Insanely Indian: A Novel

By Ayesha Chawla Raj

Insanely Indian is a political romance, which captures the human need for being rooted and asserting one's identity. It is a story about love and marriage, divorce and life after it, parenthood, and “Indian-ness” in contemporary times. Follow Aanya’s journey as an educated, affluent Indian woman living in London, who finds that her husband is determined to express his patriotism towards India, and her son to express his religious identity in London. Being a dutiful Indian daughter, Aanya remains deeply attached to her family in India, even though she has not lived there for two decades. Insanely Indian is about the connectedness of the “global Indian” to India, to one's past, and it brings to the forefront the cycle of continuous expectations faced by the global Indian from family and society in India.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483450209

Book preview

INSANELY

INDIAN

A Novel

AYESHA CHAWLA RAJ

Copyright © 2016 Ayesha Raj.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Author’s photograph by Cimmaron Singh.

Cover design by Definitelymary.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5021-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5020-9 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 09/23/2016

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part I The Inception

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part II The Deception

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part III The Destination

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

This book is

dedicated to the loving memory of my grandfather,

Shri N.L. Chowla, who has inspired me to think, to write, and to be fearless. As a gift from one generation to the next, I pass on this legacy to my Armaan, my guiding light.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Insanely Indian has been on a journey spanning twelve years. It started out as a challenge by a friend and ended up being the book about everything in which I believe. The book has been edited, and the story has changed as I have grown up during these years. The original was more carefree and hard-hitting, and it spoke the brutal truth about communalism in India. This version has been toned down and hopefully, made acceptable to all audiences. It is with the utmost humility that I request the reader to enjoy the story for what it is, and not to ascertain which community I belong to, or what my religious faith might be. I believe in one God and in all religions alike. I am intolerant of the manner in which religion is used towards political ends in India in particular, and all over the world in general.

Over twelve years, I have met a lot of people who have believed in this book, and it is not possible to mention everyone here. I would like to thank my friends in Dubai, London, New Delhi, and Singapore for believing in Insanely Indian. I would have given up on this book a long time ago had it not been for the constant encouragement of my family, and friends who are like family. My precious Armaan, thank you for always believing in my dreams, for blessing this book, and making it real. I would like to thank one of the foremost supporters of this book, Rahul, for developing the story with me in the early stages, and for suggesting the title! I thank my dear friend Pooja Sharma for painstakingly editing this book, when the words had become blurry and incomprehensible to me.

They say it takes one person to act as the catalyst for something big. Milind Sanghavi, thank you for insisting that I should launch this book on publishizer.com. In the same breath I am indebted to Guy Vincent for creating this wonderful platform for authors to publish their books. I am eternally grateful to the 113 people who bought Insanely Indian in the crowd-funding campaign to publish it. If you are reading this, it means I have defied every literary agent, publishing house, and person who has not believed in this book.

My story is not just about being Indian. It is about the human need for asserting identity and establishing connectedness with one’s roots. I hope that something from this book stays with you on this fascinating journey called life.

PROLOGUE

1 November 1984

New Delhi

As the amber light of dusk began to fade from the lounge, the doorbell rang. Mom and Dad went to the door with a great deal of urgency. I was delighted but confused to see Jeevan, Simran, and their parents with backpacks and plastic bags in their hands. Dad put the lights off in the lounge as Mom ushered them into our living room. Sama and I stood by rather awkwardly, watching from a distance.

Come here, both of you, why are you peeping from there? Take your friends to your room, Aanya, Mom said to me abruptly.

As they followed us to our room, I couldn’t help thinking that something was different about this visit from our neighbours. Neither Mom nor Dad had told us that they were coming over, which they usually did so that we could clean up our room. Why had they brought their belongings with them, when they only lived a few footsteps away from us?

Jeev and Simi lived in the house adjacent to ours and were our closest friends. Every evening we would play football, badminton, or hopscotch together, and we would tell each other about our adventures and experiences in school. We staged plays during the long summer holidays in one of our homes, which were watched by the residents of the street where we lived. We often sat together in the evening after the dreaded homework for the day was done, and listened to music at one of our homes. Sometimes one of our mothers would take us to India Gate for ice cream. The four of us were a handful. We often fought and sometimes wouldn’t talk to each other for days, but in the end we always made up. Jeev was a year older than me and seemed so worldly wise; after all, he was almost ten years old. Simi was a role model for Sama and me; she was older, waxed her legs, and went out with her friends, without her parents! If we didn’t care for the lunch that was cooked in our own house, we would peck at it, walk over, and eat lunch with the Singhs all over again. They were an integral part of our household, as we were of theirs.

