'You know the old adage – Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Besides, Kumar may provide us good entertainment in his new role as Gandhi Baba.'
'Talking of Gandhi reminds me, Dad, do I need to worry about all this talk of a possible re-trial?'
'It will fizzle out, Vicky. Eventually, everything does, even a son's love for his father.'
'Are you still upset that I couldn't send you the money?'
'No, Vicky. I never linger over the past.'
'By the way, Dad, do you know a girl called Seema Bisht?'
'Yes. I know her very well. She is a reporter for a thirdrate channel called Mashaal. How do you know her?'
'She came to my farmhouse last night, gave me your reference.'
'Yes, she told me she was going to Delhi. Did she interview you?'
'She did much more than an interview. She was angling for a role in my next film.'
'So what did you do?'
'What do you expect? (Laughs.) She seemed like a good lay. And was more than willing.'
(Long pause.)
'Dad?'
(Disconnect.)
*
'Hi. Seema here. I have been trying to reach you for two days. Congratulations, Mr Home Minister.'
'Don't you dare talk to me, you cheap whore!' (Disconnect.)
*
'Hello? Hello?'
'Thank you for calling the Novotel Hotel. How may I help?'
'Is this 00 31 20 5411123?'
'Yes it is, Sir. How may I help?'
'Please give me room number 567.'
'One moment, Sir. Your call is going through now.' Beep. Beep. Beep.
'Hello. Who is this?'
'Hello, can I speak to Guruji?'
'Guruji is busy right now. He does not want to be disturbed.'
'I know. Just tell him that Jagannath Rai is calling from Lucknow. It is very urgent.'
(Whispered.) 'Guruji, someone called Jagannath Rai is calling. Says he wants to speak to you urgently.'
'Give me the phone, and you go into the bathroom. (Pause.) Hello, Jagannath. So you have tracked me down even in Amsterdam? (Laughs.) Jai Shambhu.'
'Jai Shambhu, Guruji. Who is this woman who picked up the phone?'
'She is . . . Sister Reena. She coordinates my European operations. But tell me about yourself. How have you been?'
'I have been having very bad thoughts for the last few days.'
'There is nothing unusual in that. Those who have not grasped the fundamental truths of existence are bound to suffer from negative energy.'
'I feel I have been deluded and only you can show me the true path. Just as Arjuna came to Krishna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra to get his divine guidance, I have come to your refuge, Guruji, even though you are thousands of miles away.'
'Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered, Jagannath. The mind is bewildered by delusion. And delusion arises from anger. Are you angry about something?'
'I am angry about many things, Guruji. I know you always counsel me not to become tense, but what can I do? Politics means tension.'
'Tell me, how is your campaign for the Chief Ministership going? I read in the Times of India that you have got the support of a large number of MLAs. '
'That is old news, Guruji. For now I have become Home Minister once again.'
'Oh, that is excellent news. So can I return to India now? Will you be able to get the arrest warrant cancelled?'
'Not immediately, Guruji. I am still facing some difficulties. But I have a plan by which I will become Chief Minister soon.'
'Good. Then I shall return only after you have become Chief Minister. So what is your plan?'
'I don't want to go into that, Guruji. I want you to tell me something much more vital and fundamental. I want to know the real truth about existence, about life.'
(Laughs.) 'Don't we all want to know that?'
'Guruji, you have known me for a long time, long before I joined politics. Tell me, is killing someone the worst thing anyone can do?'
(Laughs.) 'Killing what? This body? But Jagannath, as I have repeatedly told you, this body, like the universe is mithya, just a false notion, like the horn of a rabbit, or the water in a mirage. It has only a temporary existence. It has to die, in any case.'
'But then why do we lament over the dead?'
'The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead. Because death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. Therefore, only fools lament over the inevitable.'
'And even if the body dies, the soul never dies?'
'Yes. That is correct. The soul is unborn, eternal, permanent and primeval. The atma is not destroyed when the body is destroyed.'
'So if someone is killed, he doesn't really die. He merely acquires another body, doesn't he?'
