Footprints of a nation in flux

BOOK EXTRACT

Sujit Saraf's The Peacock Throne is an epic chronicle of some defining moments in modern India's history "" including the anti-Sikh riots that followed the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the Mandal Commission agitations and the Babri Masjid demolition.

The book is set in Delhi's Chandni Chowk and the principal characters are traders and small-time local politicians "" Hindu, Muslim and Sikh "" whose interactions become a microcosm for the larger political games being played in the country.

"THEY HAVE already shut down everything," says Ibrahim conspiratorially. "Every shop in Ballimaran, Chawri Bajar, Khari Baoli, Nai Sarak..."

Gopal reaches into the junction box and brings out a glass tumbler. Ibrahim frowns, and the yellow teeth are bared. When he speaks his voice threatens as much as it implores: "Maybe I can drink from your regular cup today. There is no difference between Hindu and Musalman now. Both have turned against the Sardar."

Gopal shakes his head, fills Ibrahim's glass and extends it toward him.

He cannot give a regular cup to a Musalman and risk losing his business because Sohan Lal's eyes are on him.

Ibrahim sidles up close to him, overpowering attar molshri with his own leathery smell.

"I am glad they killed her," he says viciously. "She was a whore who castrated our men and had our women raped. Someone had to kill her..."

Gopal shrugs uncomfortably. "I am not a political man, Ibrahim Mian. I hope it did not hurt too much..."

"You do not understand, Gopal bhai, because you are not a Musalman."

"But it was Sardars who killed her!" protests Gopal.

"There is no difference. Musalmans, Sardars, Hindus, everyone hated her. But there will be trouble for Sardars."

"It is an unfortunate day," sighs Gopal.

"It is not safe to walk in Chandni Chowk," says Ibrahim. Gopal trembles, thinking of his son Mukesh.

***** THE MAN stands still.

A silence falls on the crowd. He looks like an unlikely mascot for their crusade. Too oddly dressed. Too black. Too thin. Too sallow. Too poor ... They would have jeered him off the stage but there is a seriousness behind his thin face that makes them take notice. He seems to be preparing for a speech, a demonstration, a dance.

Then he shakes himself out of his daze and draws a box of matches out of his shirt pocket. He pulls out a matchstick, lights it, holds it in front of his face and lets it fall on to his extended leg. His trouser bursts into flames.

"Who is that man?" asks Gopal. "He is on fire!" He watches the yellow shirt carefully, trying hard to focus on the face. He knows the movements of that body as it writhes in agony. In the instant that he recognises Mukesh, Ibrahim turns and places his hands firmly on his shoulders.

"Let me go, Ibrahim Mian! Can you not see he is burning?" "There is nothing we can do," Ibrahim mutters, so softly that Gopal cannot hear. But he holds Gopal firmly. A few others have closed round them to prevent Gopal springing into the clearing.

"Stop him! Stop him!" Gopal screams, but the words die in his throat. He is struggling against the hands that pin him down, imagining that a strong man will walk up to his son, blow out the flames that engulf him and sweep him up in his arms. He does not see such a man, but he knows Mukesh will be safe as soon as this is over. It is a joke, a game, a trick, a ploy to amuse the crowd. His son has always been a prankster. The stones thrown at buses, the rickshas stolen for fun, the silver misplaced at night, the diamond switched inadvertently, and the flames that now crawl over his flailing limbs...

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The Peacock Throne
Author Sujit Saraf
Publisher Sceptre
Pages 750
Price Rs 1,299