Roots

By Rahul Bhatt

“It is alright to cry”- says the soothing voice from the Helpline. And the choked emotions come to the fore filling the line with his sobs... eventually making him confident enough to start reading his ancestor’s memoirs. From 1857 to 1984... the story of Delhi seems interwoven with his family history. It is a city that provided him with shelter, yet never was quite the home he yearned for.
‘Roots’ is the story of Ganesh, a priest and astrologer who makes a living predicting others’ future. Unknown to him, fate has woven a strange twist into his life. Concurrently, ‘Roots’ also tells the story of his hometown doomed to lose its existence in the march towards development. Who wants this development? Do the residents have any say regarding their future? Can there be any compensation for losing one’s home and hearth?
A suicide, a dam, a reality show.... all come together in this gripping tale of longing and displacement that tugs at the heart for what could have been...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Banyan Publishing
• Release date: Apr 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311330727

Rahul Bhatt

Rahul Bhatt is a Scientist by profession but writing is his passion. He holds a master’s degree from IIT Delhi. He lives in Delhi with his wife and son.His roots are in the hills.

Book preview

Roots

Rahul Bhatt

BANYAN

PUBLISHING

--

‘Roots’ is a story about memories, longing and displacement told with great passion. The tale presents a great combination of the modern, historical and sometime even mythological ideologies set in the backdrop of the metro city of Delhi. Even though the book begins on a note of chaos, it soon turns into a engaging story that takes the readers right to the roots of every character.’

Indiacafe24.com

‘Never in my dreams had I thought that I will relive those last moments of my early youth, spent in an agitated trance and agony, among the last ruins of my hometown, doomed to be engulfed by a massive dam of demonic proportions. But after reading ‘Roots’, I almost felt like emotionally drained all over once again.’

A review on ‘Flipkart’

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Banyan Publishing

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INDIA

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Copyright © Rahul Bhatt 2016

All rights reserved

ISBN13: 9788193159002

ISBN10: 8193159004

Electronic edition published in 2016 by ‘Banyan Publishing’

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission.

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction and should be read as such. No claim regarding historical accuracy is made expressly or implied. All Names, Characters, Organizations, Places, and Incidents used in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, past events or historical locations, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Disclaimer

About the Novel

Author’s Note

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

About the Author

About the Novel

It is alright to cry- says the soothing voice from the Helpline. And the choked emotions come to the fore filling the line with his sobs… eventually making him confident enough to start reading his ancestor’s memoirs. From 1857 to 1984… the story of Delhi seems interwoven with his family history. It is a city that provided him with shelter, yet never was quite the home he yearned for.

‘Roots’ is the story of Ganesh, a priest and astrologer who makes a living predicting others’ future. Unknown to him, fate has woven a strange twist into his life. Concurrently, ‘Roots’ also tells the story of his hometown doomed to lose its existence in the march towards development. Who wants this development? Do the residents have any say regarding their future? Can there be any compensation for losing one’s home and hearth?

A suicide, a dam, a reality show…. all come together in this gripping tale of longing and displacement that tugs at the heart for what could have been..."

Author’s Note

This book is not a factual account by any means. Yet, it is inspired by many real life incidents, people and organizations. A lot of reference material is available in the public domain in this regard, like for the events of 1857, 1984, etc.

I have taken the literary liberty of using a few historical characters of the past and weaving them with contemporary reality. And I offer due apologies if any feelings are hurt…

_ _ _

I owe a debt of gratitude to all those who led me on this journey called writing:

My father - the historian - nourished my appetite to know more. I can’t thank him as it was my right perhaps. Every son is proud of his father and so am I.

Gautam - the listener of bed-time tales - inspired me, as I learned the magic of spinning a tale.

Kamal - the first reader - not only improvised the premature beginning but also encouraged me to scribble more when I was not even sure about the whole story. I don’t have enough words to thank him.

Nikhil - the teacher - showed me the path and craft of story-telling. I cannot ever repay this debt.

Shivani - the editor - believed in the story and tried to polish it, making me learn the nuances of words and their impact. I am indebted for what she made out of an amateur’s passion.

