The Solitude of Emperors (33 page)

‘It’ll be too late by then, you useless piece of shit. You’ll be swept away and nobody will care. Why can’t you stand and fight, instead of cowering behind your rock? Are you still blaming yourself for Karan, Maya, Iva, all the things you’ve lost? When are you going to redeem your miserable life, Noah, just tell me that?’

Noah’s reply was brief. ‘I want you to get the fuck out of my place, Vijay. Get out and don’t bother coming around here again.’

~

7. Later that night, just before I turned in, I went out into the garden and looked up into the clear night sky, trimmed at the edge with stars. The moon was more than half full, so I could see every detail of the landscape around me. At any other time I might have paused to reflect on its beauty, but that night all it evoked in me was despair. I had shut down every option open to me, most of all Noah, and the diamond-bright night I was gazing at demolished the last obstacle that might have deterred Rajan. It promised to be a clear sunny day tomorrow.

~

My sleep was restless and furred with dreams. In the early hours of the morning I was pulled into a nightmare, not the recurring one from Bombay, but a new one born of this place. I recognized the iron-black stone of the Tower of God, rising against a sky the colour of blood. It was the Tower of God yet it was not, for it was hollow and within it was another cylinder of stone joined to the outer shell by three great walkways. At the end of each walkway was a throne, and the central pillar was surmounted by a throne as well, and I understood the structure was a version of the Ibadat Khana, the great hall of philosophy built by Emperor Akbar. All the thrones had occupants and now their faces became clear to me. Ashoka, Akbar and Gandhi were seated on the three thrones on the periphery, and even as I recognized them, their faces faded to be replaced by my own face as well as those of Noah and Mr Sorabjee. The face of the occupant of the central throne was hidden from view. All of us were shouting and gesticulating, obviously greatly exercised by something, and our rage was directed towards the occupant of the throne in the middle.

The pillar that supported the central throne began to revolve slowly, and I suddenly knew who its occupant was. Unmoved by the commotion around him, Rajan’s mouth opened in a terrifying gape, and he began saying something to me, only I couldn’t hear it because I had woken up screaming.

14

Death of a Rioter

I had come to these Blue Mountains, shrouded in mist and the spirits of the dead, to rest and had found only more conflict, the very thing I was running away from. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, I realize that now, because we are drawn to the things we obsess about, no matter how hard we try to escape them. Meham had much to offer, the magic of its gardens, the desolate beauty of its landscapes, the peace of its isolation, but none of these held my interest. I suppose, in other circumstances and if I had been a different sort of person, I might have been able to ignore Noah, Rajan, and the disturbance over the shrine, but that was not be.

Today, as I write this account of my brief sojourn in the Nilgiris, I can’t help wondering if things might not have turned out differently if I hadn’t meddled in them. Or had I made no difference at all, would events have followed their destined trajectory no matter what?

The passage of time has given me a certain perspective on the events that took place on 5 January 1994, but it has erased none of the detail.

~

I found it difficult to go back to sleep after my nightmare. In the early hours of the morning I finally managed to drop off to, incredibly enough, the pulse of rain on the roof. I wasn’t imagining it—Meham’s unpredictable weather had closed in and I began to relax. Not even Rajan would attempt to get to the shrine in such conditions. When I awoke the house and garden were shuttered by mist. The rain had stopped, but this was even better. There could be no demonstration now, I was convinced of that. I had a leisurely breakfast and, Mr Khanna’s driver having finally shown up, ordered the car for eleven in the morning. The inspector had told me to arrive at the shrine by twelve, so I had plenty of time. When we set off, the mist had already begun to disperse, stirring in the folds and wrinkles of the surrounding mountains. I wondered as we passed the road leading to the cemetery if I should try to persuade Noah to accompany me, but I put the thought firmly out of my mind—after our altercation, I wondered if he would ever want to see me again. As we neared the Tower of God, the mountains that guarded it looked more tremendous than ever, cowled and shadowed by mist, part of a landscape that belonged to the first light of Creation. As I looked upon the view, my sense of peace heightened. How insignificant our human struggles seemed when set against the vast, unchanging presence of the mountains.

