But who could have had time for sleep, or been able to sleep if we found the time? The control room we established was deluged by a continuous barrage of complaints of mob assault, all of which had to be checked out. Most proved to be untrue; rumors were rife. The press was called in and briefed. We made arrangements for the distribution of newspapers throughout the city beginning the next day, in order to control the rumors and disinformation. The peace committee and responsible leaders of the two communities were called in and pressed into service. In the days to come, they helped keep the calm.
I’m not trying to avoid talking about Priscilla Hart. I just want to complete the picture of this riot for you, Mr. Diggs, so you understand what we were dealing with during those days. The damaged mosques were certain to cause more trouble as soon as the curfew was relaxed. So I mobilized the services of the Public Works Department to repair and restore the desecrated mosques, overnight. Overnight! I did so with the support of moderate Muslim leaders, who had to be present while the work was being done, to ensure that nothing sacrilegious occurred during the repairs. When it was done I was able to order the first relaxation of the curfew, for two hours. The Muslims wended their way straight to the mosques to offer prayers, but the fresh paint and mortar told their own story. The settlements that had suffered arson looked as if they had been bombed. But except for a solitary explosion just before curfew relaxation was to end — an explosion in which no one was injured — there were no major setbacks during this first easing of curfew.
One more thing, while I’m giving you this portrait of the riot. On the second morning of the curfew, I received a flash message on the mobile wireless that over two hundred women and children in a Muslim mohalla had poured onto the streets, defying the curfew. I got Gurinder and rushed there. There was a throng of women, most in veils or burqas, almost all accompanied by wailing children. Amidst the disconsolate weeping, one woman said: “There is now not a grain of food or a drop of milk in our homes. Our men have either been rounded up by the police or have run away and are in hiding. We earn and eat from day to day. It’s all very well for you to impose a curfew. But how long can we let our children starve?”
I didn’t have a good answer to the woman, but I promised her I would find one. In my heart I had to do something for the sake of Priscilla, who had worked so hard for the Muslim women of Zalilgarh. I went back to the police station and immediately sent for all the senior district officers. “Right,” I said. “You’ve kept the peace. Now you have an additional job. You’re in charge of ensuring civil supplies. Get the wholesale traders to open their godowns. Organize mobile vans with essential commodities for each mohalla. We’ve got to get food to families.”
“And what about the curfew?” one fellow asked. “If we lift it to distribute food, we’ll soon be back where we started.”
“No,” I replied. “We’ll lift the curfew only for women during the visits of the mobile vans to each mohalla. During this time they can make their purchases. Any man who ventures out will still be in violation of the curfew.” This one’s for you, Priscilla, I thought.
“What about those who can’t afford to make purchases?” another asked. “Many of them are day laborers. They eat when they work. They won’t have spare cash sitting around for food. Especially in some of the poorer bastis, and the Dalit areas.”
He had a valid point. So I ordered that ten kilograms of grain be distributed free to each poor family, and promised the traders that the district administration would make good the cost by donations later.
I beg your pardon? Of course. I’m sorry I got carried away. You’re not really doing a story on how we managed the riot. You’re doing a story about Priscilla. I’m sorry.
Of course, I shouldn’t have spoken of a total of just seven deaths, should I? There was an eighth one, neither Hindu nor Muslim.
Priscilla’s.
from Lakshman’s journal
August 3, 1989
He lies back and feels her peel the layers off him. His nakedness is a discovery, a baring of the self. She explores him with her long fingers, her touch opening him like a wound. He stirs. Her tongue caresses him now, a soft furriness on the inside of his thigh. He is in pain but the pain is exquisite and profound. He opens his eyes, seeing her move above him, her hair cascading around her face like a golden cloudburst. Her tongue scurries over his midriff and he makes an involuntary sound, an unfamiliar sound, half gratitude, half interrogation. The air around him seems to crackle with her charge. She has taken possession of him now, drawing his fullness into her mouth. He moves instinctively under her, but her fingers on his hip are firm as she continues, stilling all but the center of his being. He does not think any more of thrust and counterthrust but lets her take him in, her each breath a whisper to his heart. She is moving faster now, her lips surrounding him like the embrace of the ocean, and he is barely conscious of the tremors in his body, the piercing sweet pain of each stroke, until he trembles and gasps into her from every pore of his body. She does not stop as he shudders, feeling his soul empty into her like a confession.
Afterwards the air is quiet, and her cheek rests against his chest. He feels his heartbeat in her hand. Into the emptiness of his body floods a great happiness, a tsunami of joy that sweeps away all the debris in his mind, till he is cleansed of everything but the certitude that this is truth, this is right, this is what was meant to be.
“I love you,” she says softly, and his pain is gone.
“Pornography,” Gurinder would say if I showed this to him, which is one more reason I never will. “It’s a fucking blow job, man. You can’t make poetry out of a blow job.” That would be authentic Gurinder. I know, because I’ve tried to talk to him about Priscilla — I had to, not just because I had to talk to someone and he’s my closest friend in Zalilgarh, but because I had to ask him to ensure the cops stayed away from the Kotli when the DM was there.
But I took it too far. I tried to tell him how much Priscilla had begun to matter to me, how I was beginning to think I could not live without her. He was horrified: to him the one thing that matters is our jobs, our noble calling, our role in society. Try telling Gurinder about the power of sexual love. He just doesn’t understand.
“Fuckin’ hell I understand, yaar,” he’d said. “There are ten-rupee rundis on GB Road who’ll give you the same, plus a paan afterwards. Don’t tell me you’re making a philosophy out of that.”
I saw no point in wasting my existential crisis on him. “Bugger off, you philistine” was all I could muster.
“Look, I don’t know what the hell’s got into you, Lakshman. You can fuck the brains out of this blonde for all I care. But don’t let it become so important, yaar. Don’t forget who you are, where you are, what you’re here to do.”
“How can I forget?” I asked, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. “How can I possibly forget?”
letter from Priscilla Hart to Cindy Valeriani
August 5, 1989
You know what Guru, the cop here, Lucky’s friend, said to me last night? We were at dinner at Lucky’s place, half a dozen of us, and he’d clearly had too much to drink, but in the middle of a conversation about colonialism he announced, “The Brits came to exploit us, took what they wanted and left, and in the process they changed us.” Then he turned to me quite directly and added, “You come to change us but in the process you also take what you want. Isn’t that just another form of exploitation?”
I was so astonished I didn’t know how to react, but Lucky cleverly made it sound as if Guru was making a general point about foreign nongovernmental aid projects. I wasn’t fooled. I sensed he was trying to convey something quite specific to me, and I burned with shame at the thought that it might be about Lucky.