The four of us were reading comics and listening to music when their mother, Jaspreet Aunty, walked in and sat down on the bed next to us. We will be staying here for a few days, and you will not be going to school for some time. Enjoy yourselves and play games inside the house, but you can’t go out for a while. And don’t trouble Mallika Aunty! she said to Jeev and Simi.

But why, Mummy? What’s going on? asked Simi, who was thirteen and nobody’s fool.

"It’s better this way, Bachhe, because there is trouble in Delhi. Houses are being robbed, and people are even being killed. This way we will all be safe together."

"And what about Preetamji? asked Jeev. Where has he gone?"

"Don’t worry; he is safe in Dheeraj Uncle’s servant’s quarters, with Jai Bhaiyya."

Preetam Singh did odd jobs for their family, such as posting letters, paying bills, and organizing birthday parties. He watched us playing on the street in the evening to make sure that strangers were not lurking around us, and he often found the ice cream wallah to give us mango duet ice cream sticks or choco bars.

It was such a treat to have Jeev and Simi staying with us. Mom had put two mattresses on the floor of the guest room for them, so that their family could sleep in the same room. Dad wheeled the TV cabinet from the lounge into their room. We all sat together and watched a recording of Miss Universe on video tape, which was a big annual event for us because it exposed us to the West in some way.

At around 11.00 p.m. that night, Dad put on his shoes, wrapped a shawl around himself, and went downstairs. Mom double-locked the door with a big Harrison lock. I will never forget how I felt that day. I had a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I knew that our parents were hiding something from us. That evening Jaspreet Aunty did not sing kirtan, the song comprising hymns and prayers, in her usual soulful, operatic voice.

Mama, where has Dad gone? I asked, hoping to hear the truth.

He has gone to take a walk around the neighbourhood with Anand Uncle and Shekhar Uncle, to make sure that there are no robbers around our streets.

But what if they get hurt? I asked, suddenly fearful for Dad.

Don’t worry, baby. Nothing is going to happen to them, said Mom, as she hugged me. God had created me with an in-built sensor for gauging people’s feelings, and even at that age, I could sense the anxiety in my mother’s voice.

I went into the dark living room that overlooked the street in front of our house and peeped out of the curtains to try to catch a glimpse of Dad. I wanted my eye to trail every step he took so that I could be sure that no harm came to him. I was alarmed to find him and all the other uncles from our street holding lathis, strong wooden sticks taller than them. I felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come out. Before I knew it, they divided themselves into pairs and vanished into the night. I lay awake in my bed that night, waiting for the sound of the doorbell or a knock. I could hear Mom talking to Jaspreet Aunty, who was crying. I was sure that we were in some kind of danger. When adults cried, it always meant that something terrible had happened. Then I heard the doorbell, and Dad’s voice echoed on the staircase.

It’s all right, Mallika. It’s me. You can open the door.

The next morning all of us sat around the dining table eating egg bhurjee, scrambled eggs cooked with onions and tomatoes. Dad got up to receive a phone call. What is your exact location? I am coming right now! Don’t go anywhere! Hide on the roof of your building, and when you see my car, come down carefully. I will come for you. I am coming there right now, he said tensely in Punjabi. He picked up the car keys, whispered something to Mom, and left. I saw her face fall and turn white. The wave of nausea came back to me when she told us that Dad had gone to bring Chanan Singh, our driver, to our house because the thieves had taken everything he owned. After breakfast, Mom occupied herself in the kitchen with Jaspreet Aunty. Sama, at the tender age of five, entertained Jeev and Simi, and I went into the lounge where Balbir Uncle was sitting with Pritam Singh. I had not realized that Pritam Singh was inside our house until then. The room was lit by the lamps on the side tables at 11.00 a.m., and the curtains were closed. I couldn’t understand much of what they were discussing because they spoke in Punjabi. From what I could gather, people were being killed all over Delhi, and it was not safe to step outside one’s home. I was a child, and none of this was comprehensible to me. I could not have realized that Dad had gone out to fetch Chanan Singh in the middle of a riot-stricken Delhi, a time that would forever be marked in the history of India as a time of brutalities and intolerance of religious faith. But I did realize that our neighbours were hiding in our house. That was why Jeev wasn’t allowed to stand in front of the windows. His patka, the cloth covering the knot of hair worn by young Sikh boys, would have been spotted easily and might have endangered us all. That was why our curtains were drawn all day, all over the house. That was why no one went anywhere, not even when the bread and Campa Cola ran out.