Pradeep - the visual artist - conceptualized the cover while giving the feedback on the contents. I must acknowledge his contribution. Special thanks go to Manav and Pankaj who improvised the graphic concept.

The book is a result of the efforts of the whole team of ‘Banyan Publishing’. I am obliged to each one of them for giving this story a chance.

This book would not have been a reality without the unstinting support of Sanjay, who ensured that the story came out from the dark tunnel.

I also thank all the known and unknown beta readers, who provided valuable feedback & much-needed confidence.

I am also grateful to many anonymous experts, historians, mental health professionals, social scientists, journalists, etc whose knowledge in the public as well as private domain provided the basic premise for this story.

I must mention the patience and the support of my better half Renuka. Without her, it would have been impossible to jot down so many words.

Last but not the least, I express my gratitude to the person without whom this book is incomplete. That is you - the reader.

For All those

who lost their home

and for all others

who can feel their pain...

ONE

"Once upon a time, there were no rules in the world. The sun was not bound to give out light. The moon was not compelled to shine in the night. Everybody did whatever he or she wanted. The fish had freedom to fly high in the sky and the crows could dive deep into the ocean. Even milk was not compulsory for children."

Aamna, seven years old, listens to the bed-time tale intently. It touches her at once, mainly because of her dislike of milk. She closes her eyes, shifting in bed - a cue for more.

"One day, a horse flew into the sky for the first time. Like a careless flier, he didn’t see a cat sleeping there. He stepped on her tail in his hurry. The cat was angry. Unable to catch him, she went to God to complain.

There was no rule for punishment, He said. She urged Him to make one so that the horse could be punished. Fulfilling her wish would set a precedent and punishing all wrongdoers in future would be an uphill task, He thought. So, the cat was blessed with the option of making a rule herself on the condition that it would also apply to her.

She knew - and He knew it better - that the rat, her arch-rival, would definitely complain against her. Recently, she had bitten his tail and he wanted to punish her. It was a dilemma with no easy way out- she would get the same punishment that she decided for the horse.

By chance, the rat was passing by. He found the cat pleading with God. Sensing an opportunity not to be missed, he sidled along, spat on her face quickly and ran away. The cat, shocked by the unexpected attack, ran after him but it was of no use. God smiled and the world saw another day passing by without any rule."

Meanwhile, Aamna has drifted into a deep slumber. It is becoming a habit- every night she wants to hear a new tale. But then, barely a few minutes into it, she sinks into bliss.

Sensing her gentle breathing, he stops the narration and pulls the blanket over her. She squirms at the feel of the coarse woollen fabric but doesn’t wake up. He waits for a few minutes more musing over the story he has cooked up. Perhaps it is the chaos of where he lives or of his own life that has come out of the labyrinth of his mind.

Indeed, there is no law in nature. Otherwise, this little angel should have been with her mother right now. Pondering, he stands up and looks at the wall clock. It is ticking. But for an instant, he feels as if his life has stopped moving. There is no one who can share his loneliness at the moment.

Suddenly, he feels an overwhelming need to tell someone about what he has been through. But who in this city has the time and patience? I wish I was married!

The urge to talk to someone gradually gets on his nerves. And then he remembers something he saw in the newspaper earlier in the day -

‘We understand by listening: Helpline for the lonely, elderly and everybody…’

The newspaper is lying within reach. He grabs it and flips through its pages. Finding the advertisement in the same place, he is relieved as if he was half expecting it to disappear. Now the question is whether to dial the number or not...

^^

The day was very short today. The night is under the cold spell of Delhi winters. The fog is expected any moment though it is only nine pm. One more hour and she will leave. The street lights are waiting to guide her in the dark. Till then, she is on duty – a self-appointed one.

Becoming a volunteer for the Helpline was a decision she had taken casually. But following a spell of rigorous training, she had turned serious about the work. A life may depend upon how the call is handled, she had been told.

So, she snaps to attention as the telephone rings.

Hello… Helpline… How can I help you?

There is no response even though she can sense a presence at the other end of the line.

I am Rashmi. Would you like to share your name?

Slowly, after a pause, a man’s feeble voice comes on. Is it necessary?

No. You can share your feelings with us without revealing your identity. In fact, I assure you of complete confidentiality.

Hmm…

So, what is it that is bothering you?

