How many Western lies and distortions about India are we supposed to swallow, Mr. Diggs? The British partition our country, and you put the blame on us. A Christian is killed in a property dispute, and you write that he has been killed because he is a Christian. A politician speaks of rebuilding the most sacred temple of his faith, and you call him an intolerant fanatic.
But then, you don’t make any effort to understand Hindus, do you? It is all received wisdom. You portray us as the weak and helpless victims of millennia of invasions, starting with the Aryans three thousand five hundred years ago, the founding myth of British imperialism which sought to portray a weak and dark subcontinent at the mercy of Caucasian power and strength. But when Hindu historians and archaeologists say it never happened, that the Aryans were Indian, living here along the river Saraswati which has since dried up, they are pooh-poohed as chauvinists or fantasists. You are only too ready to trumpet the great achievements of the Mughals, their art and architecture, but in fact they mostly stole from Hindu talent; did you know that the Taj Mahal was really a Hindu palace? You attack the Hindutva movement as fundamentalist, but you say nothing about the thirteen centuries of Islamic fundamentalism and oppression they are reacting to. India is asserting itself, Mr. Diggs, and your readers are told nothing of the resurgent pride of Indians in their own land, their own culture, their own history. Instead all you can see is the threat to “secularism,” as if that were some precious Indian heritage. What is this dogma imported from the West that I am supposed to fall on my knees before? Can the word “secularism” be found in the Vedas?
You don’t understand. None of you do. But I am not surprised. India is a large and complex country, Mr. Diggs, with our contradictions, paradoxes, inconsistencies all ours. How can you foreigners be expected to understand it? Where else do you have our mixture of ethnicities and castes, our profusion of mutually incomprehensible languages, our varieties of geography and climate, our diversity of religions and cultural practices, our clamor of political parties, our ranges of economic development? How do you understand a country whose population is more than fifty percent illiterate but which has produced the world’s largest pool of trained scientists and engineers? How do you cover the poverty and squalor of a land that led a Mughal emperor to declaim, “If on earth there be paradise of bliss, it is this, it is this, it is this”? Everything you write as the truth, I can show you the opposite is also true. You come from a country, Mr. Diggs, where everything is black and white, there are good guys and bad guys, cowboys and red Indians. You can only understand India on your own terms, and you do not understand that your terms do not apply here.
I have not finished. Don’t protest. I know that you are not merely writing from your preconceptions — if that is all you did, your editors would fire you, would they not? So you embellish your prejudices by talking to Indians. Not usually Indians like myself, so I pay tribute to you, Mr. Diggs, for having taken the trouble to seek me out. No, you talk to Indians like yourselves — English-educated Indians, people who would not know how to tie a dhoti and are proud they do not eat with their hands. People like the district administrator Lakshman whom you will no doubt go to see. The very people who are anxious to explain their India to you are the ones you ought to mistrust, Mr. Diggs. Because they are too much like you to be of any use. They think they are modern, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, secular. They heap contempt on “Hindu fanatics,” laugh at our faith and beliefs, sneer at our traditions. They are embarrassed by the real India, because they are desperately anxious to belong to the world. Your world. And you turn to them for insight and advice about my country?
All you get from the Indians you talk to is the view from New Delhi — even here in Zalilgarh. You foreign correspondents do not realize that New Delhi is not India. At least, not the New Delhi you see and hear, at your diplomatic receptions or businessmen’s cocktail parties. This is India, Mr. Diggs. I am Indian. Listen to me.
letter from Priscilla Hart to Cindy Valeriani
September 3, 1989
Cin, my dear Cin, I don’t know what to do. I went back to him with everything still unresolved, because I couldn’t bear not to. I went to the Kotli again. And I held him, and he hugged me, and we made love. Not just as usual. Something happened that day that I don’t really want to write about, but it made me realize how much I love him, how much I want to give myself to him, how much I’m sure he is the right man for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with him, Cin, and it’s driving me crazy. I wanted to talk about my feelings afterwards but somehow the words didn’t come and he didn’t want to say anything, didn’t really want me to speak either. He just held me so close against his chest that I couldn’t move my lips even if I wanted to.