But the peace I felt was based on an illusion, for events had moved on in my absence, and the situation was far worse than I could have imagined. I have often wondered why we are frequently lulled into an immense calm before we experience disaster. Is it because God, that ruthless autocrat, wishes us to feel the edge of His lash more keenly?

~

Even before we got to the starting point for the climb to the shrine, I could see that something was terribly wrong. A mob was milling about in the staging area, and there was a thin line of khaki at the very edge as the few policemen at the scene tried to hold people back. The Tower of God was still obscured by mist and cloud, but everyone’s focus seemed to be on what lay in the deep chasm beyond. I told the driver to stop the car, got out and pushed my way through the crowd. Mingled among the ordinary people from town were a large number of Kadavul Katchi members, easily distinguished by their saffron bandannas and the banners and trishuls they carried. But none of them seemed in any way threatening; if anything, they looked bewildered and shaken. There were a smaller number of young men holding up placards in support of the shrine (so Menon had managed to organize a few people, I thought fleetingly), but neither group seemed to be interested in each other. A few of the KK men were arguing with Shanmugam, the police inspector, who had stationed himself in front of the steps leading down from the staging area. ‘Too dangerous to go down there. We will start our investigation once the weather clears up,’ he repeated over and over again. The men arguing with him did not seem to disagree, for their protests seemed desultory and they were making no attempt to push the policemen aside, something they could have done with ease, given their superior numbers.

The precise details of what happened on the morning of 5 January will never be known, for the two people who were involved, Noah and Rajan, are both dead. The only other people present, two of Rajan’s associates who accompanied him on his last journey, were too far behind, and wholly preoccupied with picking their way up the slippery steps cut into the Tower of God to have actually witnessed what went on. They did speak at length to the four journalists present at the scene—of which I was one—the police, KK party members and anyone else who would listen, but as their tales grew wilder and more outrageous, it became evident that they were unreliable. As a result, most of the news stories that appeared in the immediate aftermath skimmed over the actual details of the ‘accident’ that resulted in the deaths. In any event, the incident was deemed of so little importance that the majority of newspapers in the country devoted only a paragraph to it. The three longer accounts, two in Tamil and one in English (besides the report I filed for the February issue of
The Indian Secularist)
, appeared in local newspapers and all three dwelled on the career of Rajan, mourning the loss of one of the state’s most dynamic young leaders. All three papers were known sympathizers of the KK cause. Mine was the only report that had anything at all to say about Noah, although Sakshi had to excise two paragraphs at the last minute to accommodate an advertisement. For the purposes of record I am reproducing the piece in full.

DEATHS IN MEHAM

By R.K. Vijay

Meham, 5 January 1994

The Feast Day of the Shrine of the Blessed Martyr in the Nilgiris District witnessed the deaths of two people when a demonstration outside the shrine reportedly turned violent. According to eyewitness accounts, the trouble started when D.P. Rajan, 44, a Bombay businessman who was affiliated to the Kadavul Katchi party, with its headquarters in Coimbatore, led a group of party workers to the shrine in order to demand its return to the Hindus, to whom they alleged it belonged. Right-wing Hindu parties say that a temple dedicated to Lord Shiva once stood on the spot, before it was demolished by a satrap of Hyder Ali in the eighteenth century, following which it was taken over by a Christian saint, but historical evidence in support of the Hindu claim is scanty.