Actually, I saw your ad in today’s newspaper.

So you know that we try to help everyone… Are you feeling depressed?

Not sure.

Feeling lonely?

Yes. I don’t know whether I should take your time or not.

It’s ok. You can always call our Helpline.

I see.

She waits for him to say more. But when he remains silent, she prods, Is there any hesitation?

Perhaps, yes.

Don’t worry. I’ll try to understand whatever you have to share.

You see, I have just told a story to a child who is now asleep. It was about a world without rules. And I wonder how true it is!

What makes you feel so?

It is the child. I found her at my doorstep one fine morning a few months ago. I don’t know about her parents or near and dear ones. Perhaps, they would never be found. How cruel for her! Every night, I pray that God gives her courage.

Must be very difficult for you…

Yes, of course! My whole life has been like that!

You mean you have faced such difficult times earlier too?

Oh, yes. In fact, this is not as difficult as my past. Because of this child, I have found a purpose in life. And I am grateful to the Almighty. Even though I had not asked for it, I am trying my best to be a good guardian. Maybe it is compensation for what I have missed in life.

What have you missed?

A family- a wife, children, parents… the voice chokes suddenly.

She feels that he is trying to hold on to his composure. It is necessary for him to unburden, she knows. And her role is to facilitate that.

Gently, in a healing tone, she says, It is alright to cry.

As if her words were the key that unlocked the floodgates of his pent-up emotions, the line fills with his sobbing.

She waits patiently.

Finally, he speaks, I am sorry.

No need to be sorry. I can understand what you have gone through.

It has been a terrible life. To lose everything and still live out your destiny.

Would you like to share how you lost everything?

It’s a very long story. I’ll tell you some other time.

I can only assure you that we are always there for you.

Thank you.

He falls silent again. She has to probe some more to ascertain his level of depression and the associated suicide risk. So, she continues after a pause.

You shared that you found a lost child and are now taking care of her. And there is nobody else around. You have missed family life which is now partly compensated by her presence. How is all this affecting your daily life?

I haven’t thought about it. Now that you ask, sleep has been an issue. Earlier, I always slept off easily by ten. Now, it is very difficult. Sometimes, I am awake till two o’clock.

And you feel a sort of sadness?

Yes. Most of the time it is like that.

Have you ever thought of killing yourself?

Yes, but I did not have the courage. Perhaps, it was just a thought. I am not sure whether I can ever take such a drastic step. I only wish that some catastrophe would take my life away.

So, how do you cope with such gloom?

It is not that bad now, thanks to the child. I think I am gradually coming out of my trauma. I have my profession, my clients. Work keeps me busy and I have started taking more of it now.

And do you get satisfaction from your work?

Yes, but not always. Sometimes, there is a setback, but I move on.

His voice has become louder and much more confident. For her, it means progress towards the end.

So, the child and your job are helping heal your trauma. I must remind you that whenever you feel like talking to someone you can just dial our number.

Sure, I will keep that in mind.

How are you feeling right now?

Much better…

So, will you be able to sleep tonight?

Oh, yes. Thank you very much, Rashmi. Good night.

Good night.

Placing the receiver back, she feels she has heard that voice before. But then many voices sound familiar on phone and there is no use thinking about it. Without the caller ID, there is no way of knowing his identity.

She knows that it does not matter. The call is over and what is required now is detachment. Silently, she logs the call into a computer, typing as many details as she can- the caller was depressed and may be prone to suicide. She assigns the risk as moderate. Yet, she does not refer the call to a mental support group.

She is a bit confused whether the caller is free from danger. But she detected a certain vulnerability during the call and it has always been about feelings at the Helpline. Accordingly, she has logged what she felt.

^^

The Helpline encourages its volunteers to take a new name for the centre, mainly to maintain anonymity. So, she is Rashmi at the Helpline. Otherwise, her real name is Sarita. In the world outside the Helpline, she has a home where her mother Mira is waiting for her.

-

Dressed in a floral print woolen kurti and jeans that seem a little worn out from the day’s labour, the daughter enters home at eleven thirty. This is not the first time she is late but being an anxious parent in the city of Delhi, the mother silently points her forefinger towards the wrist. It is an indication of being late, meaning - You should take care to come home early.

