“The trucks are ganged together,” the guide says enthusiastically. “They will always move in tandem, see? We will fit ropes if people want to be seen pulling, but Shivaji is not about exploiting anyone.”
Najia’s never seen a space launch, never even been close to rocketry, but she imagines the launcher assembly buildings share this buzz and industry: embraced in cranes and gantries, workers in coveralls and spray masks working up and down the golden flanks, light joinery robots poking their glue-gun probosces into crannies and corners. The air is dopey with paint and glass fibre fumes, the steel shed rings with power staplers, drills, and buzz saws. Najia watches a Vasu go up on a hoist. Two workers with Shivaji stickers on their coveralls glue it into position at the centre of a rosette of dancing attendants around a throned Vishnu. And at the centre, the golden ziggurat of the holy vessel. The chariot of Jaggarnath. The juggernaut itself.
“Please, feel free to take photographs,” the teen aide says. “There is no charge.” Najia’s hands shake as she calls up the camera on the palmer. She goes in among the workers and machines and clicks until her memory is full.
“Can I, I mean, the papers?” she stammers at the Shivajeen, who seems to be the only person at the studio in any form of authority.
“Oh yes,” he says. “I am presuming that is why you were brought here.”
The palmer calls softly Again, an anonymous number. Najia answers carefully.
“Yes?”
It is not college-voice. It’s a woman.
“Hello, I have a call for you from N. K. Jivanjee.”
“Who? What? Hello?” Najia stammers.
“Hello, Ms. Askarzadah.” It’s him. It really is him. “Well, what do you think?” She has no words. She swallows, mouth dry. “It’s, um, impressive.”
“Good. It’s supposed to be. It cost a damn pile of money, too, but I do think the team has done an outstanding job, don’t you? A lot of them are ex-television set designers. But I’m glad you like it. I think a lot of people are going to be equally impressed. Of course, the only ones that really matter are the Ranas.” N. K. Jivanjee’s laugh is a deep, chocolate gurgle. “Now, Ms. Askarzadah. You do understand you’ve been given a highly privileged preview that will make you a goodly sum of money from the press? No doubt you’re asking, what’s this about? Simply that the party I have the honour to lead occasionally has information it does not wish to release through conventional channels. You will be this unconventional channel. Of course, you do realise that we may suspend this privilege at any time. My secretary has a short prepared statement that she will forward to your palmer. It’s a piece from me on the pilgrimage; my loyalty to Bharat, my intention that the pilgrimage be a focus for national unity in the face of a common enemy. It’s all checkable back to my press office. Can I expect to see something in the evening editions? Good. Thank you, Ms. Askarzadah, bless you.”
The prepared statement comes through with a discreet chime. Najia scans it. It is as N. K. Jivanjee said. She feels as if she has been hit across the front of the head with a big, soft, heavy bat. She hardly hears the Shivaji boy ask, “Was that him? Was it really him? I couldn’t make it all out, what was he saying?”
N. K. Jivanjee. Anyone can get Sajida Rana. But N. K. Jivanjee. Najia Askarzadah hugs herself with joy. Scoop! Exclusive! Pictures copyright Najia Askarzadah. They’ll be syndicated around the planet before the ink’s dry on the contract. She’s on the bike, course set for the Bharat Times office, swinging out through the wire gates into the path of an oncoming school bus before the thought penetrates the amazed numbness.
Why her?
Mumtaz Huq the ghazal singer will perform at ten. Shaheen Badoor Khan intends to be well away by then. It is not that he dislikes Mumtaz Huq. She features on several compilations on his car system, though her tone is not as pure as R. A. Vora. But he does dislike parties like these. He clutches his glass of pomegranate juice in two hands and clings to the shadows where he can peek at his watch unseen.
The Dawar garden is a cool, moist oasis of pavilions and canopies among sweet-smelling trees and precision-pruned shrubs. It speaks of money and bribes to the water department. Candle lanterns and oil torches provide barbarous illumination. Waiters in Rajput costume move among the guests with silver trays of eats and alcohol. Musicians saw and tootle to an electric bass from a pandal under a harsingar tree. Here Mumtaz Huq will perform and afterwards there will be fireworks. That is what Neelam Dawar has been telling all her guests. Ghazals and fireworks. Rejoice!
Bilquis Badoor Khan seeks her husband out in his place of concealment.
“Darling heart, at least try and make an effort.”
Shaheen Badoor Khan deals his wife a society kiss, one on each side.
“No, I’m staying here. Either they recognise me and all they want to talk about is war, or they don’t and it’s schools, share prices, and cricket.”
“Cricket—that reminds me.” Bilquis touches Shaheen’s sleeve lightly, an invitation into conspiracy. “Shaheen, this is priceless. I don’t know where Neelam gets them. Anyway, this terrible grubby little country wife, you know the sort of thing, straight off the Bihar bus, married up and everyone’s got to know about it. There she is, over there. Anyway, we’re standing around talking and she’s hovering, obviously wanting to get her two rupees in, poor thing. We get round to the cricket and Tandon’s century and she says, wasn’t it marvellous, on the eighth and final ball, just before tea. I mean to say. Eight balls an over. Just priceless!”
Shaheen Badoor Khan looks at the woman where she stands alone under a pipal tree, a beaker of lassi in hand. The hand around the silver mug is long and slender, patterned with henna. Her wedding ring is tattooed on her finger. The woman carries herself with country elegance, tall, refined in an unaffected, unsophisticated way. She looks unutterably sad to Shaheen Badoor Khan.
“Priceless, yes,” he says, turning away from his wife. “Ah, Khan! I thought you’d show your heathen face here.”
Shaheen Badoor Khan had tried to steer himself away from Bal Ganguly but the big man can smell news like a Luna moth. It is his purpose and passion as proprietor of Varanasi’s premier Hindi news site. Though he is never without his posse of unmarried stringers—the kind of parties he is invited to draws the kind of women they hope to marry—Ganguly is an obdurate bachelor. Only a fool works his life away building his own cage, he says. Shaheen Badoor Khan also knows that Ganguly is a big giver to the Shivaji.
“So, what’s the word from the Sabha? Shall I start digging a shelter or just stockpile rice?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint, but no war this week.” Shaheen Badoor Khan glances around for escape. The bachelors circle around him.
“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if Rana declares war and half an hour later sends the bulldozers into Sarkhand Roundabout.” Ganguly laughs at his own joke. He has a big, gurgling, infectious laugh. Shaheen Badoor Khan finds himself smiling. The devotees compete for who laughs loudest. They check to see if any women are looking. “No, but come on, Khan. War is a serious matter. It sells serious amounts of advertising space.” The unattached women in their own private pavilion glance past their chaperone, smiling but shy of eye contact. Shaheen Badoor Khan’s attention is again on the country wife under the pipal tree. Between worlds. Neither one nor the other. That is the worst place to be.
“We won’t go to war,” Shaheen Badoor Khan says smoothly. “If five thousand years of military history has taught us anything, it’s that we aren’t good at wars. We like the pretence and the posturing, but when it comes to battle, we’d rather not. That’s how the British rolled right over us. We sat in our defence positions and they kept coming, and they kept coming and we thought, well; they’ll stop sometime soon. But they just kept coming, bayonets fixed. It was the same in ’oh-two and ’twenty-eight up in Kashmir, it will be the same at Kunda Khadar. We’ll pile our troops on our side of the dam, they’ll pile theirs on their side, we’ll exchange a few mortar rounds and then everyone can march away, izzat satisfied.”