The Girl with the Golden Parasol

THREE

Kinnu Da addressed Rahul. “The most significant thing about the adivasis is that they have so few needs. They leave a minimal mark on the environment. I’ve documented adivasi communities in Singhbhum, Jharkhand, Mayurbhanj, Bastar, and the Northeast that still practice slash-and-burn agriculture and confine themselves to raw, roasted, or boiled foods. They won’t even fry their food. This is a kind of natural way of living. But keep in mind, they fought like hell against the British for their autonomy, their right to self-rule. But historians never included that chapter in their versions of history. The truth is that history is a highly political record of power. The class, caste, or ethnic group on top will fashion history to suit their needs. I’ve always said that the history of this indigenous state and its people remains to be written.”

Rahul was afraid. Just a few days back he’d seen a film called Stigmata. God’s messenger shall be silenced. Truth and information are two different things. Truth is like a bomb to the information industry. Therefore, the truth must be neutralized.

Whoosh; plunk. A leaf falls.

Plunk. Full of its own nectar, a pure fruit falls silently to the ground, prematurely, in a desolate place.

Plunk. Another murder will be committed, or suicide; a paragraph’s mention, buried in the back of tomorrow’s paper.

Plunk-plunk-plunk-plunk! Time passes. The earth spins on its axis.

Kinnu Da was transferred time and again from one adivasi region to the next. He’s crazy, a real nutcase—that’s how his colleagues in the civil service talked about him behind his back. All that time in government service, and, except for his pension, he’s broke. He can barely afford a flat in Delhi.

Rahul began to sour on organic chemistry, which started to smell of the stench of vinegar and fermentation. The very name was like an airtight chamber filled with the farts and belches of the fat man.

So I’ll do an MA in anthropology instead, Rahul thought, and then a PhD. And I will endeavor to reach the root of this problem known as mankind. O supreme one! Give me the strength and faith to discover how Satan managed to sabotage history for his own benefit!

But what about Madhuri Dixit? And her backside? And her startled doe-like eyes?

Rahul crumpled a piece of paper into a ball, loaded it into the slingshot, and drew it back as far as he could. Pfffff! The paper ball whizzed through the air and hit Madhuri Dixit right on the bottom.

“Oooooooh!” came her sweet voice, soaked in music and infused with quivering pain. The doe turned her head and looked lovingly at her hunter. “Thank you, Rahul! Thank you for the boo-boo! I love you!”