'Exactly. A person who knows that the atma is indestructible, eternal, unborn and imperishable, neither kills anyone nor causes anyone to be killed.'
'Even if the person being killed is a close relative?'
'There is no such thing as a relative. The essence of a true yogi is detachment. He is detached from his son, his wife, his family and his home. He is a person whose mind is unperturbed by sorrow.'
'You have cleared my doubts, Guruji. You have lightened my mind.'
'Remember what Krishna told Arjuna: "Grieve not, for I shall liberate you from all sins."'
'You have indeed liberated me, Guruji.'
'I have to go now, Jagannath, to deliver a talk. Please try and do something about that warrant. I cannot remain abroad indefinitely. Even my Schengen visa will run out in two months. I am told that bastard Brahmdeo gave an interview on the Devotion Channel in which he made all sorts of allegations against me. So my suspicion was true.'
'Don't worry, Guruji. The day I become Chief Minister, that very day Swami Brahmdeo will have an arrest warrant against his name. Jai Shambhu.'
'Jai Shambhu.'
*
'Mukhtar?'
'Yes, Boss?'
'Are you in Lucknow?'
'Yes, Boss.'
'Tell me, Mukhtar, are you a devout Muslim?'
'Not really, Boss. But I try to attend the namaz at least every Friday.'
'Still, you must be familiar with the concept of sacrifice. Have you heard of Abraham?'
'Every Muslim has. He was a great man who was prepared to sacrifice his son to please Allah.'
'It must have been very difficult for him. And the job I am going to give you now is equally difficult for me.'
'Hukum. I am ready. Just tell me what the job is.'
'I cannot talk on phone. Can you come to the house right now?'
'I am in coming, Boss. Khuda hafiz.'
'Khuda hafiz.'
11
Mail-Order Bride
THE UNITED AIRLINES plane touched down at New Delhi Airport bang on time at three ten p.m. All the other passengers seemed to be in a mad rush to get out, as though free candies were being distributed outside. I took my time stuffing the nice airline magazine and the card about all the safety precautions into my bag, even using the toilet when the other passengers had gone.
There was a long queue at the passport counter when I arrived and the man at my desk was slower than a three-legged turtle. Every ten minutes or so he would push off to have a cup of tea or chat with his friends. I was chomping at the bit by the time my turn came.
'Good day, Sir,' he said, flipping open my passport. He looked at me and checked my photo in the passport, then looked at me again. 'Is this your passport?'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Well, you look different from your photo.'
'That's coz Mom said send in your best picture. So I sent in my best picture. And that happens to be when I was in High School.'
'Please wait here,' the officer said and went out to consult with his foreman. He came back after ten minutes. 'Sorry, we cannot allow you to enter India. We suspect you have a forged passport. You will have to be d
eported back to the United States.' He handed the passport back to me and pointed to a corner. 'Just sit down on that bench.'
'What?' I cried. 'No, you can't be serious. Are you pulling my leg? I got a wedding to attend here.'
He shook his head. 'There's nothing I can do.'
'Please don't say that. I've come all the way from Waco just to meet my fiancée. I am sure you can pull some strings for me,' I pleaded.
'Well . . .' He looked around to see if anyone else was listening. 'I might be able to help you, if you can help me.'
'I'll do anything you say.'
'I collect foreign-currency notes,' he whispered. 'I have all the notes from America except the hundred-dollar bill. Can you give me a hundred-dollar note? Just put it inside your passport and slide it over.'
I thanked the Lord that he didn't have a thousand-dollar bill missing from his collection, coz I hadn't seen one either, and immediately peeled off a hundred-dollar note from my wallet. I put it inside my passport and handed it to the officer, who quickly stamped the passport and returned it to me. 'Have a nice stay, Mr Page,' he smiled at me. I opened the passport. The greenback had disappeared.
It took me twenty minutes to get my Delsey from the baggage merry-go-round and another ten to convert some dollars into Indian rupees. Then, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I walked out of the terminal building. India welcomed me with a blast of warm air. It was hotter than a well-digger's ass in August. There was a whole bunch of people shouting and waving; car horns were blaring, uniformed chauffeurs were running around with placards, and brown-shirted men were asking everyone, 'Taxi? Taxi?'
