Step Across This Line Part 8

I should have worked out that if I myself was a little uncertain of how things would go, everyone around me would be in a blue funk. Things have improved in England and America, and normal service has very largely been resumed. I have grown unaccustomed to the problems of a maximum-security protection operation. What's happening in India feels, in this regard, like entering a time warp and being taken back to the bad old early days of the Iranian attack.

My protection team couldn't be nicer or more efficient, but gosh, there are a lot of them, and they are jumpy. In Old Delhi, where many Muslims live, they are especially on edge, particularly whenever, in spite of my cloak of invisibility, a member of the public commits the faux pas of recognizing me.

"Sir, there has been exposure! Exposure has occurred!" my protectors mourn. "Sir, they have said the name, sir! The name has been spoken!" "Sir, please, the hat!"

It's useless to point out that I do tend to get recognized a fair bit because, well, I look like this and other people don't; or that, on every single "exposure," the reaction of the persons concerned has been friendly, even delighted. My protectors have a nightmare scenario in their heads-rioting mobs, et cetera-and mere real life isn't enough to wipe it away.

This has been one of the most frustrating aspects of the last few years. People-journalists, policemen, friends, strangers-all write scripts for me, and I get trapped inside those fantasies. What none of the scenarists ever seems to come up with is the possibility of a happy ending-one in which the problems I've faced are gradually overcome, and I resume the ordinary literary life that is all I've ever wanted. Yet this, the wholly unantic.i.p.ated story line, is what has actually transpired.

My biggest problem these days is waiting for everyone to let go of their nightmares and catch up with the facts.

I dine with Vivan Sundaram and Geeta Kapur, at their home in the Shanti Niketan district of South Delhi. Before I go, I am required by the police to ask Vivan and Geeta not to tell anyone I'm coming. During our meal, they are telephoned by a senior police officer who asks them not to tell anyone I've been there. The next day, they receive another follow-up phone call urging discretion. They are amused, but I am irritated. This is getting ridiculous.

Vivan is Amrita Sher-Gil's nephew, and some of her best canvases are on the walls of his home, as is his own luminous family portrait of Amrita's world. This is a big picture set in the Sher-Gil drawing room, and it's a work that endlessly draws you in yet remains beautifully mysterious. The directness of Amrita's gaze-she alone looks straight out of the picture at us-is balanced by the dreamlike inwardness of the other family members. A lost-world atmosphere pervades the room, at once golden and stifling; and there is the gun. I have a pa.s.sion for contemporary Indian art, and just to see this great painting again feels like a homecoming.

"So, do things feel different?" Vivan asks, and I say, not as much as I thought they would. People don't change, the heart of the place is the same. But of course there are changes. One friend has been gravely ill but is recovering. Another dear friend is still seriously unwell. And of course the obvious changes. The BJP in power. The new technology boom that has given even more impetus and affluence to the Indian bourgeoisie.

I mention Clinton's visit, which Geeta and Vivan portray as a defining moment for the rich India that has grown exponentially since my last visit, fueled by new technology. In America, 40 percent of the people working in Silicon Valley are now of Indian origin, and in India itself the new electronic age has made many fortunes. Clinton lavished praise on these new techno-boomers, making a point of visiting Hyderabad, one of the new boomtowns. For the Indian rich, his coming was both a validation and an apotheosis.

"You can't believe how they loved it," Geeta says. "So many people longing to bow down and say, sir, sir, we just love America."

"India and the U.S. as the two great democracies," Vivan adds. "India and America as partners and equals. That was the idea, and it was said without any sense of irony at all."

The India that remains in thrall to religious-communalist sectarians of the most extreme and medievalist type; the India that's fighting something like a civil war in Kashmir; the India that cannot feed or educate or give proper medical care to its people; the India that can't provide its citizens with drinkable water; the India in which the absence of simple toilet facilities obliges millions of women to control their natural functions so that they can relieve themselves under cover of darkness; these Indias were not paraded before the president of the United States. Instead, gung-ho nuclear India, fat-cat entrepreneurial India, super-nerd computer-India, glam-rock high-life India all pirouetted and twirled in the international media spotlight that accompanies the Leader of the Free World wherever he goes.

MONDAY, APRIL 10.

A somewhat paranoid start to my day. I learn that the head of the British Council in India, Colin Perchard, has refused me permission to use the council's auditorium for a press conference at the end of the week. In addition, the British high commissioner, Sir Rob Young, has been instructed by the Foreign Office to stay away from me-he is "not to come out of the stables," he tells Vijay.

Robin Cook, the British foreign secretary, is arriving in India the day I am due to leave and, it would appear, is anxious not to be too closely a.s.sociated with me. He is scheduled to travel to Iran soon, and naturally that trip must not be compromised. (Later: Cook's trip is canceled anyway, because of the closed-court "spy trials" of Jews in Iran. So it goes.) Better news comes from the Commonwealth Foundation's Colin Ball, who has moderated his stance and is no longer threatening to withdraw my invitation to his awards dinner. Like Cinderella, it would appear, I shall go to the Ball. But in my paranoid mood I think that if the foundation is so nervous about my mere presence, they are unlikely to want the closer a.s.sociation with me that giving me the prize would inevitably create.

