The Great Indian Novel Read online

  Shashi Tharoor

  THE GREAT INDIAN NOVEL

  Contents

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Dedication

  About the Title

  Family Tree

  The First Book: The Twice-Born Tale

  The Second Book: The Duel with The Crown

  The Third Book: The Rains Came

  The Fourth Book: A Raj Quartet

  The Fifth Book: The Powers of Silence

  The Sixth Book: Forbidden Fruit

  The Seventh Book: The Son Also Rises

  The Eighth Book: Midnight’s Parents

  The Ninth Book: Him – Or, The Far Power-Villain

  The Tenth Book: Darkness at Dawn

  The Eleventh Book: Renunciation - Or, The Bed of Arrows

  The Twelfth Book: The Man Who Could Not Be King

  The Thirteenth Book: Passages Through India

  The Fourteenth Book: The Rigged Veda

  The Fifteenth Book: The Act of Free Choice

  The Sixteenth Book: The Bungle Book - Or, The Reign of Error

  The Seventeenth Book: The Drop of Honey - A Parable

  The Eighteenth Book: The Path to Salvation

  Afterword

  A Note on Dharma

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE GREAT INDIAN NOVEL

  Shashi Tharoor is the prize-winning author of ten books, both fiction and non-fiction, and a widely published critic, commentator and columnist (including for The Hindu, Times of India and Newsweek). In 2007 he concluded a nearly twenty-nine-year career with the United Nations, including working for refugees in South-East Asia at the peak of the ‘boat people’ crisis, handling peace-keeping operations in the former Yugoslavia, and culminating as the Under-Secretary-General for Communications and Public Information. In 2006 he was India’s candidate to succeed Kofi Annan as UN Secretary-General, and emerged a strong second out of seven contenders. Dr Tharoor earned his PhD at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at the age of twenty-two, and was named by the World Economic Forum in Davos in 1998 as a ‘Global Leader of Tomorrow’. He was awarded the Pravasi Bharatiya Samman, India’s highest honour for overseas Indians.

  For more on Shashi Tharoor, please visit www.shashitharoor.com

  By the Same Author

  Fiction

  Riot: A Novel

  Show Business

  The Five-Dollar Smile

  The Great Indian Novel

  Non-fiction

  The Elephant, the Tiger and the Cellphone: Reflections on India in the Twenty-first Century

  India: From Midnight to the Millennium and Beyond

  Bookless in Baghdad: And Other Writings About Reading

  Nehru: The Invention of India

  for

  my sons

  Ishan and Kanishk

  and

  for our own

  Tilottama

  About the Title

  A hasty note of disclaimer is due to those readers who may feel, justifiably, that the work that follows is neither great, nor authentically Indian, nor even much of a novel. The Great Indian Novel takes its title not from the author’s estimate of its contents but in deference to its primary source of inspiration, the ancient epic the Mahabharata. In Sanskrit, Maha means great and Bharata means India.

  The Mahabharata has not only influenced the literature, art, sculpture and painting of India but it has also moulded the very character of the Indian people. Characters from the Great Epic . . . are still household words [which] stand for domestic or public virtues or vices . . . In India a philosophical or even political controversy can hardly be found that has no reference to the thought of the Mahabharata.

  C. R. Deshpande,Transmission of the

  Mahabharata Tradition

  The essential Mahabharata is whatever is relevant to us in the second half of the twentieth century. No epic, no work of art, is sacred by itself; if it does not have meaning for me now, it is nothing, it is dead.

  P. Lal,The Mahabharata of Vyasa

  Our past and present and future problems are much more crowded than we expect . . . I think in India, some stories should be kept alive by literature. Writers experience another view of history, what’s going on, another understanding of ‘progress’ . . . Literature must refresh memory.

  Gunter Grass, speaking in Bombay

  What follows is the tale of Vyasa,

  great Vyasa, deserver of respect;

  a tale told and retold,

  that people will never cease telling;

  a source of wisdom

  in the sky, the earth, and the lower world;

  a tale the twice-born know;

  a tale for the learned,

  skilful in style, varied in metres,

  devoted to dialogue human and divine.

  P. Lal

  The Mahabharata of Vyasa

  The First Book:

  The Twice-Born Tale

  1

  They tell me India is an underdeveloped country. They attend seminars, appear on television, even come to see me, creasing their eight-hundred- rupee suits and clutching their moulded plastic briefcases, to announce in tones of infinite understanding that India has yet to develop. Stuff and nonsense, of course. These are the kind of fellows who couldn’t tell their kundalini from a decomposing earthworm, and I don’t hesitate to tell them so. I tell them they have no knowledge of history and even less of their own heritage. I tell them that if they would only read the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, study the Golden Ages of the Mauryas and the Guptas and even of those Muslim chaps the Mughals, they would realize that India is not an underdeveloped country but a highly developed one in an advanced state of decay. They laugh at me pityingly and shift from one foot to the other, unable to conceal their impatience, and I tell them that, in fact, everything in India is over-developed, particularly the social structure, the bureaucracy, the political process, the financial system, the university network and, for that matter, the women. Cantankerous old man, I hear them thinking, as they make their several exits. And, of course, there is no party-ticket for me any more, no place for me in their legislative confabulations. Not even a ceremonial governorship. I am finished, a man who lives in the past, a dog who has had his day. I shall not enter the twenty-first century with them.

