Riot

  RIOT

  Also by Shashi Tharoor

  India: From Midnight to the Millennium

  The Five Dollar Smile and Other Stories

  The Elephant, the Tiger, and the Cell Phone

  Bookless in Baghdad

  The Great Indian Novel

  Show Business

  Nehru: The Invention of India

  RIOT

  A MURDER MYSTERY OF

  LATE TWENTIETH CENTURY INDIA

  Shashi Tharoor

  ARCADE PUBLISHING • NEW YORK

  Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Shashi Tharoor

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-410-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  to my mother

  Lily Tharoor

  tireless seeker

  who taught me to value

  her divine discontent

  “History is a sacred kind of writing, because truth is essential to it, and where truth is, there God himself is, so far as truth is concerned.”

  —Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

  “History is nothing but the activity of man in pursuit of his ends.”

  —Karl Marx, The Holy Family

  “A truth in art is that whose contradiction is also true.”

  —Oscar Wilde

  RIOT

  Continued on Page 266

  from Katharine Hart’s diary

  October 9, 1989

  I cannot believe I am sitting next to him, yet again, on a plane. How many times we have done this, how many flights, transfers, holidays, my passport and ticket always with him, even my boarding card: he was the man, the head of the family, he held the travel documents. And when it was all over, that was among the many rights I had regained, the right to be myself on an airline. Not an appendage, not a wife, not Mrs. Rudyard Hart, no longer resigned to his determination to have the aisle seat, no longer waiting for him to pass me the newspaper when he’d finished it, no longer having to see the look of irritated long-suffering on his face when I disturbed him to go to the washroom, or asked him to catch the stewardess’s attention to get something for the kids.

  The kids. It’s been years since we’ve all traveled together, as a family. He enjoyed travel, he often told me, but on his own. He was self-sufficient, he didn’t need things all the time like we, the rest of us, did — juice, or entertainment, or frequent trips to the bathroom. He made it obvious that being accompanied by us was not his preferred mode of travel. But we did it often enough, till the kids began to rate airlines and hotels and transit lounges the way other kids compared baseball teams. And because of Rudyard’s postings, the kids had an unusually exotic basis for comparison. “Emirates is cool,” Kim would say, because that airline had video monitors on the backs of the seats and a wide range of channels to choose from. “But they make you fly through Dubai,” Lance would retort, pronouncing it Do-buy, “where it’s just shops, shops, shops everywhere. Schiphol is cooler!” At Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, his own favorite, Lance would pray for our connecting flights to be delayed so that he could have even longer in the arcade, shooting down monsters and dragons with no regard for jet lag.

  How wonderful it is to have your monsters and dragons on a screen in front of you, to be destroyed by the press of a button, and not inside your heart as mine are, hammering away at your soul. Monsters and dragons, not just at an airport arcade between weary flights, but on the plane, in your seat, in the seat next to you.

  In the seat next to me sits my monstrous ex-husband. Here we are again on a plane, Rudyard and me together, not husband and wife, merely father and mother. Father and mother with no kids in sight. Kim couldn’t get away from work, where he tells me junior stockbrokers are lucky if they can take Thanksgiving weekend. And Lance — Lance, who could never understand why I had to leave his father, Lance is in a world of his own and has no need of other worlds. But I’m not going to worry about Lance today. I’ve got too much else to think about.

  Priscilla.

  Priscilla with the baby blue eyes and the straight blond hair and that look of trusting innocence with which she greeted the world. Priscilla with her golden skin, her golden smile that lit up the eyes of anyone she was with. Priscilla with her idealism, her earnestness, her determination to do some good in the world. Priscilla who hated her father because of what he had done to me.

  I look at him now, trying to read a magazine and not succeeding, his eyes blurring over the same page he has been staring at since I began writing these words. I look at him, and I see Priscilla: she had his eyes, his nose, his lips, his hair, except that the same features looked so different on her. Where his good looks are bloated by self-indulgence, hers were smoothed and softened by gentleness.

  And that sullen set of his jaw, that look of a man who has had his own way too easily for too long, set him completely apart from his daughter. There was nothing arrogant or petulant about Priscilla, not even when she was upset about some flagrant injustice. She was just a good human being, and no one would say that about Rudyard.

  I look at him, trying to focus on the page, mourning the daughter whose loss he cannot come to terms with. Cannot, because he had already lost her when he lost me, lost her while she was still living. Despite myself, I feel a tug of sorrow for him.