In reply, Sarita nods her head, an acknowledgement of the mother’s concern. But she can’t help it whenever she has the evening shift at the Helpline centre.

It was the same story today. After logging the last call, she called the supervisor and briefed him about all the calls during her shift. Ideally, a co-volunteer would help save some time but she was alone.

Female volunteers should not be alone in the centre, especially during late evenings. This point has been discussed many times in the volunteers’ meetings at the centre. But, sometimes, it becomes unavoidable in view of the volunteer crunch. The city boasts a population of millions but to find a suitable person willing to serve such a cause voluntarily without any remuneration or glory is extremely difficult. So, she has agreed to do a solo evening shift in emergency situations.

Mira is not happy with her decision. But like many other issues between them, it is part of the adjustment called family. She understands the generation gap but at times, the daughter’s attitude is beyond her comprehension. Like Sarita’s refusal to get married despite crossing her twenty-fifth birthday. She earns well and can easily get a good match. But it is not to be, at least not as Mira wishes.

The same thought crosses her mind again while accepting the mock apology from her daughter. Their eyes meet and suddenly her resentment vanishes. She looks up lovingly at her beautiful daughter. Her baby has turned into a fine young lady. Tall with a slender figure, oval face with a wheatish complexion, brown eyes and shiny jet black tresses- most of it is her own reflection except the height and the nose. The daughter is significantly taller than average. The nose with a furrow near the tip is also not her feature. As a child, it was quite prominent but now it has been reduced to a small insignificant mark.

Don’t you recognize me? Hello, I am your child and I live in this flat. Now, will you please get our dinner ready while I change and freshen up?

It’s just silly me. You will understand it when you have your own child.

I know, I know… you and your emotional moments!

Suddenly, like a mother comforting her baby, Sarita hugs Mira. Her daughter has definitely matured, maybe more than her, wonders Mira savouring the hug.

Sarita pats her mother’s back lightly and then heads to her room leaving Mira with her thoughts.

Silence reigns for some time while the two-member family gets ready for dinner. Sounds of tap water in the bathroom and utensils in the kitchen fill the house.

Conversation flows again at the dining table.

So, how was your day? Mira asks casually.

You know it well. It was very hectic but satisfying.

Anything special?

"Perhaps, yes. You remember my assignment?

To find or create a new show?

Yes. Sharma Sir gave me the responsibility. He plans to launch an entertainment channel if the show does well.

You have already told me this. What’s new?

Today, I made a final proposal and everybody, including Sir, liked it very much.

Very good! What is it about?

It is a reality show about speaking the truth… basically an international concept. We may have to buy the rights. But I am sure it will attract viewers like bees to honey. It’s like a quiz show. But instead of general knowledge, the participant will be asked several questions regarding his or her personal life. A polygraph machine will determine whether the answer is true or not.

Polygraph machine?

Yes. A bit confusing for you?

Yes.

Wait, let me get the note. It is still in my bag.

No need, you first finish your meal.

It’s ok, ma, you can read it along, saying this, Sarita goes to fetch the note from the bag.

I can read it later, the mother tries to protest in vain.

Sarita places the note by her mother’s side as if it was a special dish. It has always been the same. Like when Sarita got her first job she brought the appointment letter to the dining table and the mother read it while relishing the dessert. Like when she got the better offer from Sharma’s small infotainment company, the letter got a prominent place on the table. Like when she found an article on the Helpline for the first time before becoming its volunteer, it became the salad with the main course. And so on.

So, without any further complaints for having left dinner midway, which she finds very irritating, Mira bows before her daughter’s enthusiasm and reads the contents of the brief note.

"…..Required: a single participant per episode. Before the actual show, she is asked 50 questions while being hooked up to a polygraph machine that checks her physiological indicators (pulse rate, blood pressure, etc.) to decide whether the answer is true or false. Basically, it’s a lie detector checking the veracity of the replies. At this stage, she is not to be told about its outcome.

…During the actual show, she is asked twenty one of the same questions. If she answers honestly, she moves to the next question with increased prize money; however, if she lies or simply refuses to answer a question, the game ends there and she loses the prize money….

