The Solitude of Emperors (12 page)

But while it is easy enough to understand the motives of these people, how are we to stop them? For they cannot be permitted to rampage around unchecked, they cannot be allowed to turn Indian against Indian in the name of God or anyone else. We could hope of course that the majority of our people, who are by and large sensible and secular, will reject these agents of destruction of their own accord, but often for good sense to prevail there needs to be a catalyst.

The Gods, we have seen, are powerless to help at this point, so until they are reinvigorated, we must look elsewhere for aid. We don’t need the assistance of priests or prophets or holy men, no matter how sagacious and wise: their place is in the temple or mosque or church or gurudwara or synagogue. The liberals and hard-core secularists, who are in the front line of the battle against the fundamentalists, are simply not strong enough to overcome the enemy; there are too few of them, and they are often discredited in the eyes of the masses because they seem too impious and as fundamentalist in their views as those they oppose. Who then can lead us out of the darkness? What we need is an emperor of men, someone who is so strong, commanding, brilliant, secular, compassionate and valorous that the forces of darkness will shrink back, powerless to stop his onslaught. What sort of characteristics should this paragon possess? Fortunately, we have a few role models from our own past who did in their own time what we would like our champion to do in ours. Only three men throughout this country’s long, long history could be unequivocally declared great: Ashoka, the Emperor of Renunciation; Akbar, the Emperor of Faith; and Gandhi, the Emperor of Truth. Each of these men were not just ahead of their time, through their actions and lives they transcended time, became men for all time. Interestingly, each of them had to deal with religious conflict without losing his own religion, a quality any new emperor would need because no atheist or agnostic could have a vision for this country that would endure. My intention in this short book, then, is to try and understand for myself, and for you, the youth of our country upon whom our future rests, what made these men great and worthy of emulation. I am hoping our study of the essence of these men will help us recognize the new emperor—it occurs to me as I write this that he might well be one of you—when he finally arrives, so we can help him in his efforts to take the country to a place more glorious than anything we could have imagined for ourselves.

6

The Plant Hunter

I woke to an unfamiliar sound: birdsong coursing through the stillness of the morning. It was not yet light, so I didn’t get out of bed immediately but lay there listening and marvelling, in a sleep-hazed way, at my present state. I was closer, in a geographical sense, to K— than I had been in over a year, and I was suddenly assailed by a sharp burst of homesickness. I scrambled out of bed and hunted for a packet of sweets that I’d bought on an impulse in Coimbatore and took out a square of mysore pak, the colour of amber. As I bit into it, I was transported back to Sri Krishna Sweets, a small shop next to the chaos of the main bus-stand in K— that I was taken to twice a month by my father when I was still quite small. The sweetshop was famous for its wheat halva, but the quality of all its wares ensured it was always packed with customers. There was barely enough space for two or three people in the shop, but nobody minded the cramped interior. Every available bit of space was given over to glass-fronted shelves bearing all manner of sweets and savouries—tottering mountains of halva oozing ghee, laddoos, round and golden as the sun, sticks of sweet mixture frosted with sugar, pyramids of murukku, crisp as kindling, athirasam, moonthirikai, kolukkatai…no matter how often we went there my ten-year-old self would reel from the choice that could be mine for a couple of rupees.

On my sole visit to K— after I had moved to Bombay, I had gone to Sri Krishna Sweets on the day of my return. The sweets were as delicious as ever but they didn’t hold the same attraction, and as there was very little else for me in the town, within days I was longing to get back to the addictive energy of the city.

