History Wars

Stuart Blackburn

Description

Ravi is a journalist in Delhi who starts to investigate government complicity in the controversial demolition of a mosque. Peggy is an American researcher who finds a mysterious antique in a Delhi museum - a possible Indian 'Rosetta Stone'. They meet, fall in love and then find themselves caught up in India's history wars, a labyrinth of deception and self-delusion that threatens their lives. More determined than ever and too ambitious to heed the danger, will they uncover the truth or become victims of the violence?

Sujets

• Mosquée

Informations

• Publié par: Brown Dog Books
• Date de parution: 03 janvier 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785453861
• Langue: English

Extrait

‘A thoughtful and absorbing book, with lively, credible characters, whose lives are deeply affected by the historical events of their times. Vividly told, the story illustrates the dangers and excesses of India’s history wars. A wonderful read.’
Vasudha Dalmia, Professor Emerita,
University of California, Berkeley.
‘This book is extraordinary in many ways. It combines a gripping plot about a complex love affair between an American woman and an Indian man with a dramatic story about political violence in 1990s India and a mystery about archaeological objects 4,000 years old. The author’s deep knowledge of India illuminates the ongoing debate about Hindu nationalism and the rewriting of history, animating these issues with characters the reader cares about. I really could not put the book down until the very end.’
Wendy Doniger, Mircea Eliade Professor of the History of Religions, University of Chicago, and author of The Hindus—An
Alternative History .