So I don’t really know where I stand with him, whether I should be planning for a future with Lucky or packing for my scheduled return to NY just over a month from now. Or both. God, Cin, I need your advice.
And there’s something else about which I don’t know what to do. Cindy, there’s been another upsetting development in the Fatima Bi business I wrote to you about. Ali, the husband, came back, found out what she’d done, and beat the hell out of her. Hardly surprising. He also came charging down to the Center looking for Kadambari and me. Kadambari wasn’t in — she was out on her rounds — and I had to bear the brunt. He was murderously angry, eyes bloodshot and red and practically popping out of their sockets, and when he advanced toward me screaming “I told you to leave her alone!” a couple of the men in the office had to physically restrain him. “I’ll kill the foreign whore!” he shouted as he was dragged out, flailing his fists in my direction. Poor Mr. Shankar Das told me not to worry and asked me if he should call the police. I told him not to. I couldn’t help thinking of poor Fatima Bi and the additional misery she’d suffer if her husband got pulled in by the police because of this. After all, I’d encouraged her to go to the clinic. I know I did the right thing. And I don’t seriously believe that, once he’s calmed down, Ali will try to do me any harm.
But the whole situation is getting me down. The Center sometimes seems to me a rather ineffective place, and though I write papers for Mr. Shankar Das that he seems to like a lot, I frankly wonder how much difference it makes. My fieldwork is largely done, but it involves doing the rounds with Kadambari, and I’m not real thrilled about that. Kadambari is a peculiar woman, and I’m not enjoying doing my field research in her company. Ever since the Fatima business she’s sort of kept her distance from me, as if to signal to everyone that it was all my fault and she wanted no part of it. Well, telling women about their reproductive rights is her job, for Christ’s sake!
And then Kadambari’s made some strange comments in that sidelong way she has that really gets under my skin. She tells me I’ve been spotted cycling to the Kotli and that I should be careful, because no one goes there. I ask her why not and she says it’s because people believe the place is haunted. I tell her I don’t believe in ghosts and she replies, “It’s haunted, but not only by ghosts.” What’s she getting at? I said I’ve been there a few times and I’ve never seen anyone else there. She says, well, everyone knows the DM — that’s Lucky — likes to go there a lot, and when his car is outside the gate no one dares to venture in, but when he’s not there, all sorts of “badmashes” — bad types — use the place. I glower at her and say that whenever I’ve been there I’ve never seen the DM either. Kadambari gives me an arch look, can you imagine, and flounces off, muttering, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Cindy, one thing you’ve got to promise me, OK? These letters are between you and me. DON’T show them to anyone else, not even Matt. And don’t breathe a word about them to my parents if you ever run into them — not that you would, of course. Tell them, I mean. It would just worry them, and it’s not as if anyone in America can do anything about all of this anyway. My letters are just a way of sharing everything in my life here with the one person who understands. Assume they’re like the phone calls I’d have ma
de to you if I was still in NY, OK? Tear them up when you’ve read them, as if you’ve just put the phone down.
Anyway, what does Kadambari think she’s warned me about? Lucky? Well, in a small town like this I guess I should have realized that people would begin talking sooner or later. It can’t do Lucky much good to be the subject of gossip among the likes of Kadambari. And I don’t know how seriously to take her warning to be careful. Does she mean the Kotli’s not safe or that I’ll be found out? I don’t want to ask Lucky because I’m afraid it’ll worry him. And because I don’t want to do anything that’ll jeopardize our meeting there. It’s the only place I love in Zalilgarh, and I’d rather die than give it up….
transcript of Randy Diggs interview with
District Magistrate V. Lakshman (Part 3)
October 13, 1989
Oh — they’re here? Well, their timing isn’t too bad. Mr. Diggs, it turns out that Priscilla’s parents, the Harts, have shown up to see me. Ah, you know them, do you? Would you mind very much if I asked them to join us? They’ll have the same questions as you, and I suppose I could kill two birds with one stone, if that doesn’t sound too callous.