I remind myself why I'm really here. The Commonwealth Writers' Prize is only a pretext. To have made this trip with Zafar is the real victory. For both of us, India is the prize.

The Hansie Cronje cricket scandal pushes politics off the front pages and my own little grumbles out of my head. Cronje, the captain of the South African cricket team and poster boy for the new South Africa, is being accused by the Indian police of having been involved, along with three of his teammates, Hersch.e.l.le Gibbs, Nicky Boje, and Pieter Strydom, of taking money from the Indian bookies Sanjiv Chawla and Rajesh Kalra to fix the results of one-day international games.

It's sensational news. The Indian police claim to have transcripts of telephone conversations that leave no room for doubt. There are hints of a link to underworld crime-syndicate bosses like the notorious Dawood Ibrahim. People start speculating about this being the tip of an enormous iceberg. Can cricket itself survive if spectators don't know if they're watching a fair contest or a sort of pro-wrestling bout in white flannels? "We treated them like G.o.ds," a fan says, "and they turned out to be crooks."

Rumors of match-fixing have been flying around for years, clouding the reputations of some of the game's leading players: Pakistan's Salim Malik, Australia's Shane Warne, and India's own former captain, Mohammed Azharuddin, who was accused of corruption by a teammate, Manoj Prabhakar. A former England international star, Chris Lewis, has given the British cricket authorities the names of three allegedly corrupt England stars. (These names have not been made public.) But, so far, none of the charges have been proven, and not much of the mud has stuck.

It's no secret that as the one-day version of the game has become a big money-spinner, and as the numbers of such matches have proliferated, the interest of Far Eastern betting syndicates and bookmakers with underworld links has grown. But no cricket-lover wants to believe that his heroes are jerks. Such chosen blindness is a form of corruption, too.

Within moments, the denials begin. Hansie is a gent, clean as a whistle, honest as the day is long. And why were Indian policemen bugging South African players' phones in the first place? And the voices on the tapes don't even sound South African.

Cronje himself gives a press conference denying the charges, insisting that his teammates and his bank accounts will confirm that he never tried to throw a match or received any cash for doing so. And behind all the backlash is what sounds, to Indian ears, suspiciously like racism. Commentators from the white cricket-playing countries have been the fastest out of the blocks, rubbis.h.i.+ng the allegations, casting doubt on the professionalism and even the integrity of the Indian policemen investigating the case.

The officer in charge of my protection team is the kindly-natured Akshey k.u.mar, who loves literature, can speak with knowledge about the work of Vikram Seth and Vikram Chandra, Rohinton Mistry and Arundhati Roy, and is proud of having two daughters at college in Boston, at Tufts. K. K. Paul, who has been running the Cronje investigation, is a friend of his, a superb detective, says k.u.mar, and a man of great probity. What's more, South Africa being a friendly nation, the Indian authorities would never allow these accusations to be made public unless they're 110 percent convinced of the strength of the case that Paul and his team have built. Therefore, k.u.mar advises with great prescience, just wait on and see.

We're off on a road trip to show the boy the sights: Jaipur, Fatehpur Sikri, Agra. For me, the road itself has always been the main attraction.

There are more trucks than I remembered, many more, blaring and lethal, often driving straight at us down the wrong side of the carriageway. There are wrecks from head-on smashes every few miles. Look, Zafar, that is the shrine of a prominent Muslim saint; all the truckers stop there and pray for luck, even the Hindus. Then they get back into their cabs and take hideous risks with their lives and ours as well.

Look, Zafar, that is a tractor-trolley loaded with men. At election time the sarpanch sarpanch or headman of every village is ordered to provide such trolleyloads for politicians' rallies. For Sonia Gandhi, ten tractor-trolleys per village is the requirement. People are so disillusioned with politicians these days that n.o.body would actually go to the rallies of their own free will. or headman of every village is ordered to provide such trolleyloads for politicians' rallies. For Sonia Gandhi, ten tractor-trolleys per village is the requirement. People are so disillusioned with politicians these days that n.o.body would actually go to the rallies of their own free will.

Look, those are the polluting chimneys of brick kilns smoking in the fields. Outside the city the air is less filthy, but it still isn't clean. But in Bombay between December and February, think of this, aircraft can't land or take off before 11:00 A.M. because of the smog.

The new age is here all right. Zafar, if you could read Hindi you'd see the new age's new words being phonetically transliterated into that language's Devanagiri script: Millennium Tires. Oasis Cellular. Modern's Chinese "Fastfood." Millennium Tires. Oasis Cellular. Modern's Chinese "Fastfood."

He wants to learn Hindi. He is good at languages and wants to learn Hindi and Urdu and come back without all the paraphernalia that presently surrounds us: without, to be blunt, me. Good. He's got the bug. Once India bites you, Zafar, you'll never be cured.

Behold, Zafar, the incomprehensible acronyms of India. What is a WAKF board? What is an HSIDC? But one acronym reveals a genuine s.h.i.+ft in reality. You see it everywhere now, every hundred yards or so: STD-ISD-PCO. PCO is personal call office, and now anyone can pop into one of these little booths, make calls to anywhere in India or, indeed, the world, and pay on the way out. This is the genuine communications revolution of India. n.o.body need be isolated anymore.