Unfortunately, my second rejection of K— included my parents as well. In my desperation to leave everything that had formed me behind, I shut the door on them. I compared them to the people I met and worked with, and was ashamed of them: their small-town ways, their lack of ambition and accomplishment. When I think about it now, all I can say is that in this I was not unique; I have found that ambitious small-town boys, unless they are exceptionally loyal and grateful, almost routinely pass through a phase where they discard their family. I had installed Mr Sorabjee in the position vacated by my parents and it was not until the riots took place that they were restored to me as I looked for every form of security I could find. I wanted them back in my life, and the letters that my mother wrote to me twice a month in her tiny handwriting took on a new importance. For much of my first year in the city I had barely glanced at them, and would rarely reply, but in the days after the attack I began to wait for them, pore over their contents, and reply to them diligently. The irony was that I couldn’t tell my parents how much I needed them because, even as I longed for them, there was no way in which I could articulate my feelings, because I knew that they would demand that I return home, and perhaps contrive to make me stay in the bovine, unthreatening confines of K— for the rest of my life. As I began to emerge from the despair that had enveloped me, my need for my parents lessened, and although I was no longer as neglectful as I had initially been, they began to fade in and out of my consciousness.

As I lay in bed I thought about my parents, I felt ashamed that I had made up an excuse to avoid going home for the holidays this year. But the feeling didn’t linger and my mind drifted to other things. How proud my father would be if he could see me now; could he and I have imagined, as we waited in line at Sri Krishna Sweets for our purchases to be wrapped in newspaper, that I would, one day, be holidaying in a palatial bungalow in the mountains… about to receive my first real byline…and dreaming about emperors? For my thoughts had turned now to Mr Sorabjee’s impassioned introduction to his book. I wasn’t sure how many of today’s youth would actually heed his message, but I found his thesis fascinating. Like everyone who had had a measure of education, I knew about Ashoka, Akbar and Gandhi, but yoking them together gave rise to all sorts of interesting possibilities.

A pale lozenge of grey appeared in the skylight of the wall facing me. I should get up soon, make enquiries about how I could get to the Tower of God. The excitement I had felt when I had first received the assignment returned, pushing the remaining traces of sleep from me.

~

There was a knock on the door, and a voice said, ‘Morning tea, saar.’ Upon being asked to enter, the young servant who helped around the house brought in a tray on which there was a teapot and other tea-making accessories, together with a plate of slightly soggy Glucose biscuits. I drank two cups, showered, dressed and emerged from my room to find breakfast laid out for me—a boiled egg, freshly squeezed orange juice and porridge—on an octagonal table in the enclosed veranda. I was impatient to get going but dutifully ate as much as I could while making a mental note to tell the butler that he shouldn’t bother making breakfast for it wasn’t a meal I was used to eating.

When he came in with fresh toast, I told him I only wanted morning tea from now on; I also asked if I could have the driver take me to the Tower of God. The driver had gone on a short holiday, he said, but he would try to get me a taxi from town. Taking my cup of tea, I went out on to the front steps of the house. The light was as clear as it had been yesterday and I could see for miles. I had noticed some lights the previous night, and I saw they belonged to a small cluster of huts and shops lining the road to town. The sound of children playing on the road floated up to me through the still air; at this height the shrillness blurred away and their voices took on a pleasing quality. The butler coughed from behind me, and said that unfortunately there weren’t any taxis available today but that he had booked one for early the next morning. This was unwelcome news, as I had been looking forward to starting on my story. The beauty of the landscape, the brisk mountain air, the quiet that I was becoming used to, now seemed utterly without charm, as I imagined the day stretching ahead of me with nothing to fill it.

Just then we heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the hill, and I grew hopeful; perhaps I could get a ride to my destination. But I thought it prudent to wait for confirmation that the vehicle was indeed making for Cypress Manor as I had learned that sound was deceptive in the mountains. More than once that morning I thought I’d heard a car or bus approaching the house when in fact the sound had carried there from some other place. This time, though, I hadn’t been mistaken, for a few minutes later an ancient scooter driven by a skinny, old man spluttered up the driveway. The butler went out to meet the visitor, and when I walked over, he introduced himself as Moses, the pastor of the local church. He had come to invite Mr Khanna to their annual New Year’s Eve concert, an event that my host had never missed in all the time that he had lived in Cypress Manor. This year, he had told the priest he was taking his holiday early, but that his guest might like to attend in his place.