What’s that? Yes, of course you can tape it, if they don’t mind, naturally.
Do come in. Mr. Hart, Mrs. Hart, I’m pleased to meet you. [Scraping of chair.] I’m Lakshman, the district magistrate here. I believe you know Mr. Diggs of the New York Journal? He was just asking me about the events — the tragic events of two weeks ago. Would you mind if he remained here for our conversation and recorded my replies?
You’re quite right, Mr. Hart, you’re both interested in the truth. Indeed. The truth. You know, that’s my government’s official motto: “Satyameva Jayate.” “Truth Alone Triumphs.” It’s on all our letterheads — and on this visiting card I’ve just given you. Truth Alone Triumphs. But sometimes I’m tempted to ask, whose truth? There’s not always an easy answer.
Please do sit down, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart. Some tea? No? A soft drink? Ah, I’m afraid we have no Coca-Cola here. Would Campa-Cola be acceptable? No?
I do hope you have been comfortable in Zalilgarh. Yes of course, Mrs. Hart, I realize that comfort is not what you’re looking for here. Forgive me.
You’ve seen the Center where Priscilla worked? And spoken to her project manager, Mr. Das? Good. Been to her home? A rather simple place, I’m told. No, I’ve never been there, Mrs. Hart.
Yes, I knew Priscilla rather well. Or perhaps I should say, my wife and I did. Priscilla was a fairly frequent guest at our dining table. She was such pleasant company, you know. Such pleasant company. And Geetha and I took pleasure in helping her feel welcome in this little town. She seemed to cope with her loneliness rather well.
No, I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea why she was where she was when she was — killed. Forgive me, I feel a sense of responsibility, really, not merely because I’m in charge of law and order in this town, but because I’ve been haunted by the thought that perhaps — you see, I think she first heard about the Kotli from me. I was talking to her about the town, and I believe I mentioned it was the one place worth visiting for, shall we say, touristic reasons. I’ve been there myself sometimes and the sunsets over the river are spectacular. I fear she may have taken my advice.
Yes, of course I can arrange a visit for you there. I’ll do so immediately. And you too, Mr. Diggs, if you wish.
I’m afraid we’re — none of us is very sure what happened. It seems a group of Muslim troublemakers chose to use the abandoned ruin as a sort of storehouse to manufacture some crude homemade bombs the day before the riot. The day of the riot itself she seems to have stumbled across them, or they across her — no one knows. She was, as you know, stabbed to death. I’m truly sorry.
No, no, there was no robbery or any other kind of assault. It looks like Priscilla simply had the misfortune to go to that place at the very moment her assailants chose to use it. The killers probably thought she’d report them to the police. That they had to kill her to ensure her silence.
No, we didn’t find out till nearly twenty-four hours later. It was such an out-of-the-way place that no one really gave the Kotli much thought. Our energies were focused on the town, and particularly the Muslim quarter. That’s where the worst of the rioting occurred. I’ve been telling Mr. Diggs the details of the story.
What happened is that these fellows brought their bombs into town and began throwing them. We put a stop to that fairly quickly and caught one of the perpetrators. He didn’t mention Priscilla in his confession, but he did tell us about their having used the Kotli. It was in a routine follow-up visit to the Kotli that the police found — the body.
No one has confessed to the murder. The bomb makers all claim they never even saw her. Eight lives were lost in the riots, Mr. Hart, including one of a boy who worked in this office. Not one of them is linked to an identifiable assailant. That’s how it often is in riots. A confused clamor of hatred, violence, weapons, assaults. In the end, no one is responsible. Or perhaps a whole community is responsible. People pull out bombs or knives, then melt away into the darkness. We are left with the bodies, the burned and destroyed homes, the legacy of hate and mistrust. And it goes on.
