Uday Prakash - The Girl with the Golden Parasol

Caught in the middle of Nazi soldiers’ boot steps and gunfire, two innocent, helpless teenagers, a boy and a girl, hide inside a room for one full year. The two children grow up between the fear that death might come at any moment, and with their love for one another. Rahul had read this novel just the month before, in Nirmal Verma’s beautiful Hindi translation that read like poetry.

In the corner, next to an ailing wall that could collapse at any moment on top of it, a very delicate plant grew slowly, but surely and lushly, like a riddle amid spreading violence and fear. Like a lifeline in the darkness of sin, in a daring attempt fraught by risk, this, the purest blossom and primary bloom waged struggle in a demonic time.

Rahul kissed Anjali’s hand. “So tell me: when?” he asked. His voice sprang from the solitude and longing of that sea.

“Thursday,” Anjali said as if she’d already had this day in mind from the beginning.

“Why does it have to be Thursday? That’s seven days away. Why not tomorrow?” Rahul was perplexed.

“Crazy boy. That’s the day there are only two classes,” Anjali said.

“Right, Dr. Loknath Tripathi’s Bhakti class and Rajendra Tiwari’s class on Vidyapati,” Rahul said. “You are brilliant.”

Anjali straightened her clothing, took a brush from her purse, and fixed her hair.

“Wait. But where?” Rahul got worried.

“I have no idea,” Anjali answered, and left.

Rahul stood for a long time in that narrow space between the bookshelves, absentmindedly taking books from the shelf and leafing through them.

Oddly enough Rahul didn’t notice the damp, musty smell of the old books, but rather took in the fresh, sensuous fragrance of Anjali’s body that still surrounded him.

Rahul remained for awhile, but just before leaving, he filled his lungs, inhaling the air slowly and deeply.

Lay me on the hills and mountains

of thirst

Burn me in the sun, and dance dance

in its flames

Dance as a fountain of water

Dissolve into ink and write me in the sky

O mirrors

There read of me, then grin at me

O mirrors

Before killing me

O mirrors

For I am your life

The meaning of these lines from Shamsher’s poem slowly opened up to Rahul. Reading poetry and uncovering its meaning: this is the true living of life.

Time was passing, days were turning. The days were filled with contrasts never before seen in all of history.

The internationally known geologist Dr. Watson had resigned from the university and left for Australia. The evening before the day he left, Dr. Watson went out to gaze at the mountains for the last time. Kartikeya was a student in his department. He said, “Dr. Watson was very sad. He stood for a long time in front of the well where Sapam committed suicide. He pried out a troublesome rock from the crumbling platform of the well. It was an odd rock, almost translucent.

“He spent a long time standing there staring at the rock. Then there was a flash of lightning in his eyes. It was as if he’d gathered all his fury and he suddenly threw that rock into the well. I peered into the well. It wasn’t that dark, and I could see Sapam’s Liberty flip-flop still floating down there.”

Dr. Watson had said, “That was a fossil. A fossil of a conch shell, thousands of years old. A conch from a time when this was a sea. You people use the same conch to perform your puja. . a part of puja to Krishna.”

Kartikeya said they’d asked Dr. Watson why he decided to leave.

Dr. Watson had laughed and replied, “Because I don’t feel ‘safe’ here. Times have changed. Now I’m afraid.”

“Me too, Kartikeya!” Rahul said in a weak voice.

“Who’s not afraid? Is anyone safe here?” Kartikeya scolded. “All of the vile, dangerous, base, and hedonistic things we’ve imported from the West. Gambling, profiteering, weapons, fizzy, toxic drinks, alcohol, pornography, pizza, cars. People here have lost their minds pursuing this merchandise of thrill, titillation, frenzy, and violence. People here want the worst from the West, but want to kill and destroy the best it has to offer. These are its assassins. Enemies.”

Kartikeya’s eyes had become red with rage. “Buy a gun from America. Use it to shoot Jesus. Use the vilest thing invented by the West to commit the greatest murder in history. Buy a car from Japan. Use it to run over Buddha’s head. Find biochemical weapons from Iraq. Use them to kill the Prophet Mohammad. Get a missile launcher from Israel. Use it to blow Jehovah’s body to bits. Devil barbarians!” Kartikeya was out of breath.

“But really, what can we do?” Someone uttered this sentence, and it floated down, lodged itself inside everyone sitting in the room, and twitched like the wounded tail of a gecko.

Kartikeya’s words echoed in Rahul’s head. “They’ll take the fire from the Rig Veda and use it to burn all the Vedas. They’ll take the trishul trident from the Puranas and use it to impale Shiva and Vishnu. They’ll get their hands on a Bramastra and launch it to annihilate all of creation.”

They will throw all enlightened souls in the history of mankind into conflict with one another, then crush them underfoot.

They are the Critters, sent here by Satan from some other world.

They are Ravana’s offspring, returned by the sea, who now hold everything in their hands: power, capital, language, words, newspapers, computers, television, satellites launched into outer space, atomic bombs, and quite a huge market.

“What kind of realization was this?” Rahul wondered.

He felt like sending an email to the president of the United States that would read, “If you truly consider yourself a follower of Jesus, then remove yourself from these all-powerful salesmen. They are the ones who murdered the compassion of Christ.”

Things were changing fast. A store selling seized customs goods opened next to Max Cyber Cafe. Pepsi, Coke, and Miranda stalls were springing up everywhere. So were fast-food joints, and in one of them the waiters even wore Nawab-style plumed turbans and creased uniforms. There, the same burger you could get in a regular dhaba or snack van for 5 rupees would cost you 20. The dosa that normally cost 12 would cost 22 rupees. What was surprising was that this kind of shop was most prevalent. Noodles, pizza, fried chicken, ice cream, burgers, Manchurian — a whole new menu of things to eat and drink had arrived. A big store selling greeting cards, cake, and gift items had opened next to the university’s supermarket. There were four shops on campus selling paan and cigarettes. One was right in front of the hostel, and under the guise of selling Ayurvedic medicine sold everything from “honey raisin” bhang balls to the same thing in a form you can inhale: ganja and hashish, brown sugar, and white powder. Condoms (both domestic and foreign brands) and oral contraception were now completely out in the open. Everywhere were AIDS posters and slogans, and advertisements for ultrasound and abortion.

At night, everything from the hard stuff (Boney Scott, Macdowell, Old Monk, Diplomat, Director’s Special) to the cheap stuff (bathtub mahua sold in plastic pouches) to the rough stuff (liquor made from a herb said to revive the dead) was sold at the fruit juice stand behind the post office. The police took their weekly cut, and that was that.

Numbers games and the lottery made for big business everywhere. There were three local cable channels that showed porn late at night—“blue films.” During the day the same stations basically showed sermons of Asaram Bapu, Murari Bapu, and others like them. As religious programming proliferated — the bhajans, the revivals, the preaching — so increased crime, rape, abortion, murder, thuggery, and theft. Commerce in women, and violence against them, increased in proportion to the number of beauty pageants and fashion shows.