  But I do not finish so easily. Indeed, I have scarcely begun. ‘I have a great deal to say,’ I told my old friend Brahm, ‘and if these fellows won’t hear it, well, I intend to find myself a larger audience. The only thing is that the old hand doesn’t quite behave itself any more, tends to shake a bit, like a ballot- paper in a defecting MP’s grasp, so could you get me someone I could dictate it to, an amanuensis?’

  Brahm looked a little doubtful at first, and said, ‘You know, V.V., you have a bit of a reputation for being difficult to work with. You remember what happened to the last poor girl I sent you? Came back in tears and handed in her resignation, saying she didn’t want to hear of the Apsara Agency again. I can’t afford another one of those incidents, and what’s all this about a book. anyway? You ought to be leaning back on those bolsters and enjoying a quiet retirement, letting these other fellows run about for you, reaping the adulation of a good life well spent. After all, what are laurels for but to rest on?’

  I fairly bit his head off, I can tell you. ‘So, you think I’m not up to this, do you?’ I demanded. ‘Dammit, what I am about to dictate is the definitive memoir of my life and times, and you know what a life and times mine have been. Brahm, in my epic I shall tell of past, present and future, of existence and passing, of efflorescence and decay, of death an
d rebirth; of what is, of what was, of what should have been. Don’t talk to me of some weepy woman whose shorthand trips over her fingernails; give me a man, one of your best, somebody with the constitution and the brains to cope with what I have to offer.’

  And Brahm said, ‘Hmm, well, if you insist, I have a chap in mind who’s almost as demanding as you, but who can handle the most complex assignments. Humour him and you won’t be disappointed.’

  So, the next day the chap appeared, the amanuensis. Name of Ganapathi, South Indian, I suppose, with a big nose and shrewd, intelligent eyes. Through which he is staring owlishly at me as I dictate these words. Brahm was right about his being demanding. He listened to me quietly when I told him that his task would be no less than transcribing the Song of Modern India in my prose, then proceeded to lay down an outrageous condition. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, without batting an eyelid, ‘provided you work to my pace. I shall reside with you, and as long as I’m ready, you must not pause in your dictation.’

  Something about him, elephantine tread, broad forehead and all, impressed me. I agreed. And he was back in the afternoon, dragging his enormous trunk behind him, laden with enough to last him a year with me, I have no doubt. But I hadn’t given in without a thought. I made my own condition: that he had to understand every word of what I said before he took it down. And I was not relying merely on my ability to articulate my memories and thoughts at a length and with a complexity which would give him pause. I knew that whenever he took a break to fill that substantial belly, or even went around the corner for a leak, I could gain time by speaking into my little Japanese tape-recorder. So you see, Ganapathi, young man, it’s not just insults and personal remarks you’ll have to cope with. It’s modern technology as well.

  Yes, yes, put it all down. Every word I say. We’re not writing a piddling Western thriller here. This is my story, the story of Ved Vyas, eighty-eight years old and full of irrelevancies, but it could become nothing less than the Great Indian Novel.

  2

  I suppose I must begin with myself. I was born with the century, a bastard, but a bastard in a fine tradition, the offspring of a fisherwoman seduced by a travelling sage. Primitive transport system or not, our Brahmins got about a lot in those days, and they didn’t need any hotel bookings then. Any householder was honoured by a visit from a holy man with a sacred thread and no luggage but his learning. He would be offered his host’s hospitality, his food, his bed and often, because they were a lot more understanding then, his daughter as well. And the Brahmin would partake of the offerings, the shelter, the rice, the couch, the girl, and move on, sometimes leaving more than his slippers behind. India is littered with the progeny of these twice-born travelling salesmen of salvation, and I am proud to be one of them.

  But fisherfolk weren’t often their style, so the fact of her seduction says something for my mother Satyavati. She was on the river that day, the wet fold of her thin cotton sari flung over one shoulder, its hem riding up her thigh, the odour of perspiration mixing with that of the fish she was heaving into her boat, when a passing sage, Parashar, caught a glimpse of her. He was transfixed, he later told me, by the boldness of her beauty, which transcended any considerations of olfactory inconvenience. ‘Lovely lady,’ he said in his best manner, ‘take my love’, and coming from a Brahmin, especially one as distinguished as he was, that was an offer no woman could refuse.

  But my mother wasn’t wanton or foolish, and she had no desire to become known as either. ‘There are people watching from both sides of the river,’ she replied, ‘so how can I give myself to you?’

  The Brahmin was no novice in the art of seduction, though; he had spotted a little deserted island some way up the river, whose interior was screened by a thick copse of trees. He motioned her to paddle towards it, and swam to it himself in a few swift, strong strokes.