According to Nallapan, 29, a long-time associate of Mr Rajan and one of those who claims to have witnessed the accident, bad weather had forced the demonstrators to delay their march upon the shrine. Some of the processionists who belonged to the district had advised Mr Rajan to postpone the demonstration, but as he was scheduled to return to Bombay the next day, he decided to stage a symbolic protest. Instructing the rest of the demonstrators to stay where they were, Mr Rajan proceeded up the rock formation (known locally as the Tower of God) with Nallapan and another associate who had accompanied him from Bombay. As the three men neared the summit, they were stopped by a local resident, Noah Yesudas, 36. An altercation broke out between Mr Yesudas and Mr Rajan and the eyewitnesses allege that Mr Rajan was attacked by Mr Yesudas without provocation. Others, especially a small group of volunteers who had gathered in the shrine to ‘protect’ it, insist the reverse is true. The police refuse to confirm either version of the incident, merely stating that an investigation will begin immediately. What is clear is that an argument took place, followed by a scuffle, during which the disputants lost their footing on the slippery path and plunged to their deaths.

The dispute over the shrine dates back to the 1920s, when the first claim in modern times was made by a Hindu right-wing party. Over the years there have been sporadic demands that the shrine be handed over, but the agitation only gained momentum in the 1990s with the heightening of Hindu militancy across the country. On the first anniversary of the demolition of the Babri Masjid, a group of demonstrators led by Mr Rajan attempted to repossess the shrine but they were dispersed by the police. At the time Mr Rajan announced that he would lead a peaceful dharna to press for ‘restoration to the Hindus of one of their most important sacred sites in South India’.

Ironically, the shrine is one of the few places in the entire district where people of all faiths gather to worship. Its custodian, Brother Ahimas, is credited with miraculous powers of healing and the saint who founded the shrine is revered by Muslims, Hindus and Christians. Since the tragedy the shrine has been cordoned off indefinitely. The Nilgiri District Collector’s office said in a statement that this measure was necessitated by the fact that the matter would need to be fully and thoroughly investigated without any evidence being disturbed. At the time of writing, this correspondent has learned that the local MLA has petitioned the Tamil Nadu Government to set up a commission of inquiry to thoroughly evaluate the dispute over the shrine.

That was my objective report, neatly bracketed by caveats and disclaimers, which would be quickly extinguished in the minds of my readers by the avalanche of newer stories that would fill the magazine.

But there was another story that germinated within me, that visited me during the early hours of the morning when I could not sleep, and that is the story I am attempting to narrate. It is a story that stretches back centuries, a story of sultans, soldiers, saints and ordinary men who felt the dead weight of God in their bones, urging them on to acts of folly that could only end disastrously. What madness had led to the establishment of this place of worship in such a remote and inaccessible spot? Had it originally been a temple dedicated to a Hindu deity? Had it been demolished by a Muslim sultan? Had it been founded by a Christian holy man? No matter what the truth about the origins of the shrine might be, there was no question that it existed under the gaze of an indifferent God, heedless to the passion and tragedy of the men who sacrificed themselves in His name. Noah and Rajan were only the latest victims but there would be more, many more, who would perish, not just at the Shrine of the Blessed Martyr but at many other places of worship in this land corroded by religion.

~

According to Mansukhani, who was exceptionally indiscreet and forthcoming because I interviewed him soon after the tragedy, Rajan had woken very early that morning, and as was his habit had had a bath in cold water although the temperature outside was close to zero. Dressed only in his veshti, his upper body bare, his hair still wet from his ablutions, he spent a long time in the puja room of the house, preparing himself for the day ahead. He alone knew what he had to do that morning, he hadn’t confided in even his most trusted followers. All that his men were aware of was that there was to be a demonstration outside the shrine and that it was designed to attract as much media attention as possible. There was to be no violence. So soon after Ayodhya and Bombay, any injury or death would bring too much heat to bear upon the Bombay branch of the national political party Rajan was affiliated to, and the senior leadership did not think the rewards would justify it. And although they liked the idea of expanding their sphere of influence, they considered Meham too isolated and unimportant to be much of a draw. However, as Rajan seemed very keen to lead the agitation on behalf of the Kadavul Katchi, he was permitted to go ahead as long as he was cautious. Accordingly, Rajan had been entirely truthful when he had assured the Meham inspector that neither he nor his followers intended to be violent during the demonstration.