A blue light started to beep, reminding them to stand up...
Excerpt from Madhav Mathur’s a dark and humorous satire that follows the life of an ordinary family, struggling to get by in a totalitarian regime sometime in the 22nd century.
DFingerprint Publishing 336 Rs 295
Just a few blocks away, the family stayed glued to their TV box, as the show continued.
“Dvarca, my love, it is now time for the Hour of Honour spectacle. We present a very special performance by an exceptional woman. Many of you must have seen her in the news. She is Srimati Shanti Devi and she wanted to be here today, for us all.”
“Now who is she?” Nakul asked, bored and disinterested.
“Be patient . . .” Jyoti muttered as she grabbed a bowl of peas to peel.
A frail-looking woman in a white sari was escorted to the stage by an armed contingent. The crowd cheered when they saw their uniforms. They were all Varaha, and their famous symbol, the menacing and muscular head of a wild boar with the earth in his tusks, appeared on the screen.
“We all have our ways of celebrating Dvarca and we all yearn for new ways to honour the Motherland. Shanti Devi is here to show us her way.”
“Why can’t they just let the Varaha show us their fighting skills? This old lady is a snore!” the children groaned, unimpressed. Gandharva grabbed Nakul and shook him up, ordering him to sit straight.
“Show some respect! Everything that comes out of that box is of great importance.” He pointed a threatening finger at the boy and then at the television.
“Dvarcan television is the fulcrum of progress. The fulcrum! You will always learn something from it. Pay attention!”
Shanti Devi’s eyes moistened as she began to speak.
“My Arjun was serving with his squadron on the North Western Frontier border. Three days ago, they were attacked by the enemy and he . . . he will not . . . h he did not come back.”She paused to regain her composure as they showed pictures of her son and his contingent. He looked young, handsome and driven. He smiled in the photos. They showed him as a student, in training, and finally in full gear at the battlefront.
“I lost my only son to the Front. He was a good boy. He never had any doubts or questions when it came to God and Country. He just wanted to know where he could go, to protect the Nation. His only goal was service to us.”Her eyes were still and centred at her feet. She pulled herself together.
“As a mark of respect for my brave boyand his fellow soldiers, I will do something today.”
Jyoti looked on with wide, mournful eyes. She had pulled Nakul into an embrace, unknowingly.His unkempt hair ruffled under her chin as he struggled to free himself from her lap.
“Ma! What are you doing? Let me go . . . ”
She was lost.She was still. She looked beautiful to him in that moment. Her firm hold made him feel safe. A sudden funereal calm descended upon them and he stopped trying to get away. He turned back to the telecast.
“We grieve with you. We share your pain. We see the fire in your eyes and steel in your veins.” The presenter chimed in with apposite clichés.
The cameras panned forward to focus on Shanti Devi. The wrinkles on her forehead sat motionless. It was called the bhrikuti, a mark of learnedness, a characteristic that distinguished the pious and the thoughtful, from the careless and naive. Years of hurt crumpled up as her face contorted into an expression of rage.
“They think they can break us by taking away our children. They think they can terrorize us. They think their guns will silence us. I say no! Never! Jai Dvarca!”
The Varaha guards faced the audience. They shouted in unison, “Jai Dvarca!”
Gandharva asked Mira to scoot back from the television. They had no control over the volume. The Hour of Honour had to be watched, heard, and experienced with the prescribed mix and settings. The little girl was defiant.
“Obey your father,” Jyoti supported her husband.
Mira climbed onto their ratty sofa and dived in with legs of lead.The cushions were rough and she rubbed her hands on them petulantly. She found a hole in the upholstery and started to pick and tug at it.The edges started to fray more and more as strings and stitches came undone. “Stop it, don’t do that!” “The hole is already there Ma, look, it’s a lost cause.”
The child ripped a strip clear from the covers. Her mother smacked her on the hand.
“I didn’t do it — it is already ripped and tatty!” “Stop making it bigger!” The Vanaprasthi stepped up to a platform. It was a racewinners’ triple step-stand that had been covered in gold lace and marigold flowers. One could still see the number ‘1’ peeking out from under the covers. She stood on the winner’s box and raised her palms up, joining them in a namaskar. She then put them back down firmly on either side of her body and stood at attention.
Two guards stepped up behind her. One of them held her hand and the other pointed his gun up to the sky. It was a modified 47, from the Arms, Weaponry and Ammunition Zone in Sector 2. It looked big for him. Perhaps they had chosen a smaller looking guard to drive home the message about the giant potent guns. Perhaps it really was an unwieldy mass of deadly metal. He pulled it up and held it tightly under his arm. The old lady turned to him and nodded.
He started to fire. She started to sing.
It was the national anthem. Everyone could hear her, despite the infernal spray of bullets being launched rapidly into the sky above. The frail Mata ji could be heard above the thunderous rattle of the firearm’s mayhem. Jyoti wondered if she could really hear her, or whether she was filling in the sounds and words for the anthem in her mind.
“Do you hear it?” she asked everyone in the house. “I do.” “Do you not?” “Of course I do.” They could all hear the singing. A blue light started to beep on the emblem-idol, reminding them to stand up. The demonstration had taken them all by surprise. They jumped to their feet and sang out loud. The whole block had joined in. Everyone stood with Shanti Devi. Everyone sang the anthem together.
Gandharva asked Mira to scoot back from the television. They had no control over the volume. The Hour of Honour had to be watched, heard, and experienced with the prescribed mix and settings. The little girl was defiant. “Obey your father,” Jyoti supported her husband.