The Girl with the Golden Parasol

FIVE

O.P. proved to be a very good friend. To meet his expenses, Rahul was forced to tutor two students — which none other than O.P. had arranged. He’d been studying at the university for two years, had already completed his MSc in criminology, and was now doing advanced research. O.P. didn’t need to worry about funds, since he was receiving a prestigious UGC — University Grants Commission — scholarship.

Rahul discovered that the very contours of the university were changing fast. In the past few years, foreign students had stopped applying. Internationally renowned thinkers like Dr. Watson wanted out, and were putting out feelers elsewhere. The situation was deteriorating.

He heard about the female student from Mauritius who’d been abducted last year by some goondas who raped and killed her. The thugs threw her body into a ditch under a footbridge. O.P. warned Rahul, “You’d better be careful and keep your wits about you. If you go into town, don’t look for trouble. Even if you’re just buying a ticket at the cinema, don’t flash a 100- or 500-rupee note, because it’s not just the guy sitting in the booking window you have to worry about. It’s everyone. The paan seller and the chaat vendor, they’re all in on the racket. If they suspect you’re the kid of some Assamese high roller, they’ll come by the hostel whenever they feel like it and take you away. Every year you hear about dozens of abductions. This is an old dacoit stomping ground. Devi Singh, Malkhan Singh, Mohar Singh, Tahsildar Singh — that whole gang of dacoits used to prowl around here and wreak havoc.”

Rahul soon realized O.P. was telling the truth. Even the postman was in cahoots with the goondas. Money orders from families of South Indian students or others who were a long way from home usually arrived on the first of the month. The goondas knew precisely how much each student received. As soon as the clock struck nine thirty on the night of money-order day, a couple of jeeps would pull up to the hostel. Out they’d come wielding hockey sticks, cycle chains, iron rods, homemade pistols, any weapons they could easily get their hands on cheap from the local mechanic. They addressed one another with goofy nicknames like Ajju, Lacchu, Acchan, Babban, Cuppy, Penda, Guddu, Dabba, Boxy. To denote rank and seniority they’d add “Little Brother,” “Elder Brother,” or “Guru.” So there’d be Acchan Guru or Brother Lacchu. Every so often someone would even achieve the rank of Ustad: Parasu Ustad, for example. Of course, these characters were connected to local politicians and police, but on top of this they also wielded considerable influence both in student politics and within the university administration. The goondas called students who came from Assam, Manipur, or Arunachal “monkeys” or “mallu”; South Indians or students from other countries were “rundu.”

A Manipuri student named Sapam Tomba lived in Room 212. He was handsome, pleasantly plump, a quick student, and a good badminton player. He and Rahul had gotten to know each other well. Sapam was in his first year of an MSc in botany. A couple of weeks ago, at home near Imphal, his older brother, a primary school teacher, had been killed by gunfire. Sapam cried and cried. He couldn’t go back to Manipur to attend his brother’s funeral: first because he didn’t have enough money for the trip, and second because his father forbade him to return home. Incidents related to the insurgency in Manipur were on the rise, and the whole state was overrun with the Indian Army and Border Security Force personnel that executed “combing operations” and had deadly “encounters” with insurgents every day. “If I go home, they’ll say I am a PLA member and shoot me. It’s safer here than there,” Sapam said.

The goondas had broken into Sapam’s room, too. They took his watch, 600 rupees from a money order, a teakettle, and a thermos. But that wasn’t the worst of it. They made Sapam strip naked and tried to force him to pee on the hot electric heater. They tortured him until he gave in; Sapam passed out cold from the electric shock. He still hadn’t returned to a state that could be called normal; they had broken him. He’d cry and ask, “Where can I go? How can I continue with my studies? Tell me!”

O.P., Rahul, and a few other students pitched in to pay Sapam’s mess bill and school fees. “Manipuri people want to separate from India. If an election were held today, the number of Manipuris and Nagas voting for the separatists would exceed even the numbers in Kashmir who want independence.”