I’m sorry I don’t have much more to tell you. Perhaps you ought to meet the superintendent of police. I’ll ask him to receive you. I’m afraid our rules won’t permit him to show you the actual police report, but I’m sure he’ll tell you what it says. I’ll give him a call and urge him to cooperate fully. We know you’ve come a long way on this very sad errand.
Would Sunday work for you? Good. I’ll try and arrange the appointment and get word to you. No, that’s all right, we work seven-day weeks here these days. And of course, we’ll organize a visit to the Kotli.
Your daughter was a wonderful person, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart. She will be greatly missed here in Zalilgarh.
letter from Lakshman to Priscilla
September 18, 1989
My dearest, most precious Priscilla,
For the first time in my life I genuinely do not know how to say something I must say to you. I cannot bring myself to say it directly, to your face, and so I must say it in this letter. We are supposed to meet tomorrow, Tuesday. I won’t be there.
Priscilla, forgive me, but I must end our relationship. I love you but I cannot leave my wife, my daughter, my job, my country, my whole life, for my love. I just can’t go on giving you the hope of a future together and returning home to the reality of my present. I believe it is more honest to tell you that what you want cannot be.
I cannot bear the thought that in writing these words I am hurting someone who has been nothing but good and loving to me. I cannot bear the knowledge that I am depriving myself of your love, which has fulfilled me in ways that nothing else in my life can ever compensate for. In writing this letter I know I am losing something I was lucky to have found in the first place — a good, lovely and loving woman, a chance of a different life, the second chance that comes to so few in this world.
Then why am I doing it? A dozen times in recent weeks I had decided to leave my marriage. Yesterday I told myself my decision was final, that I couldn’t live without you. Then last night I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining what my departure would mean to Rekha. I knew how Geetha would react — I was sure she would collapse in incomprehension and grief; she simply would not be able to deal with the shock. But Rekha would suffer the most horrendous trauma. I kept thinking not just that she would suffer the pain of a broken home, but of the small daily losses she would suffer — that she would not have her Daddy tucking her into bed at night or reading her an Enid Blyton story, that she would miss her Daddy at breakfast every day, that she could no longer turn to Daddy with her homework, with her questions about the world, about words, about life: the hundred small interactions that make up the texture of a father-child relationship. And I realized, then, that I could not deny these to her and still feel myself a worthy human being. That having brought her into
the world, I had a responsibility, an obligation, to see her through those difficult years of growing up, secure in the environment of a predictable two-parent family structure. And that if I failed to fulfil this obligation in pursuing my own happiness, I would in fact find no happiness at all.
One day she will be grown up and gone, and none of this will matter. But today, now, I cannot do it to her. This is when she needs a father most. But you, understandably, want me to make the break now or never. I respect the way you feel, my precious Priscilla, but I cannot do it now.
I realized, too, during this tormented night, that I could only make you unhappy too, because my guilt at abandoning my family — which is how I would see it — would corrode my feelings for the person for whom I had abandoned them. When you evoke that kind of love, you want to be worthy of it. I could not have abandoned my responsibilities to my daughter and felt worthy of you.
In other words, dearest Priscilla, I was — I am — torn between two kinds of love and the prospect of two kinds of unhappiness. I chose my love for my daughter over my love for you, and the unhappiness of losing you to the unhappiness of shattering her. That is my choice, and I must live with it. I never thought either would be easy: this one is killing me.
I know you will think this proves I never really loved you. That you were a sexual convenience at worst, an escape from a loveless marriage at best. You know that’s not true, Priscilla; you’ve seen what happened the first time I tried to leave you. I still love everything about you, no less than I ever have. I can’t bear the knowledge that you are no longer mine, but I want you to be happy. I would do anything for you, short of destroying my family.
In pain, and with love,
Lucky
letter from Priscilla Hart to Cindy Valeriani