River of Gods (18 page)

Americans fear these jungle places as they fear everything outside
their own borders and co-opt Mr Nandha and his kind to wage their
unending war against the wild aeais, but much of Mr. Nandha admires
the datarajas. They have energy and enterprise. They have pride and a
name in the world. The sundarbans of Bharat and the States of Bengal,
Bangalore and Mumbai, New Delhi and Hyderabad resound globally. They
are the abodes of the mythical Generation Threes, aeais sentient
beyond sentience, as high over human intelligences as gods.

The Badrinath sundarban physically occupies a modest fifteenth-floor
apartment on Vidyapeeth. Dataraja Radhakrishna's neighbours doubtless
never suspect that next door live ten thousand cybernetic devis. As
he hoots his way in to park through the mopeds Mr. Nandha summons his
avatars. Jashwant had been warned. Datarajas have so many feelers,
trembling to the vibrations in the global web, that is almost as if
they are prescient. As he locks the car Mr. Nandha watches as the
streets and skyline fill with gods, huge as mountains. Siva scans the
wireless traffic, Krishna the extra- and intranet, Kali raises her
sickle above the satellite dishes of New Varanasi to reap anything
copying itself out of Badrinath.
Harm's our delight and mischief
all our skill
, sings the English Chamber Orchestra Chorus.

And it all goes white. A shout of static. The gods are wiped from the
skyline.
Dido and Aeneas
shorts in mid-continuo. Mr. Nandha
rips the 'hoek from his ear.

"Make way, make way!" he shouts at the pedestrians. In his
first week with the Ministry Mr. Nandha experienced firsthand a
full-strength EM pulse. There is no mistaking its signature. As he
sprints up the steps to the foyer, thumbing for police support on his
sputtering palmer, he thinks he sees a something, too big for a bird,
too small for an aircraft, loop away from the apartment building and
vanish into the Varanasi sky-glow. Seconds later the fascia of the
fifteenth-floor apartment explodes in a gout of flame.

"Run, flee!" Mr. Nandha shouts as the smoking debris rains
down on the gawpers but the one, huge, gagging thought in his head is
that he won't get his suit from Mukherjee's now.

Prime Minister Sajida Rana wears gold and green today. Her cabinet
knows to expect matters of national pride when she is dressed in the
flag. She stands at the east end of the long teak table in the
luminous marble cabinet room of the Bharat Sabha. Gilt framed oils of
forebears and political inspirations line the long wall. Her father,
Diljit Rana, in his judge's robes, father of the nation. Her
grandfather, Shankar Rana, in his English Queen's Counsel silk.
Jawarhalal Nehru, aloof and vaguely fearful in his sweetly cut suit,
as if he had seen the price future generations would pay for the
quick, dirty deal he did with Mountbatten. The Mahatma, father of
all, with his bowl and wheel. Lakshmi Bai, warrior Rani, standing in
the stirrups of her Maratha cavalry horse commanding the charge on
Gwalior. And the autocrats of that other mighty Indian dynasty to
share the name Gandhi, Sonia; assassinated Rajiv; Indira the martyr,
Mother India.

The marble walls and ceiling of the cabinet chamber have been worked
into an intricate filigree of Hindu mythology. Yet the acoustic is
dry and resonant. Even whispers ring and carry. Sajida Rana places
her hands on the polished teak, rests her weight on them, a fighter's
stance.

"Can we survive if we strike at Awadh?"

V. S. Chowdhury, Defence Minister, turns his hooded, hawk eyes to his
leader. "Bharat will survive. Varanasi will survive. Varanasi is
eternal." There is no doubt in the echoing hall what he means.

"Can we beat them?"

"No. Not a hope. You saw Shrivastava on the White House shaking
hands with McAuley on his Most Favoured Nation status."

"It'll be the Shanker Mahal next," says Energy Secretary
Vajubhai Patel. "The Americans have been sniffing around Ray
Power. The Awadhis won't need to invade, they can just buy us up.
Last I heard, old Ray was down at Manikarna ghat doing his surya
namaskar."

"Then who's running the bloody shop?" Chowdhury asks.

"An astrophysicist, a packaging salesman, and a self-styled
comedian."

"Gods save us, we should surrender right now," Chowdhury
mutters.

"I cannot believe what I am hearing around this table,"
says Sajida Rana. "Like old women around a pump. The people want
a war."