How did this happen?

Sapam said that many women in Manipur who had become widows, including his own aunt, go to Brindavan, home of Krishna. The famous Ras Lila, performed in honor of Krishna, was now staged in villages all over Manipur, and the festivals included devotional hymns in praise of Krishna. In the seventeenth century, Gaurang Mahaprabhu Chaitanya spread his devotional poetry and songs from Bengal until they echoed throughout Manipur. The result was that all of the people, including adivasis, became Vaishnavas, devotees of Krishna. These simple, sweet, straightforward, thoughtful people, living the difficult life of the mountains, Mongol or Tibeto-Burmese Meiteis and adivasis, attached surnames like Sharma and Singh to their names. As if Chaitanya had flooded their spiritually barren souls with a torrent of salubrious nectar. In 1947, after partition, Manipur held a referendum and by the will of its people decided to join the Republic of India.

So why has it come to this? Within fifty years, why do 99 percent of the people want independence from India?

Sapam spoke: “The Mayang foreigners looted everything. They took our girls. They humiliated us. The market, trade, employment — Mayang controlled everything. If you even opened your mouth, you’d be labeled a separatist. If the army leaves Manipur, there’ll be independence the next day.” He continued, “During the British time, we gave our blood to Subhash Bose’s Indian National Army. We fought for India’s independence all the way to Burma. Now we’ll fight for our own independence. Mark my words: we’ll be free from India before Kashmir is.”

Rahul decided that university life wasn’t as easy as he first thought. First you had to worry about personal safety, and after that the studying all the time, reading thick anthropology books, trying to get to the root of mankind and civilization, and gazing at Madhuri Dixit’s backside. It was no walk in the park. The local goondas could break in at any moment and put a gun to your head. We are merely prey living in a cruel, criminal, and degrading time. It’s an age of thugs, counterfeiters, smugglers, and real-estate developers. Nowadays, righteous and upstanding Indians suffer under this regime as if they were Kashmiris, Manipuris, or Naxalites.

Kinnu Da explained, “Last month I was invited to take part in a seminar in New York. I had the minimum 500 dollars with me. I’d never brought more cash than that, because I don’t spend it. But this time, for the first time, they questioned me. I was asked very rudely, ‘How are you going to get by with this? Why didn’t you bring more with you?”’ Kinnu Da continued, “The truth is the world now belongs to businessmen. They bring hundreds of thousands of dollars with them when they travel. Transactions worth billions are traded. They can’t fathom that there are still some people left in India who don’t crave making a fortune, and who travel to America or France not to do business but for academic or other reasons.”

So globalization exists only for those who are players in the global market: speculators, bootleggers, government ministers, and bureaucrats. Suppose someone like the humanitarian Dr. Kotnis wanted to go to China nowadays, or someone like the Communist agitator Tibeto-Buddhologist monk Mahapandit Rahul Sankrityayan wanted to go to Russia or Central Asia. Would it be possible?

“Not at all!” said Kartikeya. “This is the end of the civil society. It’s vanished from everywhere. Only governments, companies, institutions, the Mafia, and interest groups remain. If, by chance, you happen to see some writer, poet, or thinker sitting on a plane taking a trip abroad, you can be sure that he’s just a middleman or lackey, secretly on the take, working for some company, institution, or corporation. Always doubt his integrity!”

Kartikeya Kajle was from Pune. Alongside doing research in geology, he was getting ready to take the civil service exam. He told Rahul that he, too, should give it a try.

After Sapam, the goondas went after Madhusudan, a student from Kerala, who was beaten so badly and got so scared that he jumped from the second floor and broke his legs. Rahul, O.P., and Kartikeya went to the hospital to visit him. His father had written him a telegram instructing him to apply for an academic transfer and return to Cochin at once. Madhusudan was distraught. His entire future was ruined.