Ravi’s Search for the Truth
First published 2018
Copyright © Stuart Blackburn 2018
The right of Stuart Blackburn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Published under licence by Brown Dog Books and The Self-Publishing Partnership, 7 Green Park Station, Bath BA1 1JB
www.selfpublishingpartnership.co.uk
ISBN printed book: 978-1-78545-385-4
ISBN e-book: 978-1-78545-386-1
Cover design by Andrew Prescott
Internal design by Andrew Easton
Printed and bound in the UK
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
PROLOGUE
They had been gathering for weeks. Coming in the cold of winter, they slept in tents, cooked over open fires and bathed in the nearby river. A mixture of religious pilgrims and political activists, they were ordinary men and women—farmers and labourers, shopkeepers and students, housewives and holy men, bank clerks and taxi drivers. They had come from every corner of the country, from the lush south to the mountainous north, from metropolitan cities, market towns and mud-brick villages. Travelling for days by train, bus and bullock cart, they had come to Ayodhya.
In front of them, behind the steel barricades patrolled by the army and police, stood the mosque that they believed had been built on top of an ancient temple. Priests and politicians had toured the country, promising that the temple would be restored and an idol of Rama installed for them to worship. They had heard the speeches and now they unfurled their banners, saying in Hindi, ‘We will rebuild the temple. We will give our blood.’
The mosque was not an architectural masterpiece. Built during the reign of the first Mughal emperor, it was a squat, oblong structure topped by three brick domes shaped like upturned bowls and covered with plaster. High walls enclosed a courtyard and prayer halls below. The site had been closed to the public for decades while a dispute rumbled on in the courts and in parliament, leaving the mosque half covered with vegetation. Trees had sprouted up between the grey pitted domes.
The restoration of the temple was meant to be symbolic. Priests would tap little hammers on a concrete platform, erected to represent the mosque, and then they would perform the ritual of installing the statue of Rama. But when they ceremonially tapped, a handful of activists broke through the police cordon, and security volunteers chased them around the open area in a cops-and-robbers comedy routine. ‘It’s all under control,’ the head of police assured the journalists, who were scribbling and snapping away.
Minutes later, a larger group breached the steel barricades, and the volunteers who tried to stop them were beaten back by a hail of stones. The police and army abandoned their positions, and the emboldened mob surged forwards. Three young men scaled the mosque, and everyone—including the police and the media—watched as they threw a grappling hook at the top of the central dome. After several failed attempts, the hook held and the men hauled themselves up. Standing on top, waving orange and yellow scarves, they were cheered wildly by the throng below. They had tasted victory and nothing would stop them now.
There was no plan, no coordination, no acknowledged leader. Yet, as soon as the central dome was scaled, the trickle of intruders became a flood that crushed the ten-foot high steel barriers. Thousands streamed through the breaches, knocked down the bamboo fencing on the other side and charged ahead, falling over each other in a shapeless mass of bodies. Only the unsteady advance of the make-shift flags held above the amorphous pack marked its progress. In the forward surge, sandals were lost and shirts torn, but when they had broken through, eyes shone in the faces caked with sweat-soaked grime.
Young men roamed over the three-acre site with lurid glee fuelled by the long-awaited sight of the conquered mosque. They milled around like thrill-seekers at a carnival, forming bands and dissolving them minutes later, as they darted off in one direction and then another. Some turned on the media and attacked them with steel pipes ripped from the barricades. They smashed cameras and beat up men and women, leaving them with bloody faces and bruised limbs. In the police control room, government and army officials sipped tea.
Soon the mob swarmed over the mosque like Lilliputians. Urged on by tens of thousands on the ground, they attacked the domes with pick-axes, sledge hammers and crowbars. After an hour, having only managed to dislodge the outer layer of plaster, they changed tactic and dug into the base of the support walls, thinning, weakening and eventually punching holes in them. When thick ropes were looped through and secured, the men pulled and pulled in a tug of war with the nearly 500-year-old mosque. One by one, at roughly half-hour intervals, the walls gave way and the domes fell. Rather than a spectacular crash or toppling of a monument, the domes crumbled and were broken up by the hand tools. The remaining walls came down in a matter of minutes, and the mosque was reduced to rubble.
At sunset, a red-orange ball glowed through the sulphurous haze of dust kicked up by the fragments of stone, brick and plaster. Six ferocious hours had brought the desired end to a decades-long campaign. When night fell, though, the crowd did not disperse. Waving flags, they chanted and sang and paraded around the debris-strewn grounds, holding high a brick or a smashed camera, jubilant that they had erased a part of the past that had obtruded into their present.
CHAPTER 1
‘Running a little late?’
His uncle spoke without lifting his eyes from the newspaper. The phrase had been repeated so often that it had become a joke between them, and Ravi cracked a smile. At least it took the sting out of any censure.
He looked at his uncle poring over the paper and sipping his tea. A bowl of porridge steamed at his elbow. The angle of his head, held almost horizontal over the paper, looked awkward, as if he’d had another stroke. Ravi swallowed hard and managed to say good morning.
‘Sleep well, I hope,’ his uncle said cheerily. ‘Tea’s ready in the thermos.’
Ravi retreated into the kitchen, where he cupped his hands around the thermos and felt its warmth. His uncle’s tea was one of the highlights of the day. A little grated ginger, a few cloves and cardamom pods, a spoonful of honey and two of lemon juice. Boiled for six minutes and strained into the thermos. There was something reassuring about that thermos. Tall and slender, with bright red polka dots, it seemed to have always been there, from his teenage years. When he was simply a student with a bright future. When the reckoning still lay ahead of him.
‘Anything interesting?’ he asked, after sitting down opposite his uncle with his tea and cornflakes.
‘No, not much, except that that donkey Srinivas let Pakistan back into the game yesterday.’
Ravi chuckled. He’d forgotten that his uncle always scoured the cricket coverage before tackling the news. Reaching across the wide table, he raked the rest of the paper towards him.
‘Wipe your fingers first,’ his uncle said softly, still not raising his eyes.
Ravi pulled out a napkin from the little plastic holder and rubbed his fingertips until the cheap paper shredded. Frowning, he gathered everything up, squeezed it into a ball and stuck it in his trouser pocket. He glanced back at his uncle and flipped through the glossy magazine section, wondering if he’d have to interview any of personalities splashed across the large format pages.
‘Got an assignment today?’ his uncle asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I guess that’s why it pays to get to the office early,’ his uncle said, finally eyeing his nephew.
Ravi smiled and was going to point out that assignments were not handed out on a first-come-first-serve basis, but he decided against risking an argument. This was his favourite part of the day, having breakfast with his uncle, chewing over the morning paper, each absorbed in what they read, relaxed like old friends, a pitter-patter of words, a little banter and the occasional serious comment. Free from the pressure, from the expectation and, worst of all, the unspoken judgement.
Pushing the magazine se