In the roadside dhabas dhabas where we stop for refreshments, they're talking about Hansie Cronje. n.o.body is in any doubt that he is guilty as sin. where we stop for refreshments, they're talking about Hansie Cronje. n.o.body is in any doubt that he is guilty as sin.

Bill Clinton visited the hilltop fortress-palace of Amber, outside Jaipur, but his security people wouldn't allow him to indulge in the famous local tourist treat. At the bottom of Amber's hill is a taxi-rank of elephants. You buy a ticket at the Office of Elephant Booking and then lurch uphill on the back of your rented pachyderm. Where the president failed, Zafar and I succeed. I feel glad to know-in a moment of schadenfreude-that somebody else's security was tighter and more restrictive than mine.

Clinton did, however, watch dancing girls twirling and cavorting for him in Amber's Saffron Garden. He'd have liked that. Rajasthan is colorful. People wear colorful clothes and perform colorful dances and ride on colorful elephants to colorful ancient palaces, and these are things a president should know.

He should also know that at a test site near Pokhran in Rajasthan's Thar desert Indian know-how brought India into the nuclear age. Rajasthan is, therefore, the cradle of the new India that must be thought of as America's partner and equal. (Clinton did raise the subject of the Test Ban Treaty but failed to persuade India to sign. After all, the United States hasn't ratified it, either.) What should not be drawn to Clinton's attention-because it has no place in either the colorful, touristic, elephant-taxi India or the new, thrusting, Internet-billionaire, entrepreneurial India that is presently being sold to the world-is that Rajasthan, along with its neighboring state of Gujarat, is currently dying of thirst, in the grip of the worst drought for over a century.

What the president must not be permitted even to think is that the money spent on India's ridiculous Bomb could have helped care for and feed the sick and hungry. Or that it's absurd for Prime Minister Vajpayee to appeal to the people of India to help fight the ma.s.sive destruction wrought by the drought by making charitable contributions, "no matter how small," while the Indian government is still spending a fortune on Rajasthan's other weapon of ma.s.s destruction.

It's hot: almost 110F, over 40C. The rains have failed for the last two years, and it's still two months to the next monsoon. Wells are running dry, and villagers are being forced to drink dirty water, which gives them diarrhea, which causes dehydration, and so the vicious circle tightens its grip.

When I was last here, a dozen years ago, the region was in the grip of the previous worst-ever drought. I traveled in Gujarat then and saw much the same sort of devastation as is apparent everywhere in rural Rajasthan today. As the gulf between the feast of the haves and the famine of the have-nots widens, the stability of the country must be more and more at risk. I have been smelling a difference in the air, and reluctant as I am to put into words what isn't much more than an instinct, I do feel a greater volatility in people, a crackle of anger just below the surface, a shorter fuse.

At dinner, Zafar eats a bad shrimp. I blame myself. I should have known to remind him of the basic rules for travelers in India: always drink bottled water, make sure you see the seal on the bottle being broken in front of you, never eat salad (it won't have been washed in bottled water), never put ice in your drinks (it won't have been made with bottled water) . . . and never, never eat seafood unless you're by the sea. never, never eat seafood unless you're by the sea.

Zafar's desert shrimp knocks him flat. He has a sleepless night: vomiting, diarrhetic. In the morning he looks terrible, and we have a long, hard journey ahead of us, on b.u.mpy, difficult roads. Now he, too, needs to guard against dehydration. Unlike the villagers we're leaving behind, however, we have plenty of bottled water to drink, and proper medication. And, of course, we're leaving.

TUESDAY, APRIL 11.

A day to grind through. Long, grueling journey to Agra, then back to Delhi. Zafar suffers but remains stoical. He's too weak to walk around the magnificent Fatehpur Sikri site, and only just manages to drag himself around the Taj, which he declares to be smaller than expected. I am very relieved when I can finally get him into a comfortable hotel bed.

I turn on the television news. Cronje has confessed.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12.

CRONJE: I AM A CROOK say the banner headlines in the morning papers. The erstwhile cricketing demiG.o.d has admitted to having feet of clay: he has "been dishonest," he has taken money, and now he has been fired from the South African captaincy and kicked out of the national team. K. K. Paul and his men have been thoroughly and dramatically vindicated.

The money Cronje took was paltry, as it turns out: a mere $8,200. Not much of a price for a man's good name.

Meanwhile, back in South Africa, the predominantly white cricket-loving public (South African blacks are much more interested in soccer) rallies behind its beloved Hansie. Put him back in the team, say the opinion polls, and the media, too, back him to the hilt. In Durban, a crowd of whites attacks Sadha Govender, chairman of the KwaZulu-Natal Cricket Development Programme, who is repeatedly slapped and kicked. "Charros brought Cronje down," the whites shout. (Govender is of Indian origin. Charros are Indians.) Hansie Cronje's locker-room nickname-given him long before the present scandal-was Crime. As in crime doesn't pay. He was notoriously stingy, the story goes, about buying a round of drinks. Now, as the South African government moves toward agreeing to his extradition to stand trial in India, and his lawyers warn him to expect a jail term, he must have started thinking of that nickname as a prophecy.

