And this is the kind of man women everywhere are ripping their clothes off for. All the beauty parlors in the city lay the women down and wax their hair off, just as shepherds used to shear their sheep for wool. Rahul watched how herds of girls like little lambs came out from their middle- or lower-middle-class homes, in city after city, town after town, lunging into beauty parlors that were sprouting up like mushrooms. They’d reemerge: oiled, lubed, dolled up. Spreading their legs, they’d climb up and straddle that man’s ample belly. These were the girls who on TV were called “the Bold and the Beautiful”; he was the flaccid, potbellied geezer known as “the Rich and the Famous.”
The man was mighty indeed. The world’s most fearsome evil masterminds had long labored to craft him from their toolkit of high-powered capital and patented processes. The introduction of new technologies was essential to his creation. We can only begin to guess at the super powers this man has at his disposal as we watch the true story of him take centuries’ worth of theories, opinions, principles, philosophies, and ideas, all carefully crafted throughout history, sweep them into a pile and, in one fell swoop, throw it onto the trash heap that lies just beyond the walls of his stately manor. Those were the principles used both as a kick when man needed a nudge to move forward, but also as the reins that kept his greed and lust from spiraling out of control.
Don’t eat more than you need, don’t make more money than necessary, do as little harm as possible, don’t sleep too much, sex has a limit, don’t dance forever. All of these principles, found in religious texts and in sociological, scientific, and political books, have been tossed wholesale into the rubbish. In the final decades of the twentieth century, this man has seized all the forces of wealth and power and technology into his hand and has declared: freedom! Freedom! he cries. Let all your desires be awakened! Let all your senses graze freely upon this earth. Whatever is in this world is yours for your enjoyment. There is neither nation nor country. The entire planet is yours. Nothing is moral, nothing is immoral. There is no sin, no act of virtue. Eat, drink, and have fun. Dance! Boogie-woogie. Sing! Boogie-woogie. Eat! Boogie-woogie. Pig out! Boogie-woogie. Make that six-figure salary! Boogie-woogie. All the earth’s commodities are yours for your consumption! Boogie-woogie. And remember to count women among those commodities. Boogie-woogie.
This mighty, swinish, lustful man proposed a new doctrine that the finance minister of India readily agreed to — and then the minister himself eagerly dove into the man’s pocket. Here was the principle: don’t stop the man from eating. As he eats and eats and begins to get full, he starts to flick off the spoiled morsels from his plate. Millions of hungry people could be fed with his rich, nutritious leftovers. And: don’t stop the man from fucking. Popping Viagra like candy, the man beds one girl after the next, readying them for the legions of unwitting Indian bachelors who, duped into believing they have landed a virgin, can then love her as their own, and start a family.
So this was the principle the man spread to the four corners of the earth using all media of communication, and in no time at all human civilization had changed. Every TV channel and computer buzzed with the broadcast of this philosophy.
Here, at the twilight of the twentieth century and the dawn of the twenty-first, even names like Gandhi, Tolstoy, Premchand, and Tagore have begun to disappear from people’s memories. The best-selling book in stores today? The Road Ahead, by Bill Gates.
The rich, potbellied man was getting a massage in an expensive island resort, surrounded by several Miss Universes from the destitute third world. Remembering something, he suddenly reached for his cell phone and dialed a number.
Miss Universe slipped him a Viagra — which he quickly swallowed — and then he gave her breast a little squeeze.
“Hallo! This is Nikhlani speaking on behalf of the IMF. Get me to the prime minister!”
“Yes, yes! Nikhlani-ji! How are you, sir? This is the prime minister speaking.”
“Stroke it gently. . rub it a bit more! Oh, that’s more like it,” that man said, sweetly teasing Miss Universe, and then returned to his cell phone. “Why have you taken so long, man? Hurry up! The power sector, IT, Food, Health, Education! Hurry up and privatize! Divest the public sector!”
“Okay, Okay, be patient. Your humble servant is doing his duty. But you know my problem. In this hodge-podge government, you can’t expect all of the dal to soften at once, Nikhlani-ji.”
“Take it in your mouth. . Lo. . my Lolita.” The Rich and the Famous geezer stroked Miss Universe’s hair, and this was followed by the sounds of slurping.
“I’m disappointed, Pandit-ji! How much money did I pump into your party funds? The donations, the direct deposits! You people move as fast as a dirty earthworm. How we gonna fix the economy at this rate? You haven’t even cut subsidies!”
“It is going forward, Nikhlani-ji! I’ve already begun the food-oil importation that wiped out the sunflower, soybean, and oilseed farmers. If we took away their subsidies now, all hell would break loose. Your instructions are being carried out, don’t worry. We’re just taking one step at a time.”
“Hurry up, Pandit-ji! I’ve got high blood pressure. This much anxiety isn’t good for my health. Let those sisterfucking farmers starve. Okay?”
The man switched off his cell phone and took a long pull of scotch. Then, again restless, he said, “Where’s that runner-up from Venezuela? Send her in.”
THREE
Kinnu Da addressed Rahul. “The most significant thing about the adivasis is that they have so few needs. They leave a minimal mark on the environment. I’ve documented adivasi communities in Singhbhum, Jharkhand, Mayurbhanj, Bastar, and the Northeast that still practice slash-and-burn agriculture and confine themselves to raw, roasted, or boiled foods. They won’t even fry their food. This is a kind of natural way of living. But keep in mind, they fought like hell against the British for their autonomy, their right to self-rule. But historians never included that chapter in their versions of history. The truth is that history is a highly political record of power. The class, caste, or ethnic group on top will fashion history to suit their needs. I’ve always said that the history of this indigenous state and its people remains to be written.”
Rahul was afraid. Just a few days back he’d seen a film called Stigmata. God’s messenger shall be silenced. Truth and information are two different things. Truth is like a bomb to the information industry. Therefore, the truth must be neutralized.
Whoosh; plunk. A leaf falls.
Plunk. Full of its own nectar, a pure fruit falls silently to the ground, prematurely, in a desolate place.
Plunk. Another murder will be committed, or suicide; a paragraph’s mention, buried in the back of tomorrow’s paper.
Plunk-plunk-plunk-plunk! Time passes. The earth spins on its axis.
Kinnu Da was transferred time and again from one adivasi region to the next. He’s crazy, a real nutcase—that’s how his colleagues in the civil service talked about him behind his back. All that time in government service, and, except for his pension, he’s broke. He can barely afford a flat in Delhi.
Rahul began to sour on organic chemistry, which started to smell of the stench of vinegar and fermentation. The very name was like an airtight chamber filled with the farts and belches of the fat man.