….best candidate: the most average person – her friend/relative in the show would enhance the impact.…

…..negligible cost of production except for a host and the ownership rights... If a channel buys them for us then we can immediately make a pilot for that channel. If it is for our new channel then we can have a revenue-sharing royalty-based model with the original copyright holders.

There are many international offshoots generating numerous controversies in respective countries with very high ratings….. We can replicate the success easily…"

Mira tries to understand, nodding her head affirmatively for the daughter’s sake. Though she is a government servant, the insecurity and performance pressure in the private sector are not unknown to her. She is also aware of the lucrative monetary aspect and the professional rise that her daughter is so keen on. Turning to her daughter, she is full of appreciation, Very good, you must have worked hard to write such a fine proposal.

Oh yes! And guess what?

You are going to handle it independently.

How do you know?

It is written all over your face. As a mother, I can read that better than this scribble on paper.

It is this insight that has always amazed Sarita. She smiles, savouring the chapatti soaked in curry.

It is too good!

What- my perception or this dish?

Both. You are the best!

Thanks. By the way, how is your depressed centre that delays our dinner?

It is not a depressed centre, Sarita says in a resentful tone. I have told you earlier, it’s a Helpline that provides care to the needy.

Sorry… Anyway, how was it today?

Now I can handle it better.

That means you are content with whatever little some unknown person tells you.

Yes. That’s what we have been taught during training. And, you know, it was not very easy.

Mira simply nods her head. She does not ask for specifics knowing that her daughter would not disclose much in keeping with the vague code of the Helpline. She remembers the time when Sarita had just started working there. Her words are still fresh in her mind:

I don’t know whether I would be able to help a depressed person. It’s a challenge not to know more than what has been disclosed to you, not to worry, not to judge, not to be sad or amused and still unlock the suppressed emotions over a phone call. Most of the time, a call stays with me for a long time even after leaving the centre.

However, no call has ever been discussed. So, there is no point in asking for more. It is enough to know that her daughter can now handle it easily.

Initially, Mira was averse to Sarita’s idea of joining the helpline. Because dealing with depression and other mental health issues is not child’s play. She still fears that her daughter may get affected. That would spoil whatever she has achieved over the years after so much struggle. That would be really difficult to handle. But all that is not to be uttered at the dining table.

They fall into silence once again as they finish their dinner.

The daughter finishes first. Waiting for her mother who is absorbed in her own thoughts, she observes silently:

A middle-aged single parent with a frail body, hardly four feet tall, Mira’s wrinkle-free, glowing face hides unending worries. Tidiness encapsulates her very being and that is reflected in the way her purple bordered off-white saree has been draped with a matching grey cardigan even at this late hour.

Often, Sarita has suggested that she wear a T-shirt and a skirt – her own favourite, or even a simple gown. But the suggestion has been brushed aside. Saree is not uncomfortable, is the standard reply. Casuals are a strict no-no for her and the gown is used only for sleeping. There are salwar-suits in her wardrobe but their turn comes rarely. Sometimes, Sarita feels her mother has a phobia wearing them.

She will never change, the daughter realizes while rising from her seat. The mother gets up at the same moment and follows her.

Four confident hands clear the table placing the dishes and cutlery into the kitchen sink. Soon after, the younger hands reach for the tap in the washbasin in a corner of the bathroom while the elder ones finish the remaining chores.

Some leftovers find their way into the red refrigerator standing in the lobby between the dining table and the kitchen. This one is the daughter’s choice. She bought it with her first salary. The earlier one was blue, bought by Mira a long time back when her daughter was not even able to understand its significance. Mira had even resisted its replacement saying the existing one was working fine. But the old-fashioned item could not last long in the three-bedroom flat. On its last day, Mira had commented, One day, you will trade me in for someone younger and more appealing.

You are not a gadget, ma! pat came the reply.

Still, the mother feels like one sometimes: A gadget for nurturing, without any life of its own! She feels so now, closing the door of the fridge while Sarita retires to her room.

Mira finishes the rest of the chores and heads to her bedroom. She sits on the bed and closes her eyes, muttering a good night prayer – to thank the Almighty for whatever grace has been bestowed and to pray for wellbeing for the coming day.

Her daughter, in the adjacent room,