I am impressed by the relative lack of triumphalism in the Indian response to Cronje's downfall. "What are we gloating over?" warns Siddharth Saxena in The Hindustan Times The Hindustan Times: meaning, let's not be self-righteous about this. The bookmakers were Indians, after all, and in the revelations that should now begin to flood out, we may learn that we're no angels, either. One of the bookies, Rajesh Khalra, is already under arrest, and a suspected middleman, the movie actor Kishen k.u.mar, will be arrested as soon as he gets out of the hospital, where he is being treated for a sudden heart problem.

At a roadside dhaba dhaba earlier today, Zafar saw a smiling young man in a Pepsi poster. "Who's that?" he wanted to know. "That" was Sachin Tendulkar, India's great cricketing superstar, the best batsman in the world. My G.o.d, I thought, if one day a scandal should touch Tendulkar, it really would destroy the game. People wouldn't be able to stand it. earlier today, Zafar saw a smiling young man in a Pepsi poster. "Who's that?" he wanted to know. "That" was Sachin Tendulkar, India's great cricketing superstar, the best batsman in the world. My G.o.d, I thought, if one day a scandal should touch Tendulkar, it really would destroy the game. People wouldn't be able to stand it.

Another alleged go-between, Hamid "Banjo" Ca.s.sim, a South African businessman, is named by the Indian police. He is said to have links with the bookie Sanjiv Chawla, as well as Mohammed Azharuddin . . . and Sachin Tendulkar. Azharuddin's and Tendulkar's denials of wrongdoing are instant and furious, and n.o.body actually accuses them of anything. But a shadow falls across the sun.

Roper Starch Worldwide, a market research agency, has issued a World Happiness Barometer. On average, apparently, just 24 percent of the world's population describes itself as happy. The happiest countries are the USA (46 percent), India (37 percent), and the United Kingdom (36 percent). India's in the Happiness Silver Medal Position! Her right to a place at the world's top table is confirmed!

The unhappiest countries in the world are China (9 percent) and Russia (3 percent). Figures for the present happiness level of cricket fans in South Africa are not included.

India's national happiness level has been raised, this morning, by the good news that Indian-born Jhumpa Lahiri has won the Pulitzer Prize for her first book of stories, The Interpreter of Maladies. The Interpreter of Maladies. She's on the front page of every paper, beaming at her good fortune, and in spite of the somewhat ambiguous att.i.tude in these parts to the work "Diaspora Indians," she is given glowing write-ups everywhere. She is a very talented writer, and I share the general feeling of pride in her achievement. She's on the front page of every paper, beaming at her good fortune, and in spite of the somewhat ambiguous att.i.tude in these parts to the work "Diaspora Indians," she is given glowing write-ups everywhere. She is a very talented writer, and I share the general feeling of pride in her achievement.

Sri Lanka wants the United Kingdom branded a terrorist state, because it harbors so many terrorist groups: the LTTE (Tamil Tigers), Hamas from Palestine, the Kurdish PKK, the Kashmiri Harkat-ul-Ansar, and, according to the Sri Lankans, sixteen other groups on the U.S. terrorism list. I can't help feeling that Sri Lanka has a point. The United States is presently accusing Pakistan and Afghanistan of forming a "terror hub" because they give house room to Osama bin Laden and various Kashmiri separatists. If it isn't too sad-sack a question in the midst of all this happiness, why isn't Britain being "chargesheeted" as well?

Sometime in the 1930s my paternal grandfather, Mohammed Din Khaliqi, a successful Delhi businessman, acquired a hot-season retreat for his family, a modest stone cottage in the pretty little town of Solan in the s.h.i.+mla Hills. He named it Anis Villa after his only son, Anis Ahmed. That son, my father, who later took the surname Rushdie, gifted the house to me on my twenty-first birthday. And eleven years ago, the state government of Himachal Pradesh took it over without so much as a by-your-leave.

It isn't easy to seize a man's property in India, even for a state government. In order to get hold of Anis Villa, the local authorities falsely declared it to be "evacuee property." The law pertaining to evacuee property was devised after Part.i.tion to enable the state to take possession of homes left behind by individuals and families who had gone to Pakistan. This law did not apply to me. I was an Indian citizen until I became a British one by naturalization, and I have never held a Pakistani pa.s.sport or been a resident of that country. Anis Villa had been wrongfully seized, and provably so.

Vijay Shankarda.s.s and I became close friends because of Solan. One of the most distinguished attorneys in India with, incidentally, a proud history of anti-censors.h.i.+p victories to his name, he took on the Himachal authorities on my behalf. The case took seven years, and we won. Both parts of this sentence are impressive. Seven years, by Indian standards, is incredibly fast. incredibly fast. And to defeat a government, even when right is quite clearly on your side, takes some doing. Vijay's victory has been much admired in India, and he deserves all the kudos he has received. And to defeat a government, even when right is quite clearly on your side, takes some doing. Vijay's victory has been much admired in India, and he deserves all the kudos he has received.