One day Rahul, along with Anima, Abha, Deepti, Manmohan, and Raju, was headed from his department to the canteen near the library. There was a group of six or seven boys hanging out by the side of the road, and one of them threw a rock that hit Rahul on the back of the head. Anima shrieked. There was no blood. One of them shouted, “Hey, big hero! Nice hair. That sweet little part in the middle, just like Rahul Ray.”

“You’re all a bunch of loudmouths,” Anima scolded.

“Hey, big sis. You bringing that little girlie man home to meet our momma? Why don’t you go look for a real boy instead?” They burst into hysterical laughter.

“We should end this right here. Be quiet and keep walking,” Manmohan advised.

So they kept going. It seemed the worst had passed. But as soon as they turned the corner to the canteen, another rock whizzed past and hit Abha in the head. She cried out and fell down. Her glasses broke and blood streamed from her forehead.

“Did you come to this school to study or chase skirts? This is our first warning. Watch yourself, hero. Otherwise we’ll set your clock straight.” From behind came another voice from among them. “And go fuck your baoo!”

“Baoo” means mother.

They went to the proctor’s office to lodge a complaint. This much bullying and abuse was unimaginable. Abha went to the dispensary to have her wound dressed. She couldn’t see without her glasses. And on top of everything else, finals were looming.

Dr. Chaturvedi was the proctor. He listened to the whole story while using a toothpick to dig at bits of supari caught in his teeth. Then he sat up straight and said in a serious yet shrewd tone of voice, “Look, this isn’t Delhi or London. If you go around having your jollies with modern girls, fashion girls, well, something’s bound to happen. Everyone’s eyeing these girls. The teachers aren’t far behind the students on this count. Today you got a rock thrown at you. Tomorrow you’ll flunk your courses.”

“But, sir! We weren’t having that kind of fun at all. We were just going to the canteen before our next period for some refreshments, sir,” Rahul countered.

“Oh? And where have you come from, Mr. Smarty-pants? And why do you part your hair in the middle like that? Is that what girls go for nowadays?” Proctor Chaturvedi said sarcastically. “Look, mister, if making friends with girls is such a big hobby of yours, then at least find some money to put in your pocket. Get a car. Why risk walking around so openly with them? All these cars with their tinted windows I see driving on campus from town, who knows what’s going on inside? C’mon, there are hotels everywhere — why don’t you try one of them? If you keep on like this, it’ll be dangerous not just for you, but for the girls. It’s a poisonous atmosphere here. In no time at all, you’ll have nonsense scrawled all over the walls on campus. It’s nothing to you, but what happens to the poor maiden whose name’s been dragged through mud then left high and dry?”

“Sir, you are misunderstanding, sir.” Manmohan whimpered.

“It’s not me who is misunderstanding, it’s you,” Chaturvedi said, now done picking his teeth. “Your minds have gone bad from watching too much TV. Focus on your studies. And about today’s little incident: what should I do, summon the deputy of police? Go ahead and press charges. By all means. But don’t forget that these boys are locals. They pelted you on the head with a rock today only to give you a warning. They were taunting you. Tomorrow they’ll break into your hostel and beat you like there’s no tomorrow. My advice for you people? Return to your department, nice and quiet, and don’t wander around in groups like that anymore.”

They left. The pain in Abha’s head was getting worse. Rahul felt the back of his own head swelling up a bit.

So this was the postmodern age when, thanks to ads on TV, Valentine’s Day was celebrated in small towns, and even in the roughest, most backward neighborhoods, the demand for chocolate cake and Archie’s greetings cards for New Year’s was on the rise.

Watch the shorn-headed ascetic caveman drink Pepsi and breakdance in front of the Ram temple, cheap pistol fastened to phallus. And see his sack filled with dirty money laundered by Ibrahim, criminal don, living in Dubai.

Vote for him — he’ll bring on the Hindu Raj.

The swelling on Rahul’s head began to throb. What if the blood wasn’t clotting properly? He was scared.