  It hurt so much to use the past tense for Priscilla. My baby, my own personal contribution to the future of the world. I would give anything for it to have been me, and not her. Anything.

  cable to Randy Diggs

  October 9, 1989

  FOR DIGGS NY JOURNAL NEW DELHI FROM WASSERMAN FOREIGN DESK. HAVE BEEN USING MAINLY AGENCY COPY ON HART KILLING. GRATEFUL YOU LOOK INTO STORY IN GREATER DETAIL FOR LONGER FEATURE PIECE. WHO THE GIRL WAS, WHAT SHE WAS DOING, HOW SHE WAS KILLED, WHY. SUGGEST YOU ALSO MEET PARENTS RUDYARD AND KATHARINE HART ARRIVING ON AIR INDIA FLIGHT 101 TOMORROW AND TRAVEL WITH THEM TO ZALILGARH. SHALL WE SAY 1200 WORDS IN A WEEK? AND GET THAT FAX FIXED THESE CABLES ARE COSTING US A FORTUNE.

  from Randy Diggs’s notebook

  October 10, 1989

  Delhi airport. Crowded as usual, even at 4 bloody a.m. Curse of this New Delhi job is that everyone lands and takes off in the middle of the effing night. Engines droning, lights flashing, cars roaring, all at 2-3-4 o’clock. It’s only in the 3d World that residents near the airport would take this crap. But then they don’t have a choice, do they?

  Harts emerge from Customs, escorted by clean-cut consular type from the embassy. Good PR, that. What every traveler needs in India is an escort through Customs and Immigration. Bad enough to lose your daughter without having to lose your patience as well in those interminable queues.

  Hart’s a striking-looking fellow. Tall, with smooth good looks now going to seed. Sort of Robert Redford plus thirty p
ounds, some of it on his face. Eyes blue, gaze steady, firm handshake. But there’s a weariness there that goes beyond the exhaustion of the journey.

  Mrs. Hart: maternal/intellectual type. Short, heavy-set, with wiry brown hair and skin too dry and lined for her age. Glasses on a chain around her neck. Sensible, drab clothes that’ll be far too warm in this heat. (And she’s lived in India before: doesn’t she remember the climate?)

  She’s distinctly unfriendly. Hart seems happy to see me, utters the predictable thoughts (need to see where it happened — meet the people who knew and worked with Priscilla — trying to understand — etc) and welcomes the idea of my traveling to Zalilgarh with them. Mrs. Hart objects: “This is a private visit, Mr. Diggs. I don’t think …” But he brushes her aside, as if from habit. They’re divorced, of course.

  “Priscilla lived for a cause,” Hart tells his wife. “If we don’t talk to the press, how are people going to know about her life and her work?”

  A couple of agency photographers click at them desultorily. One hack asks all the obvious questions. Not much press interest here. If they’re lucky, they’ll get an inch or two in one of the Delhi papers. Zalilgarh is too far, the riots yesterday’s story.

  Hart looks disappointed, as if he’d expected more. A TV crew, perhaps, backing away from him as he strides to the consulate car. He’ll learn soon enough that one more death doesn’t make that much of a difference in a land of so many deaths. Poor bastard.

  transcript of remarks by Shankar Das, Project Director, HELP-US, Zalilgarh, at meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Hart

  October 12, 1989

  (Owing to a malfunctioning tape recorder, voices of other participants in the meeting were inaudible and could not be properly transcribed.)

  Mr. Hart, Mrs. Hart, please come in, please come in. It is my honor to velcome you both to Zalilgarh. Though in such wery sad circumstances. Wery sad circumstances.

  Here is chart showing our project. It is population-control awareness project, as you are no doubt knowing. Objective is to inform poor rural women of family planning techniques. Family planning techniques. You are knowing? More importantly, educate them about facts of life. Facts of life. Why have so many children they cannot feed? If they are having fewer children, they are looking after them better.

  Miss Priscilla was having so much knowledge. So hard-working. Took so much trouble to get to know local people. Everywhere she went, everywhere, on her cycle. On her cycle. Cycle also destroyed in terrible events. Really terrible.

  Please have some tea. No sugar? Bhaiyya, bagair chini ka cha lé aana! Sorry, here habit is to serve tea with milk, sugar, all mixed already. Wery sorry. Wery sorry. New tea coming in just a minute. Bhaiyya, jaldi kar do!

  Meanwhile if you vill just look at this wall. Here, you see dimensions of our project. Two thousand, three hundred and forty-three families served. Outreach program to one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five households. Households. Supply of baby powder, you can see figures for yourself. Supply of contraceptive devices. Clinic visits. We are best Indian project. Best.

  Normally we are not having Americans working in Zalilgarh project. Policy of HELP is to help people to help themselves, you see. But since Miss Priscilla had been much involved in designing this project when she was in America, it seemed quite natural. Quite natural. She was here for her field research, the project was here, it all fitted in. Fitted in.

  You are saying? No, not at all. She was wery popular. Wery modest, wery simple. Not like some big shot person from foreign. Here also, it was always Mr. Das this, Mr. Das that. She was knowing lot about this project, yet she was always asking, not telling. Not telling. You see, Mr. Das, how about if we tried this that way? Or tried that this way? And sometimes I am saying to her, this is wery good idea, Miss Priscilla Hart, but Zalilgarh is not America. Not America. In America you are doing such and such and so and so, but here it is different. And she is always listening. Always listening.