I began hunting for Sapna in the crowd. Although there were plenty of girls at the airport, no one looked like her.
I waited for three hours at the kerb, but my bride-to-be didn't arrive. All the other passengers left. The airport became halfempty. I wandered out towards the taxi stand, wondering if she was waiting outside, and that's when I saw her. She stood in a red sari, her hands folded in namaste, her neck loaded with jewellery, a big smile plastered on her face. Next to her picture, the huge billboard said in big blue letters, 'WELCOME TO INDIA.'
I'm not a weepy sort of guy. The last time I really cried was way back in 1998 when Mankind (a.k.a. Mick Foley) lost to the Undertaker in the famous Hell in a Cell match on WWF. But at that moment I felt all choked up. I just wanted to rush into Mom's lap and cry my heart out. I wished the officer had sent me back on that plane. I wished I had never come to India. But when you make your bed, you got to lie in it. It was getting dark now and I needed a place to stay. Slowly, I walked towards a yellow-andblack taxi.
The taxi-driver was a turbaned fellow with a thick black moustache and beard. 'Can you take me to some cheap hotel?' I asked the gentleman.
'Of course, Sir. I am knowing just the right place for you. Which country are you coming from?'
'America,' I said.
'I like Americans.' He nodded his head. 'Half my village is living in New Jersey. First time in New Delhi?'
'Very first time in India,' I replied.
'Then get in, Sir.' He opened the rear door for me and put my suitcase and bag in the trunk.
The taxi had torn seats and a strange, greasy kind of smell. The dashboard was decorated with pictures of old people with long white beards. The driver pushed down the meter and started the car.
New Delhi seemed bigger than Waco and the traffic was quite amazing. Apart from cars, there were buses, cycles, motorcycles, scooters, and strange contraptions which the driver said were called auto-rickshaws, all moving together side by side without crashing into each other or killing the people walking on the road. Suddenly I saw a huge grey elephant lumbering towards us from the opposite direction.
'Hey, has this fellow escaped from the zoo?' I asked in astonishment.
'No, Sir,' the driver laughed. 'Here we don't need zoos. You can see all the animals you are wanting in the city itself. There,' he pointed in the distance, 'you can see some nice buffaloes and cows, too.'
We drove like crazy for almost two hours. At one point it seemed to me that we had returned to the airport. I started getting worried, but the driver laughed. 'The city is being very far from the airport, almost one hundred miles, Sir. But not to be worrying, we will get there. In India you must be learning to be patient.'
Eventually, he took me into a market lit up with yellow light bulbs and white tube lights. I saw narrow lanes teeming with people and cows. Dusty men pulled wooden carts loaded to the brim with sacks of stuff. Fat ladies rode in rickety rickshaws. Autorickshaws zipped around like toy cars. Cyclists weaved in and out, tinkling their tinny bells. The market was full of small shops selling fruit, groceries, televisions and books. Signboards were plastered on every space – advertising everything from ceiling fans to perfume oils. Tilted at various angles, they seemed like any minute they would crash down on the people below.
The driver stopped in front of a crumbling yellow building which bore the sign 'Ruby Guest House, Paharganj'. Below that it said, 'Decent Laxury Higenic backpaker accomodation.'
'This is your hotel, Sir. Very good and very reasonable,' the driver said, and charged me a thousand rupees.
As I was about to step into the hotel, a big fat cow stopped right in front of me.
'Shoo,' I told the animal, but it shook its head at me. I pushed my bag at her and the next thing I knew I was flying in the air. I landed with a thud, crashing headlong into a parked cycle. The cow was on me again, snorting and digging its heels into the ground. I looked around for help, but the people around me simply laughed. I got up slowly, dusting my pants, and made another attempt to enter the hotel, but the cow refused to let me pass. It had taken to me like a buzzard takes to guts.