For Vijay, the Solan case was just one part of the larger task of putting right my relations.h.i.+p with India, which has become, for him, something of a personal crusade. He has dedicated much time to it, testing the waters, lobbying politicians, working tirelessly on my behalf. The present trip would have been impossible without him. He is softly spoken, has quite exceptional gifts of negotiation and persuasion, and I owe him a debt of grat.i.tude that can never be repaid.

We regained possession of the Solan villa in November 1997. Since then, the roof has been fixed, the house cleaned and painted, and one bathroom modernized. Impressively, the electricity, plumbing, and telephone all work. In preparation for our visit, furniture and furnis.h.i.+ngs have been rented for a week from a local store, at the surreal cost, for a six-bedroom house, of one hundred dollars. A caretaker and his family live on the premises. Solan has grown out of all recognition, but the villa's view of the hills remains clear and unspoiled.

Zafar is just a few weeks shy of his own twenty-first birthday. Going to Solan with him today closes a circle. It also discharges a responsibility I have long felt to the memory of my father, who died in 1987. You see, Abba, I have reclaimed our house. Four generations of our family, living and dead, can now forgather there. One day it will belong to Zafar and his little brother, Milan. In a family as uprooted and far-flung as ours, this little acre of continuity stands for a very great deal.

To get to Solan you take a three-hour ride in an air-conditioned "chair car" on the Shatabdi Express from New Delhi to Le Corbusier's city of Chandigarh, the shared capital city of both Punjab and Haryana. Then you drive for an hour and a half, up into the hills. At least, this is what you do if you're not me. The police do not want me to take the train. "Sir, exposure is too great." They are upset because the manager of the hotel in Jaipur has blabbed to Reuters that I was there. Vijay has managed to squash the Reuters story for the moment, but the s.h.i.+eld of invisibility is wearing thin. At Solan, as even the police accept, or say they accept, the cat will surely spring from the bag. It's where everyone expects me to go. The day before yesterday, the Indian state TV service Doordarshan sent a team up to Anis Villa to nose around and quiz Govind Ram, the caretaker, who stonewalled n.o.bly. Once I'm actually there, however, the story will surely break.

One rather unattractive development: the police high-ups who telephone Akshey k.u.mar every five minutes to ask how things are going have developed the notion that the Jaipur leak was engineered by Vijay and myself. This germ of suspicion will shortly blossom into a full-blown disease.

Zafar is feeling better, but I refuse to inflict what will be a seven-hour car journey on him. I put him on the train, lucky dog. I am to meet him at Chandigarh station with my inconspicuous "car-cade" of four black sedans.

There's another train leaving Delhi, a train whose existence wasn't dreamed of the last time I was in India. This is the Samjhauta Express, the non-stop direct rail link between the Indian capital and the city of Lah.o.r.e in Pakistan. Just as I'm preparing to celebrate this sign of improving relations between the old adversaries, however, I discover that the continuance of the service is now at risk. Pakistan complains that India isn't providing its share of the rolling stock. India complains, more seriously, that Pakistan is using the train to smuggle drugs and counterfeit money into India.

Drugs are a huge issue, of course, but the counterfeit money issue is also a big one. In Nepal, these days, people are reluctant to accept Indian five hundred rupee notes, because of the quant.i.ty of forgeries in circulation. Not long ago a diplomat from the Pakistan mission in Delhi went to pay his young son's school fees, and used a mixture of genuine and funny money to do so. The boy was expelled, and although he was later reinstated, the link between the Pakistani government and the bad money had been clearly established.

(On Friday the fourteenth, India and Pakistan agree to let the train continue running for the moment. But it can no longer be said to symbolize the spirit of friendly cooperation. Rather, it's just another problem, another location of the struggle between the two neighbors.) I collect Zafar at Chandigarh, and as we go up into the hills my heart lifts. Mountains have a way of cheering up plains dwellers. The air freshens, tall conifers lean from steep slopes. As the sun sets, the lights of the first hill stations glow in the twilight above us. We pa.s.s a narrow-gauge railway train on its slow, picturesque way up to s.h.i.+mla. For me this is the emotional high point of the trip to date, and I can see that Zafar, too, is moved. We stop at a dhaba dhaba near Solan for dinner, and the owner tells me how happy he is that I'm there, and someone else runs up for an autograph. I ignore the worried expression on Akshey k.u.mar's face. Even though I've hardly ever been here in my life, and not at all since I was twelve years old, I feel like I'm home. near Solan for dinner, and the owner tells me how happy he is that I'm there, and someone else runs up for an autograph. I ignore the worried expression on Akshey k.u.mar's face. Even though I've hardly ever been here in my life, and not at all since I was twelve years old, I feel like I'm home.

It's dark when we reach the villa. From the road we have to climb down 122 steps to reach it. At the bottom there's a little gate, and Vijay, also in a state of high feeling, formally welcomes me to the home he has won back for my family. Govind Ram runs up and astonishes Zafar by stooping down to touch our feet. I am not a superst.i.tious man, but I feel the presence at my shoulder of my grandfather, who died before I was born, and of my parents' younger selves. The sky is on fire with stars. I go into the back garden by myself. I need to be alone.

THURSDAY, APRIL 13.

