The Age of Shiva (49 page)

Tucked in towards the end were a few lines, saying you were not coming home for Divali. “The holidays are only two weeks long, and I don't feel yet as if I've settled in. So I'm thinking of joining some boys on a trek in the Himachal hills. Sorry for the change in plans on such short notice. I hope you don't mind.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Since you had left, almost four months had elapsed. I had been waiting for Divali to see you again, I had been counting on it. I wanted to surprise you in person with my plan to pursue a B.Ed. I stared at your letter. Had you felt any hesitation at setting down the sentences? Could you have imagined how disheartening they would be?

I felt tempted to go roam around the city to clear my mind. Instead, I folded your letter away into the drawer where I had been saving the rest. At the very bottom of the pile, I knew, lay an envelope that didn't belong—the one I had left for you when I had decided to kill myself. I had made Zaida vow that she would not disclose what I had attempted—to you, or to anyone else.
To be a parent is to be guilty.
Each time I had taken the sealed envelope out to tear it up, I had always put it back. Perhaps as a reminder of what I had felt. Perhaps because for once I had recorded these thoughts to you that keep streaming through my head.

I closed the drawer and turned the key in the lock. I picked up the textbook again, the one I was trying to digest.
Principles of Secondary Education
by Mishra and Singh. They had told me that admission to the B.Ed. class was by no means assured, that it would help to have read the book as background before the interview. Zaida would be by soon to check how far I had advanced—she had set up a grueling schedule for me of three chapters a week. Of course, I could have gone to the interview and pointed out that the book was published by none other than my father's Freedom Press. But I had no intention of invoking Paji's name—this time, it had to be my own merit that got me in.

The material was very challenging, and I was surprised at how far I had managed to progress. Now, however, I found it impossible to concentrate. I tried taking the book to the balcony, tried reading it in bed. I made myself some tea and sipped it while flipping through the pages. Finally, I gave up. I unlocked the drawer to read your letter again.

It wasn't so bad, I told myself—the winter holidays would be here soon after the Divali break. It would give me the time to study some more, let you bond with the new friends you had made. Wasn't this exactly the kind of independence Zaida had said I should encourage? The disengagement that would allow me to build my world again? Something flickered in the thought (a hint of anticipation, of resolve?) but escaped before I could capture it. I replaced the letter in its envelope and returned to Mishra and Singh.

But I still wasn't able to concentrate. My gaze kept returning to the envelope. My thoughts to the words within. I sat with the book open in my lap and allowed my mind to drift.

Snow-covered peaks emerge again from my dream. The pine trees are tall and majestic. A river winds slowly through a valley. The sun hides behind a cloud somewhere.

This time, I imagine you in the scene. You are hiking alone up a trail. I wonder about your friends. Perhaps you have left them behind somewhere.

You reach an outcrop that looks over a valley. A path leads down from the ridge. The sun suddenly bathes you in light. You raise your face as if to swallow its rays.

Then the clouds shift again. The sun begins to fade on your face. It lights the panorama spread out below now. You turn towards the gleaming valley that awaits.

A
LTHOUGH THE STORIES AND PERSONAL HISTORIES IN THIS NOVEL ARE
entirely fictional, I would not have been able to bring them to life without the crucial firsthand knowledge of India before, during, and since the Partition, shared with me by members of my family. In particular, I am indebted to my parents, my uncles Krishan Lal and Ushab Lal Suri, my aunts Pushap Lall and Kusum Bhardwaj, as well as Virender uncle and especially Satinder Mody. A special thank-you to Gulshan uncle for his memories of the Delhi refugee camps and of the railway colony near Nizamuddin station. Another special thanks to Baby auntie, for her wealth of knowledge about Karva Chauth customs, and for the wonderful tidbit of people making clothes out of parachutes in Lahore.

While I consulted several different sources for historical material, a broader understanding of the prevailing atmosphere of the times came from reading through old newspapers. In this regard, the microfilm archives of the
Times of India
in Mumbai were particularly helpful. For the record, although several right-wing organizations may be found in the political landscape of India (both past and present), the HRM is a fictional group, which I have created here for narrative exigency.

The central myth of Parvati's creation of a son to keep her company in Shiva's absence is standard in Hindu mythology texts, as is the one of how Ganesh gets his elephant head. The Andhaka myth has somewhat different versions—the one used here, of Andhaka coveting his mother Parvati, comes from the
Mahabhagavata Purana
. Shiva's amorous pursuit of consorts other than Parvati (interpreted in a divine, not mortal, sense) is detailed in several of the Puranas (e.g.,
Skanda
and
Matsya
), while Parvati's uneasiness about his engagement with Ganga (so subtly conveyed in the actual Elephanta Caves sculpture in Mumbai) is mentioned, for instance, in the
Skanda Purana
.

I have taken the liberty of making up the lyrics to “Light the Fire of Your Heart.” However, the title is reminiscent of an actual song, “Diya Jalao,” by the great singer and tragi-hero K. L. Saigal, and the reference to audiences greeting the climax with lit lamps is authentic. The glimpses of student life at Wilson College in the late 1950s come from Vispi Balaporia—I am grateful to her for generously sharing her memories.

I wish to thank the friends who have taken the time to read drafts of the manuscript and offer such valuable comments—in particular Nancy and Frank Pfenning, Karen Kumm, Rick Morris, and Deborah Tannen. A special thanks to my UK editor Alexandra Pringle for her passionate interest in this book, and to Shashi Tharoor for sharing his perceptions on the historical and political content. Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva's reading was thorough and painstaking, her suggestions instrumental in making the exposition more compelling. My editor Jill Bialosky brought enormous energy and a spirited new perspective to bear on the novel, honing the characters and broadening their appeal with her insightful efforts. My agent Nicole Aragi mothered this work all the way from inception, critiquing successive drafts with minute and loving attention. My partner Larry Cole kept me going, not only by acting as a sounding board for various incarnations of the book, but also by being such a constant source of vitality in my life.

I am enormously grateful for the support I have received from a PEN/Bingham fellowship and a Guggenheim fellowship, and from residencies at Yaddo, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and the MacDowell Colony. I especially wish to thank the Ucross Foundation for two magical sojourns there—in August 2003, when I experienced a true breakthrough in the writing, and in August 2006, when I completed a definitive second draft.

Finally, I wish to thank the University of Maryland Baltimore County, for the unwavering encouragement, flexibility, and supportiveness extended to me through the years it took to write this novel.