I was saved by a hawker selling bananas in a cart. The cow mooed and made a beeline for him. I quickly stepped into the building.
The guesthouse reception had a tattered green sofa, a dusty red carpet and dying plants. The manager was an oily young man with slick black hair. 'Welcome, Sir, to our five-star guesthouse,' he greeted me. He asked me to pay two thousand rupees as a week's rent deposit and allotted me room number 411 on the second floor without any fuss. A young boy in dirty underpants picked up my suitcase and took me to the room up a creaky staircase.
My room was nothing to write home about. Only a little bigger than a cubby-hole, it had a single bed, a cupboard and a small desk and chair. The walls were painted grey and the floor was covered with a cheap carpet. There was an attached john with a smelly WC, a tap, a bucket and a mug.
'Breakfast from seven to seven thirty in TV lounge,' the boy announced as he placed my suitcase on top of the desk. 'Can I get you anything? Food? Girl? Coke? Smoke?'
I thought about the choices. 'I wouldn't mind a Coke,' I said.
'Five hundred rupees, please,' he demanded. That was more than ten dollars for a can of Coke! I couldn't cotton on to these Indian price tags. Reluctantly, I parted with the money.
After the boy left, I opened the dark-green curtains at the window to check out the view. A tangled mass of cables greeted my eye, stretching from one building to another like a roof above the street. There was enough dodgy wiring here to electrocute the whole of Texas. Some kind of black smog hung in the air. Two people were arguing loudly on a roof below me. A radio was playing a Hindi song. I wondered how I would sleep with this racket going on.
The bell boy returned in ten minutes and handed me a little plastic packet containing some white powder.
'What the hell's this?' I said. 'I asked for a Coke.'
'This is coke. High grade. Top class,' he said and scampered out of the room.
'Hey, wait!' I shouted, but the boy had already disappeared. I sniffed at the powder. It didn't smell like Coke at all. I was wondering whether I needed to mix it with water when the door was kicked open and a fat policeman barged in. 'Hold it right there, Mister,' he announced in a stern voice. 'What is this in your hand?'
'I
dunno. I asked for a Coke and I got this,' I said, spreading my hands.
'Aha! So you admit you asked for cocaine.'
'Cocaine? What do you mean?'
'Don't act the innocent. In Paharganj, when a foreigner asks for a smoke, he means marijuana. And when he asks for coke, he means cocaine. But possession of cocaine is a very serious criminal offence in our country. Now you will go to jail for ten years.'
Jail for ten years? For ordering a Coke? I almost puked.
'Come on, I am taking you to the police station,' the cop announced and took out a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket.
I flipped on seeing the cuffs, and that's when I remembered what had happened at the airport. In a flash I took out a hundreddollar bill from my wallet and waved it at the cop. 'Would you like a little something for your dollar collection?'
The cop's eyes began shining. He grunted and snatched the note. 'I am forgiving you this time. Don't do drugs in India,' he warned me, pocketed the plastic packet and left, tapping his stick on the staircase.
I slumped down on the bed, just plumb tuckered out from all that had happened in a day. I had taken my first foreign trip, been stood up by the girl I'd fallen in love with, almost been sent back from the airport, been head-butted by a cow and nearly arrested by a cop.
I opened the brown folder and took out the pictures I had been sent. I looked into the eyes of this woman – Sapna or Shabnam – and tried to ask her, Why did you do this to me?
The next morning I was woken up by a fluttering sound. I opened my eyes and found two pigeons making out next to my bed. I shooed them out the window, and leaned out to see the morning view. The sun had not yet come out, but the day had already begun for the people on the street. There were little girls in frocks busy filling a whole heap of plastic bottles from a tap. A man was taking a bath on the pavement. He soaped himself, standing in striped underpants next to a plastic bucket, and then rinsed off with a mug of water.
A little later, I, too, stripped off and entered the bathroom. Standing under the tap, I turned it on full blast. A small trickle of lukewarm water came out. Five minutes later even the trickle stopped, leaving me only half-showered. I now knew why water was more precious than gold in this city.