"The people want rain," says Biswanath, Minister of
Environmental Affairs, stiffly. "And that is all they want. A
monsoon."

Sajida Rana turns now to her most trusted aide. Shaheen Badoor Khan
is lost in marble, his attention seduced by vulgar pagan deities
scrambling over each other's bodies, up the walls and across the
roof. Then he mentally erases the grosser contours, the sculpted
cones of the breasts, the crude jut of the linga, reduces them to an
androgynous blur of marble flesh, flowing into and through and out of
itself. Vision jumps to an angle of cheekbone, an elegantly curved
nape, a smooth perfect curve of hairless scalp glimpsed in an airport
corridor.

"Mr. Khan, what did you get from Bengal?"

"It is fantasy," Shaheen Badoor Khan says. "As always,
the Banglas want to demonstrate they can engineer, a high-tech
solution to a problem. The iceberg is a PR stunt. They are almost as
thirsty as we are."

"This is it precisely." Interior Minister Ashok Rana speaks
now. Shaheen Badoor Khan has no issue with nepotism, but it should at
least aspire to fitting the man to the job. In pretence of making a
point, Ashok will deliver a short speech in support of his sister's
policy, whatever it is. "What the people need is water and if
that takes a war."

Shaheen Badoor Khan gives the slightest of sighs, enough for the
brother to catch. Defence Minister Chowdhury chimes in. He has a high
and querulous voice that strikes unpleasant harmonics from the
squabbling marble apsaras.

"The Land Forces Strategic Development Unit's best model
involves a preemptive strike on the dam itself. Send a small commando
force in by air, take the dam, hold it until the last moment, and
then withdraw across the border. Meanwhile we press the United
Nations for an international peace-keeping force on the dam."

"If the Americans do nor call for sanctions first," Shaheen
Badoor Khan comments. A murmur of agreement rolls around the long
dark table.

"Withdraw?" Ashok Rana is incredulous. "Our brave
jawans strike a mighty blow against Awadh and they turn tail and run?
How will that look on the streets of Patna? This Strategic
Development Unit, have they no izzat?"

Shaheen Badoor Khan feels the climate in the room change. This
balls-talk of pride and brave soldiers and cowardice is stirring
them. "If I might offer an opinion," he says into the
perfect, resonant silence.

"Your opinions are always welcome here," Sajida Rana says.

"I believe that the greatest threat this government faces comes
from the orchestrated demonstrations at Sarkhand Roundabout, not our
dam dispute with Awadh," he says carefully. Voices on every side
of the table raise objection. Sajida Rana lifts her hand and there is
quiet.

"Continue, Secretary Khan."

"I am not saying there will not be war, though I think my
position on agression towards Awadh is clear to everyone by now."

"Woman's position," Ashok Rana says. Shaheen hears Ashok
whisper to his aide, "Muslim's position."

"I am talking about threats to this government and clearly, the
biggest threat we face is internal division and civil unrest fomented
by the Shivaji. As long as our party enjoys mass popular support for
any military action against Awadh, any diplomatic negotiations will
come through this cabinet. And we are agreed that military force is
purely a tool to get the Awadhis to the negotiating table, despite
Ashok's high regard for our military prowess." Shaheen Badoor
Khan holds Ashok Rana's eyes long enough to tell him he is a fool
appointed above his competence. "However, if the Awadhis and
their American patrons see a political alternative with wide popular
support in Bharat, then N. K. Jiwanjee will set himself up as
peacemaker. The man who stopped the war, made the Ganga run again,
and brought down the proud Ranas who shamed Bharat. We will not see
the inside of this room for a generation. This is behind that
play-acting over Sarkhand Roundabout. It is not the moral outrage of
the Honest Hinduvavadi of Bharat. Jivanjee plans to raise the mob
against us. He is going to ride that Chariot of Jaggarnath right up
Chandni Boulevard into this room."

"Is there anything we can arrest him on?" Foreign Minister
Dasgupta asks.

"Back taxes?" Vipul Narvekar, Ashok Rana's PA, suggests to
a murmur of laughter.

"I have a suggestion," Shaheen Badoor Khan says. "Let
N. K. Jivanjee have what he wants, but only when we want him to have
it."

"Explain please, Mr. Khan." Prime Minister Rana leans
forward now.