I am woken at 5:00 A.M. by amplified music and chanting from a mandir, mandir, a Hindu temple, across the valley. I get dressed and walk around the house in the dawn light. With its high-pitched pink roofs and little corner turrets, it's more beautiful than I remembered, more beautiful than it looked in Vijay's photographs of it, and the view is as stunning as promised. It's a very strange feeling to walk around a house you don't know that somehow belongs to you. It takes a while for us to grow into each other, the house and I, but by the time the others wake up, it's mine. a Hindu temple, across the valley. I get dressed and walk around the house in the dawn light. With its high-pitched pink roofs and little corner turrets, it's more beautiful than I remembered, more beautiful than it looked in Vijay's photographs of it, and the view is as stunning as promised. It's a very strange feeling to walk around a house you don't know that somehow belongs to you. It takes a while for us to grow into each other, the house and I, but by the time the others wake up, it's mine.

We spend most of the day mooching around the premises, sitting in the garden under the shade of big old conifers, eating Vijay's special scrambled eggs. I know now that the trip has been worthwhile: I know it from the expression on Zafar's face.

In the afternoon we make an excursion to the next town, the former British summer capital. They called it Simla, but it's gone back to being s.h.i.+mla now that they have left. Vijay shows me the law courts where he fought for Anis Villa, and we go, too, to the former Viceregal Lodge, a big old pile that once staged the crucial pre-Independence Simla Conference of 1945 and now houses a research establishment called the Indian Inst.i.tute of Advanced Studies. The fabric of the building, of course, is badly neglected, and may soon become unsafe.

Zafar walks gravely around the conference table where the shades of Gandhi, Nehru, and Jinnah are seated, but when we get outside again he asks, "Why is that stone lion still holding up an English flag?" The probable answer, I hypothesize, is that n.o.body noticed until he did. India has been independent for over half a century, but the flag of St. George is still up there on the roof.

A little ducking and swerving in the grounds to dodge the BJP-wallah who now runs the inst.i.tute. Alas, I am here not only as observer but also as observed, and I mustn't fall into the trap of looking like the BJP's man. A handshake that would certainly be photographed is worth a little fancy footwork to avoid.

Unlike V. S. Naipaul (who is also in India, I gather), I do not see the rise of Hindu nationalism as a great outpouring of India's creative spirit. I see it as the negation of the India I grew up in, as the triumph of sectarianism over secularism, of hatred over fellows.h.i.+p, of ugliness over love. It is true that Prime Minister Vajpayee has tried to lead his party in a more moderate direction, and that Vajpayee personally is surprisingly popular among Muslims, but his attempt to reshape his party in his own image has failed.

The BJP is the political manifestation of the extremist Hindu movement, the RSS (Rashtriya Swyamsevak Sangh), rather as Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland is the political offspring of the Provisional IRA. In order to change the BJP, Vajpayee would have to carry the leaders.h.i.+p of the RSS with him. Regrettably, the opposite is happening. The relatively moderate RSS chief, Professor Rajendra Singh-"Rajju Bhaiyya"-has been ousted by the hard-line K. S. Sudarshan, who has started warning Vajpayee to toe the RSS line.

The prime minister's options are limited. He could give in and unleash the dogs of religious strife. He could try doing what Indira Gandhi brilliantly carried off in 1969, when the kingmakers of the Congress attempted to turn her into their puppet. (She resigned from her own party, formed the Congress-I or Indira Congress, took most of her MPs with her, called a general election, and destroyed the old guard at the polls.) Or, as seems most likely, he could soldier on until the next election and then stand down. At that point the BJP's moderate mask will slip, it will no longer be able to hold together the kind of broad-based coalition that presently underpins its hold on power, and, given the shambles the Congress Party's in, India will enter another phase of splintered, unstable governments. It's not a happy prediction, but it's what the probabilities suggest. And it's a good enough reason for keeping away from BJP apparatchiks, however low-level they may be.

There is a conference under way at the inst.i.tute. Professor B. B. Lal, using grayware pottery shards found at sites a.s.sociated with the great Kuru-Pandava war as evidence, concludes that the age of the revered Mahabharata Mahabharata may be only three thousand years, not the supposed five thousand. What will the BJP/RSS make of so radical a rewriting of the story of this sacred Hindu text? may be only three thousand years, not the supposed five thousand. What will the BJP/RSS make of so radical a rewriting of the story of this sacred Hindu text?

My metamorphosis from observer to observed, from the Salman I know to the "Rushdie" I often barely recognize, continues apace. Rumors of my presence in India are everywhere. I am profoundly depressed to hear that a couple of Islamic organizations have vowed to make trouble, and trouble is news, and so maybe, I think, this will be seen as the meaning of my trip to India, which will be very, very sad, and bad, indeed.

At dinner in Solan's Himani restaurant, I'm tucking into the spicy Indian version of Chinese food when I'm approached by a Doordarshan reporter called Agnihotri, who just by chance happens to be vacationing up here with his family. And there it is: he has his scoop and the story's out. Within moments a local press reporter arrives and asks me a few friendly questions. None of this is very unexpected, but as a result of these chance encounters the jitteriness of the police reaches new heights, and boils over into a full-scale row.