The conversation that I heard between Balbir Uncle and Pritam Singh stayed in my mind forever. I could not explain my feelings to Mom or Dad; I never was very good at pouring out my heart. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in, and cried into a towel so that no one would hear me weep. When my dehydrated eyes started to burn, I heard a knock on the door.

Aanya, are you in there? whispered Sama.

I desperately tried to keep my voice from quivering. Yeah, Sammy. It’s okay, I’m not well, I lied. Please don’t tell Mama. My precious Sammy always knew when the world was too much for me to bear.

Okay, I won’t. But she asked me to look for you.

I’m coming out in five minutes.

I had to hide my swollen eyes from Mom, so I sat down on my desk and pretended to study, while Sama and our friends watched Tom and Jerry cartoons on the VCR in Mom and Dad’s room. About an hour later, Dad arrived with Chanan Singh, who was hysterical because his brother had been killed. He was shouting in Punjabi and crying. Dad quickly led him into the living room to keep him from frightening us. Even though our parents had given us selective information, the truth was out now – there was danger all around us. Later I heard Dad talking to Mom. He had hidden Chanan Singh in the trunk of his car and driven through dangerous parts of Delhi. If the Hindu mobs had found him, both of them could have been killed. I was so angry with Dad for putting himself in such a situation. But Chanan Singh was like a member of our family, just like Jai Bhaiyya, and Dad didn’t think twice before he risked his life for him.

I felt so insecure, so sick with fear, yet I wanted to be brave like the other kids in the house; I couldn’t let myself cry in front of anyone. I wanted to ask Jeev and Simi if they knew what was going on, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. I sat next to Sama and watched her draw for a while. I pinched her cheek hard and gave her a hug, much to her irritation. Then I picked up my favourite book, The Adventures of the Wishing-Chair by Enid Blyton, for the umpteenth time and tried to escape from the terrifying world that surrounded me.

"Nahin Mummy, nahin!" I suddenly heard Jeev, screaming from the guest room.

I ran to the guest room and found it locked. I could hear him begging Aunty to stop. I pressed my ear to the door to hear whatever I could.

Why do you have to do this? he asked her in Punjabi, sobbing uncontrollably.

"So that you can be safe, Bacche. You have to go back to school and study with other children. We don’t want people to say mean things to you."

I heard him sob and plead for the next ten minutes. I started banging on the door in an attempt to break it open, but Mom rushed to me and pulled me away from the door. I cried in her arms till the door of the room finally opened. I was sure that Aunty was beating Jeev; otherwise Simi would not have been crying in her father’s arms. When the door opened, only Aunty came out. She had a large folded newspaper in her hands and was carrying it carefully. I walked to the room slowly, fearful of what I might see. There was no sound from the room; Jeev had stopped crying. When I saw him, I was shocked. He was no longer wearing a patka, and he had short hair like the other boys at school. I thought he looked rather handsome, but he was devastated. He kept running his fingers through his hair. When he looked at me, he covered his face with his hands and said, I look so ugly now. Don’t look at me. He looked distant and too far away to be brought back.

It will grow back one day, I said, trying to comfort him.

Now I’m not a Sikh.

I sat down beside him, wanting to hold his hand, but too shy to do it. Of course you are, in your heart.

He looked up at me, and I saw a vacant expression on his face that I had never seen before. It was devoid of any grief or the anguish he had just expressed in his cries to his mother. He was still and white, and his eyes were staring at me. I was frightened. Just then, Simi walked into the room and looked at Jeev for a few seconds. She hugged him and told him that he looked like Bahadur, their Nepalese cook. That did the trick. In no time, he had forgotten about the event that would change his life forever, and they chased each other around the house for the longest time, squealing and teasing each other. The immediate trauma had blown over, but we never saw Jeev on winter afternoons drying his long hair in the sun, ever again.

A part of him was lost forever. And now there was something in me that could never be lost.

PART I

THE INCEPTION

CHAPTER 1

There are times when you close your eyes and what seemed like significant events in your life, are reduced to flashes