. But even that doesn’t seem to be working. Boys who’ve lost one eye are back on the street, prepared to risk the other. What do you do with that kind of fury?

I have no doubt that we can — and will — beat them down once more. But where will it all end? War. Or Nuclear War. Those seem to be the most realistic answers to that question. Every evening as I watch the news I marvel at the ignorance and idiocy on display. And to think that all my life I have been a part of it. It’s all I can do to stop myself writing something for the papers. I won’t, because I’d lay myself open to ridicule — the sacked, drunk, conscientious objector. That sort of thing.

Of course I know about Musa now — in the sense that I know he didn’t die when we thought he did. He’s been around all these years, and of course, needless to say, my tenant has known that all along. All it took was an extended power cut for me to find the things she had stored in the freezer.

So imagine my pleasure one night, when the key turned in my door and Musa walked in and was more shocked to see me than I was to see him. The first few minutes of the encounter were fraught. He made to leave, but I managed to persuade him to stay and at least have a cup of coffee. It was good to see him. We had last met as very young men. Boys, really. Now I had almost no hair and his was silver. When I told him that I was no longer with the Bureau he relaxed. We ended up spending that night and most of the next day together. We talked a lot — when I look back on that meeting, I’m a little unnerved by the skill with which he drew me out. It was a combination of quiet solicitousness and the sort of curiosity that is flattering rather than inquisitive. Perhaps because of my eagerness to reassure him that I was no longer the “enemy,” I ended up doing most of the talking. I was astonished at how intimately he seemed to know the workings of the Bureau. He talked of some officers as though they were personal friends. It was almost like exchanging notes with a colleague. But it was done so coolly, almost nonchalantly, most of it just casual chatter that bordered on gossip, that I only realized what had happened after he was gone. We didn’t really talk politics. And we didn’t talk about Tilo. He offered to cook me lunch with whatever ingredients I had in the kitchen. Of course I knew that what he really wanted was to take a look at my freezer. All there was in there now was a kilo of good mutton. I told him that the stuff in the apartment, including his many passports and other personal belongings, was packed and ready to be removed whenever Tilo wanted to take it.