Back at Anis Villa, Vijay receives a call on his cell phone from a police officer named Kulbir Krishan in Delhi. Krishan is somewhere in the middle of the invisible chain of command of Delhi desk-pilots, but what he says makes Vijay lose his composure for the first time in all the years of our friends.h.i.+p. He is almost trembling as he tells me, "We are accused of having called those journalists to the restaurant. This man says we have not been gentlemen, we have not kept our word, and we have, if you can believe the phrase, 'talked out of turn.' Finally the fellow says, 'There will be riots in Delhi tomorrow, and if we fire on the crowds and there are deaths, the blood will be on your heads.' "

I am horrified. It quickly becomes clear to me that there are two issues here. The first, and lesser, issue is that after a week of accepting all manner of limitations and security conditions, we are being accused of dishonesty and bad faith. That is insulting and unjust, but it isn't, finally, dangerous. The second issue is a matter of life and death. If the Delhi police have become so trigger-happy that they are preparing to kill people, then they must be stopped before it's too late.

No time now for niceties. Zafar looks on, dazed, while I blow my stack at poor, decent Akshey k.u.mar (who is not at all to blame) and tell him that unless Kulbir Krishan gets back on the phone right now, right now, apologizes to Vijay and me personally, and a.s.sures me that there are no plans to murder anybody tomorrow, I will insist on our driving through the night back to New Delhi so that I can be waiting at Prime Minister Vajpayee's office door at dawn, to ask him to deal with the problem personally. apologizes to Vijay and me personally, and a.s.sures me that there are no plans to murder anybody tomorrow, I will insist on our driving through the night back to New Delhi so that I can be waiting at Prime Minister Vajpayee's office door at dawn, to ask him to deal with the problem personally.

After a certain amount of this kind of raging-"I'll go to the British high commissioner! I'll call a press conference! I'll write a newspaper article! I'll write a newspaper article!"-the hapless Kulbir does call back to speak of "misunderstandings," and promises that there will be no shootings or deaths.

"If I spoke out of context," he memorably concludes, "then I am very sorry indeed." I burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of this formulation and put down the phone. But I do not sleep well. The meaning of this entire journey will be defined by what happens in the next two days, and even though I hope and believe that the police are overreacting, I can't be sure. Delhi is their town, and me, I'm Rip Van Winkle.

FRIDAY, APRIL 14.

We leave Solan at dawn and drive Zafar and Vijay to Chandigarh station. (I, of course, am going all the way by road.) Zafar is recovering from the shrimp attack, but Vijay looks worn out, frazzled. He repeats several times that he has never been spoken to so rudely, and doesn't propose to let the matter rest. I can see that he's had it with the police, with all the traveling, and probably with me. Tomorrow night, I tell him, all this will be over and you can go back to being a lawyer and not think about Salman Rushdie and his problems even once. He laughs weakly and gets on the train.

It's the day of the Commonwealth Writers' Prize banquet, but I'm not thinking about that. All the way back to Delhi, I'm wondering whose instincts will prove the sharper: mine or my protectors'. How will my return-of-the-native trip end: happily or badly? I'll soon know.

At half past twelve I'm closeted in a meeting with R. S. Gupta, the special a.s.sistant commissioner in charge of security for the whole city of Delhi. He is a calm, forceful man, used to getting his way. He paints a dark picture. A Muslim politician, Shoaib Iqbal, plans to go to Friday midday prayers at the city's most important mosque, the Juma Masjid in Old Delhi, and there get support for a demonstration against me, and against the Indian government for allowing me to enter the country. The congregation will be in six figures, and if the mosque's imam-it's Bukhari-supports the call to demonstrate, the numbers could be huge and bring the city to a standstill. "We are negotiating with them," Gupta says, "to keep the numbers small, and the event peaceful. Maybe we will succeed."

After a couple of hours of high-tension waiting, during which I am effectively confined to quarters-"Sir, no movements, please"-the news is good. Fewer than two hundred people have marched-and two hundred marchers, in India, is a number smaller than zero-and it has all gone off without a hitch. The nightmare scenario has not come to pa.s.s. "Fortunately," Mr. Gupta tells me, "we have been able to manage it."

What really happened in Delhi today? The security worldview is always impressive and often persuasive, but it remains just one version of the truth. It is one of the characteristics of security forces everywhere in the world to try and have it both ways. Had there been ma.s.s demonstrations, they would have said, "You see, all our nervousness has been amply justified." But there were no such marches; and so I'm told, "We were able to prevent the trouble because of our foresight and skill."

Maybe so. But it might also be the case that for the vast majority of Indian Muslims, the controversy over The Satanic Verses The Satanic Verses is old hat now, and in spite of the efforts of the politician and the imam (both of whom made blood-and-thunder speeches) n.o.body could really be bothered to march. Oh, there's a novelist in town to go to a dinner? What's his name? Rushdie? So what? is old hat now, and in spite of the efforts of the politician and the imam (both of whom made blood-and-thunder speeches) n.o.body could really be bothered to march. Oh, there's a novelist in town to go to a dinner? What's his name? Rushdie? So what?