  Satyavati followed, blushing. She had no intention of resisting the sage: a mist around the island, already curtained by the trees, dispelled her modest hesitation. (When she told me the story she claimed Parashar had caused a magic cloud to settle on the island to keep off prying eyes, which I took as evidence of understandable female hyperbole.) Obedience was, of course, a duty, and no maiden wished to invite a saintly curse upon her head. But Satyavati was no fool, and she understood that for an unmarried virgin, there was still a difference between bedding a persuasive Brahmin on her own and being offered to one by her father - which was hardly likely to happen, since sages did not stop at fisherfolk’s huts and Parashar could not be expected. with one of her caste, to go through a form of marriage that would sanctify their coupling. ‘I’ve never done this before,’ she breathed. ‘I’m still a virgin and my father will be furious if I cease to be one. If you take me, what will become of me? How can I show my face amongst my people again? Who will marry me? Please help me,’ she added, fluttering her eyelashes to convey that though her flesh was willing, her spirit was not weak enough.

  Parashar smiled in both desire and reassurance. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘virginity isn’t irretrievable. I’ll make sure that no one will doubt your virginity even after you yield to me. That’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  And his ardour stifled further conversation.

  Even men of the world - and few in this category can equal one who is above this world - feel tenderly for those they have loved. So, afterwards, lying by her side, Parashar asked Satyavati when she had had her time of month. And when he had heard her answer, he did not attempt to evade his responsibility. ‘There will be a child born of our union,’ he said simply, ‘but I will keep my word and ensure that your normal life as a daughter of your people will not be disturbed.’

  Refusing to let her panic, Parashar led Satyavati to her father’s hut, where he was received with due deference. ‘Your daughter, whom I have met by the river today, has a spark of grace in her,’ he intoned sententiously. ‘With your permission, I wish her to accompany me for a short period as my maid, so that I may instruct her in higher learning. I shall, of course, return her to you when she is of marriageable age.’

  ‘How can I be sure that no harm will come to her?’ asked the startled father, who was no village innocent either.

  ‘You know of me in these parts,’ Parashar responded haughtily. ‘Your daughter will return to you within one year, and she will return a virgin. You have my word.’

  It was not often that a fisherman, even a head fisherman, which is what Satyavati’s father was, challenged the word of a Brahmin. He bowed his head and bade his daughter farewell.

  Satyavati fared well. Parashar took her far away from the region before her pregnancy began to show. I was born in an old midwife’s home in the forest.

  ‘We must name the child Dvaipayana, one created on an island,’ said Satyavati rather sentimentally to my father. He nodded, but it wasn’t a name that ever seemed likely to stick. ‘Women,’ he said to me once, years later, shaking his head in amused tolerance. ‘Imagine, a name like that for the son of a wandering Brahmin in British India. No, Ved Vyas is much easier. I’ve always wanted a son named Ved Vyas.’ And so Ved Vyas it was and, since I was a somewhat diminutive fellow, V.V. I became.

  After less than a month’s suckling, I was taken away from my mother, who had to begin her journey home. My father had taught her several lessons from the ancient texts, including one or two related to the inscrutabilities of virginity. Upon her return, to quell the rumours in the village, her father had Satyavati examined by the senior midwife. Her hymen was pronounced intact.

  Brahmins knew a great deal in those days.

  3

  It was just as well, for Satyavati the fish-odorous was destined to become the wife of a king. Yes, we had kings in those days, four hundred and thirty-five of them, luxuriating in titles such as Maharaja and Nawab that only airline ads and cricket captains sport any more. The British propped them up and told them what to do, or more often what not to do, but they were real kings for all that, with palaces and principalit
ies and twenty-one-gun salutes; well, at least some of them had twenty-one guns, but the number of cannonballs wasted on you descended in order of importance and the man who was entranced by my mother was, I think, only a fourteen- or even an eleven- gunner. His name was Shantanu and he had had a rather unfortunate marriage in the past to an exquisite Maharani who suffered seven successive miscarriages and disappeared when her eighth pregnancy produced a son.

  There were all sorts of stories circulating about the ex-queen, one saying that she was in fact enamoured of Shantanu’s father, the old King Pritapa, and had married the son instead, as a sort of substitute; others casting doubt on her pedigree and claiming that Shantanu had picked her up on the banks of the Ganga; another suggesting that they had what would today be called an ‘open marriage’ which left her free to lead her own life; still others, whispered, that the seven children had died not entirely natural deaths and that the Maharani was not altogether normal. Whatever the truth of the rumours - and there was always enough evidence to suggest that none of them was wholly unfounded - there was no doubting that Shantanu had seemed very happy with his wife until she abruptly left him.

  Years later, inexplicably, the now middle-aged king returned from a trip to the river bank with a handsome lad named Ganga Datta, announced that he was his lost son, and made him heir-apparent; and though this was a position which normally required the approval of the British Resident, it was clear that the young man possessed in abundant measure the qualities and the breeding required for the office of crown prince, and the Maharaja’s apparently eccentric nomination was never challenged. Not, that is, until my mother entered the scene.