  Your tea is all right now? Good, good. She was such a good girl. Such a sweet person. Sweet person. She made friends very easily. Sometimes I am saying to her, you should not be so friendly with all these people. Some of these people not your type. Not your type. And she is laughing and saying, Mr. Das, what is my type, please? Everyone is my type. And I am saying to her, no, you should be choosing more carefully you know, awoid some of these low-class riff-raff. And she is laughing again and saying, oh Mr. Das, are we all high-class riff-raff here, then? Laughing and saying. Laughing and saying.

  Excuse me. You see how upset we all are about Miss Priscilla. Wery upset. The day before we had held big farewell party for her. So many people came. We could not have imagined what sort of farewell it would turn out to be. What sort of farewell. Wery sad.

  This is Miss Kadambari. She is extension worker with us. She is working a lot with Miss Priscilla. Miss Kadambari will be taking you to where your daughter was staying. I believe you are wishing to see? Wery simple accommodation. Wery simple. But Zalilgarh is not Delhi, isn’t it?

  We are fixing up appointment for you to meet district magistrate, Mr. Lakshman. He was in charge during riot, you know. He can tell you more details about tragic events of last veek. Wery important man. Wery good friend of Miss Priscilla also. Wery good friend.

  Some more tea? No? Thank you very much for honoring us with your visit. I am wishing your goodselves a very comfortable stay in Zalilgarh. Please do not hesitate to call me if you are needing anything. I am always here. Always here.

  from Priscilla Hart’s scrapbook

  December 25, 1988

  Christmas in Zalilgarh

  Mists of dust on crumbling roadsides,

  Cowdung sidewalks, rusting tin roofs.

  Bright-painted signboards above dimly lit shops.

  The tinkle of bicycle bells, the loud cries

  Of hawkers selling vegetables, or peanuts, or scrap.

  Red betel-stains on every wall

  Compete with angry black slogans

  Scrawled by men with a cause.

  The dirty white dhotis of dirty brown men

  Weaving in and out of traffic, in and out,

  In and out of their sad-eyed women

  Clad in gaily colored saris, clutching

  Babies, baskets, burdens too heavy

  For their undernourished bodies.

  Here I have come to do good. It’s true:

  So simple a task in so complex a land.

  I wheel my bicycle into their habits,

  Tell them what’s right, what can be done,

  And how to do it. They listen to me,

  So ignorant, so knowing, and when they have heard,

  They go back to their little huts,

  Roll out the chapatis for dinner,

  Pour the children drinks of sewer water,

  Serve their men first, eat what’s left,

  If they’re lucky, and then submit unprotected

  To the heaving thrusts of their protectors,

  Abusers, masters. One more baby comes,

  To wallow in misery with the rest.

  It is Gods will. But not my God’s.

  To their will I oppose my won’t.

  Give me strength, oh Lord, to make things change.

  Give me the time to make a difference.

  from Randy Diggs’s notebook

  October 11, 1989

  God, what a dump.

  The heat. The dust. The flies. The shit. The crowds. You name it, Zalilgarh has it. Every horrific Western cliché about India turns out to be true here.

  letter from Priscilla Hart to Cindy Valeriani

  February 2, 1989

  …

  The first time I saw him I didn’t really like him. He stepped down from an official car, one of those clunky Ambassadors that look like a steel box on wheels, and he was wearing that awful outfit Indian officials seem to like so much, the safari suit. The shirt was cut too short, its wings stuck absurdly out over his behind, the pants flared too much at the bot
tom — Indian tailors seem to be stuck with patterns from the ’70s, know what I mean? And I thought, Gawd, one more pompous self-important bureaucrat, completely unaware of the impression he makes, coming to throw his weight around our project. I could just imagine Mr. Das bowing and scraping and yes-sirring and no-sirring him to Kingdom Come, all to make sure the government remained happy with us, and I wanted no part of it. But it was too late to slip away, and when you’re the only paleface blonde in sight you can’t really make yourself inconspicuous. So he walked into the project office, and I was stuck.

  And I was soon happy I was stuck. As Mr. Das did the usual spiel — “two thousand, three hundred and forty-three families served. Outreach program to one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five households” — repeating phrases in that odd way he has, I found myself studying our visitor, the new district magistrate. He is dark, my Mr. Lakshman, sort of a Jesse Jackson shade. Fine features, an especially perfect nose, a silken moustache. I was reminded of Omar Sharif in “Lawrence of Arabia” on video. Only Lakshman has a fuller mouth, a really sensuous mouth. I don’t believe I just wrote that. (Tear this up when you’ve read it, Cindy, OK?)

  Anyway, all this was nothing more than idle curiosity, until he opened that mouth of his. It was just to ask a question — an unusually perceptive question, in fact, which showed that he’d been listening and actually understood a thing or two about population-control programs — but the words came right out and strummed me deep inside. Not the words themselves, but the sound of the words. Lakshman has a rich, soft voice, not smooth like a radio announcer’s but slightly husky, like raw-edged velvet. There was something about his voice that reached out and drew me in, something that was both inviting and yet reassuring. It was a voice like a warm embrace, a voice that was seductive but not a seducer’s. Do I make sense? Because if I don’t, I can’t describe it any better, Cindy. I heard his voice, and the only thing I could care about was hearing that voice again.