This, certainly, is the view taken, almost without exception, by the Indian press in its a.n.a.lysis of the day's events. The small demonstration that has occurred is noted, but the private political agendas of its organizers are also pointed out.

It's a hot day in Delhi, and there's a hot wind blowing. A dust storm rages across the city. As we all take in the news that the only storm in Delhi today is meteorologically induced, we can finally begin to relax, and to concede that perhaps everyone has been more nervous than was necessary and that the long dispute that has kept me away from India is really over at last.

The script in people's heads is being rewritten. The foretold ending has not come to pa.s.s. What happens instead is extraordinary and, for Zafar and myself, an event of immense emotional impact, exceeding in its force even the tumultuous reception of Midnight's Children Midnight's Children almost twenty years ago. What bursts out is not violence but joy. almost twenty years ago. What bursts out is not violence but joy.

At a quarter to eight in the evening, Zafar and I walk into the Commonwealth Prize reception at the Oberoi hotel, and from that moment until we leave India, the celebrations never stop. Journalists and photographers surround us, their faces wreathed in most unjournalistic smiles. Friends burst through the media wall to embrace us. The actor Roshan Seth, recently recovered from serious heart problems, hugs me and says, "Look at us, yaar, we're both supposed to be dead but still going strong." The eminent columnist Amita Malik, a friend of my family's from the old days in Bombay, quickly gets over her embarra.s.sment at mistaking Zafar for my bodyguard and reminisces wonderfully about the past, praising my father's wit, his quick gift for repartee, and telling tales of my favorite uncle, Hameed, who died too young, too long ago.

Gifted young writers-Raj Kamal Jha, Namita Gokhale, Shauna Singh Baldwin-come up to say generous things about the significance of my writing for their own work. One of the great ladies of English-language Indian literature, the novelist Nayantara Sahgal, clasps my hands and whispers, "Welcome home." I look around and there's Zafar being interviewed for television and speaking fluently and touchingly about his own happiness at being here. My heart overflows. I had not really dared to expect this, had been infected by the fears of the police, and had defended my heart against many kinds of disappointment. Now I can feel the defenses falling away one by one, the happiness rising like a tropical dawn, fast and brilliant and hot. There are few such moments in a lifetime. Forgive me for saying perhaps too much about this one. It is a rare thing to be granted your heart's desire.

Somewhere in there the Commonwealth Writers' Prize goes to J. M. Coetzee, thanks to the deciding vote of the specter at the feast, the stone-faced Indian judge Shas.h.i.+ Deshpande. But this is a party even her curdled judgments cannot p.o.o.p. India is the prize.

SAt.u.r.dAY, APRIL 15.

Rushdie in India: like Solzhenitsyn regaining home, but without the anger or medieval prophecies. There is only joy, lots of joy." As the Indian Express Indian Express's hyperbolically affectionate front-page lead demonstrates, the party spirit is spilling into the media, drowning the few, muted negative voices. In all my conversations with the press I've tried to avoid reopening old wounds, to tell Indian Muslims that I'm not and have never been their enemy, and to stress that I'm in India to mend broken links and to begin, so to speak, a new chapter. Today the Asian Age Asian Age concurs: "Let's turn a page." Elsewhere, in concurs: "Let's turn a page." Elsewhere, in Outlook, Outlook, there is pleasure that India has "made some amends for being the first to ban there is pleasure that India has "made some amends for being the first to ban The Satanic Verses The Satanic Verses and subjecting him to the persecution and agony that followed." The and subjecting him to the persecution and agony that followed." The Pioneer Pioneer expresses its satisfaction that India is, once again, standing up for "democratic values and the individual's right to express himself." It also, in less elevated mood, improbably but delightfully accuses me of "turning the city's sophisticated party women into a bunch of giggling schoolgirls" who tell their men, "Dahling, [he] could send Bollywood hunks back to school." expresses its satisfaction that India is, once again, standing up for "democratic values and the individual's right to express himself." It also, in less elevated mood, improbably but delightfully accuses me of "turning the city's sophisticated party women into a bunch of giggling schoolgirls" who tell their men, "Dahling, [he] could send Bollywood hunks back to school."

Dilip Padgaonkar of The Times of India The Times of India puts it most movingly: "He is reconciled with India and India with him . . . something sublime has happened to him which should enable him to continue to mesmerise us with his yarns. He has returned to where his heart has always been. He has returned home." In puts it most movingly: "He is reconciled with India and India with him . . . something sublime has happened to him which should enable him to continue to mesmerise us with his yarns. He has returned to where his heart has always been. He has returned home." In The Hindustan Times, The Hindustan Times, there is an editorial headed "Reconsider the Ban." This sentiment is echoed right across the media. In there is an editorial headed "Reconsider the Ban." This sentiment is echoed right across the media. In The Times of India The Times of India an Islamic scholar, among other intellectuals, backs an end to the ban. On the electronic media, opinion polls run 75 to 25 percent in favor of allowing an Islamic scholar, among other intellectuals, backs an end to the ban. On the electronic media, opinion polls run 75 to 25 percent in favor of allowing The Satanic Verses The Satanic Verses to be freely published in India at long last. to be freely published in India at long last.