"I say, give him his head. Let him call up his million staunch
believers. Let him ride his war chariot with his Shivaji dancing
behind him. Let him be the voice of Hindutva, let him make the
war-mongering speeches and stir up the offended Bharati pride. Let
him drive the country into war. If we show ourselves to be doves,
then he will become the hawk. We know he can stir a mob to violence.
That could be directed against Awadhis in the border towns. They'll
appeal to Delhi to protect them, the whole thing will escalate. Mr.
Jivanjee needs no persuasion to ride his rath yatra right up to the
Kunda Khadar dam. The Awadhis will strike back; then we move in as
the injured party. The Shivaji are discredited as the ones who
started the whole thing; the Awadhis are on the back foot with their
Americans; and we go to the negotiating table as the party of reason,
sanity, and diplomacy."

Sajida Rana stands upright.

"Subtle as ever, Secretary Khan."

"I am a mere civil servant." Shaheen Badoor Khan dips his
head obediently but catches Ashok Rana's eye. He is furious.
Chowdhury speaks up.

"With respect, Secretary Khan, I think you underestimate the
will of the Bharati people. There is more to Bharat than Varanasi and
problems with its Metro stations. I know that in Patna we are simple,
patriotic people. There, everyone believes a war will unite popular
opinion and marginalise N. K. Jivanjee. It is a dangerous tactic,
playing subtle games at times of national danger. The same Ganga
flows through us as flows through you, you are not the only thirsty
ones here. As you say, Prime Minister, the people need a war. I do
not want to go to war, but I believe we must, and strike fast and
strike first. Then we negotiate from a position of strength and when
there is water in the pumps, that is when Jivanjee and his karsevaks
will be seen as the rabble they are. Prime Minister, when have you
ever misjudged the mood of the people of Bharat?"

Nods, grunts. The climate is shifting again. Sajida Rana stands at
the head of her table of ministers, looking over her ancestors and
influencers as Shaheen Badoor Khan has seen at so many cabinet
meetings before, calling on them to sanctify the decision she is
about to make for Bharat.

"I hear you, Mr. Chowdhury, but there is merit in Mr. Khan's
proposal. I am minded to try it. I will let N. K. Jivanjee do our
work for us, but keep the army on three-hour standby. Gentlemen,
reports to my office mail by sixteen hundred today, I will circulate
directives by seventeen hundred. Thank you, this meeting is closed."

Cabinet and advisors rise as Sajida Rana turns and strides out in a
furl colours, her secretarial staff falling in behind her. She is a
tall, thin, striking woman, no trace of grey in her hair despite a
first grandchild imminent. Shaheen Badoor Khan catches a ghost of
Chanel as she sweeps past. He glances once at the sex divinities
crawling all over the walls and roof, suppresses a shudder.

In the corridor, a touch at his cuff: the Defence Minister. "Mr.
Khan."

"Yes, how can I help you, Minister?"

Chowdhury draws Shaheen Badoor Khan into a window alcove. Minister
Chowdhury leans towards him, says quietly and without inflection, "A
successful meeting, Mr. Khan, but might I remind you of your own
words? You are a mere civil servant."

He tucks his briefcase under his arm and hurries on down the
corridor.

Hungover on blood, Najia Askarzadah wakes late in her backpackers'
berth at the Imperial International. She staggers into the communal
kitchen in search of chai, steers past Australians complaining about
how flat the landscape is and that they can't get decent cheese,
makes a glass and gets back to her room, mobbed by horrors. She
remembers how the microsabres leaped for each other and she had risen
with the crowd with the blood roar in her throat. It's a viler and
dirtier feeling than she ever had from any drugs or sex but she's
addicted.

Najia has thought much about her attraction to danger. Her parents
had brought her up a Swede, permissively educated, sexually liberal,
Westward-looking. They brought no photographs into their exile, no
souvenirs, no words or language or sense of geography. The only
Afghan thing about Najia Askarzadah is her name. Her parents' opus
was so complete that it was not until her first term at university,
when her tutor had suggested she research an essay on post-Civil War
Afghan politics that Najia understood that she had an entire, buried
identity. That identity opened up beneath Najia Askarzadah the little
liberal arts Scandinavian poly-sexual and swallowed her for three
months in which the essay became the foundation of the work that
would become her final thesis. There is a life she could have led and
her career so far has been foreplay with it. Bharat on the edge of
water war is the preparation for her return to Kabul.