‘Are you a Christian, sir?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘Every faith is welcome at our New Year’s concert so you must come,’ he said. ‘Our church is just across the valley. I’m sorry I can’t stay, but there are a lot of preparations I have to attend to.’ He pointed out the location of the church on the opposite hill—I could just make out a thin steeple that poked out of a mass of green—and then laboriously turned his vehicle and drove away. After he had gone, I asked the butler if it was possible to walk to town but he said that it was miles away and there were no bus stops close by. Feeling frustrated, I wondered if I should read more of Mr Sorabjee’s manuscript, but there would be time enough for that. Excusing himself, the butler went back into the house. I drifted into the garden, plucked and ate a couple of guavas, and then, bored, went back to the house, where I sat down on the steps and weighed my much diminished set of options.

The only other person about was the taciturn gardener, who was weeding among the fruit trees, but there seemed no point in talking to him. Six butterflies flew past me in the next half-hour or so, some hectically, others languidly, and I watched them go by—a large one with blue scalloped wings, followed by two small yellow ones, a violet one with ochre and brown wings, a bright orange one, then another yellow. I began to grow ever more restless, although I kept urging myself to relax; I had barely been here a day, and it would do me good to take it easy for a while.

My conversation with myself was interrupted when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something move. Directly below where I sat was a sunken garden, with rose bushes ringing an oval lawn and a fish pond in its centre. Lying across the lawn, and hidden partially by a rose bush with sagging blooms of dirty pink, was a long brown branch, and it was this that seemed to be moving. Fascinated, I watched it coiling forward into the roses. ‘Paambu, Nalla Paambu,’ I yelled to the gardener, ‘bring a stick quickly, there’s a huge cobra in the rose garden.’ I looked around for something to throw. Abandoning his hoe, the gardener trudged up the path scowling as I cautiously descended the steps. The snake was still disappearing slowly into the roses when the gardener came up to it, took a look, and then turned to go back to what he was doing. ‘Kill the cobra before it escapes,’ I yelled, but he seemed not to hear and continued to walk away from me. Prudently choosing a path as far away from the reptile as I could, I made my way to the lower half of the garden to where the gardener had renewed scratching away at the weeds.

‘Why didn’t you kill the snake?’ I demanded.

‘It’s harmless,’ he said, without looking up.

‘Harmless?’ I said incredulously. ‘I have never seen a cobra that big!’

‘Cobras don’t come up so high. That was a rat snake, keeps the rat population down,’ he said irritably. I was instantly deflated. I hung around uncertainly for a minute or so, and then, feeling the weight of the gardener’s scorn, turned and made for the gate.

I walked past several barred gates and driveways that disappeared into vast properties, and eventually reached the valley. I knew roughly where the huts lay, and began to walk in that direction. I had no definite plan in mind besides the vague thought that perhaps I could get a glass of tea at a teashop and directions to places of local interest.

The cluster of huts came into view, fronted by the inevitable teashop. As I ordered my tea, I asked the grizzled proprietor if there were any interesting things to see within walking distance.

‘Meham,’ he said, after thinking for a while.

‘But that’s too far away, it will take me hours,’ I said, immediately regretting the words. All these people, the proprietor, the three old men who sat on one of the benches under the thatched awning of the shop sucking at beedis, probably walked to Meham every day and thought nothing of it. To my relief, the proprietor did not react to my comment. The tea he served me looked thick enough to grow trees in. I took a hasty gulp and almost gagged. Not only was the tea hot, it was so full of tannins from repeated reheating that it nearly took the roof of my mouth off. But I wasn’t about to be discomfited yet again, so I forced the tea down, paid, and under the impassive gaze of the customers and owner, strode purposefully away. I had no idea of where I might go but, as I left the huts behind, I saw the steeple of the church, and it occurred to me that I could call on the old pastor. Perhaps I could interview him about the Tower of God; as a priest surely he would have an opinion on the controversy.