No Man’s Land

By Nilesh Shrivastava

Land you can't burn it like money; you can't melt it like gold. You can only buy it, sell it, snatch it, grab it. Titles change, governments change, times change, but the land stays where it is unmoved and sterile. That is its beauty. But, somewhere deep down, men want to grab its immortality and slip it into their horribly insecure lives. They never can, but they never will stop trying. Gurgaon, circa 1998. A city is being born. Ordinary farms are turning into virtual goldmines in the shadow of lofty skyscrapers. Agastya, whose days are numbered, lords over one such estate. He realizes it's time to pass on the legacy to the next generation— his estranged sons, Pranay and Karan, who will come from Delhi with blemished pasts, base aspirations and a woman who would divide them. And then, not unlike the Mahabharata, the land would become the stage where their greed, affections and deepest fears would struggle and suffocate. No one would leave the place unscathed, if they would leave at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9788172344962

Book preview

Men would give a lot to be in my shoes, in my skin, and in my head. The words do not matter. What matters is that I have seen envy in the eyes of men—naked envy when they know what my father owns. There is something about land, with or without the words ‘disputed’ writ large on it, that does that to the best of them.

I stood on a very large piece of land and looked around in all directions. There was the highway on my left running all the way to Delhi behind me, there were faint edges of half-constructed towers extending deep into the embryonic city of Gurgaon, and there was the airport some distance away on my right. Sandwiched between these man-made signs of prosperity was a massive tract of uneven, parched land that bore my family name. It was vacant, substantial, and crying aloud for a flood of developers to take it over. It was wealth that could run for a few generations, I was told. It was time to look forward, to pick up the soil and watch it turn to gold, they all said. It was time to make a future.

Apart from the large farmhouse that had been home to father and Shashwat Uncle, the entire place had turned bare. It was the start of summer, and the sun had been ruthless in the months that the place had been ignored. It wasn’t just the weather, it was the disdain of the people who had lived on it that had seeped into its soil. The greed, the disputes, and eventually the malice in the minds of men had sucked the fertility out of the land. It does not matter, people told me. Men will pay for the land, not for its beauty or ugliness, not for its past but for its future. Men will pay, if they just hear the word yes. Settle with the family, override them, or do what you want, but move ahead, they said.

I had paid more than I could afford for saying yes earlier two, and now I was hesitant. For a stranger, my shoes would have been the best place to be in—there was the hope of wealth, there was the benefit of youth, and finally there was the sense of closure over a shadowy past. For me, all of these seemed irrelevant. I felt some sympathy for the mythical victors of another land not far away, as they would have stood at the end of their Great War—the Pandavas of Hastinapura. I doubt they gloated over all they had won and the kingdom that was theirs. Yet, from where they stood, they had the blessing of the gods. From where I stood, I was merely human. Many would say it was time to rejoice and react, I would say it was time to stand still and reflect.

The city was closing in from every direction, sucking out spaces and smashing the undisciplined mud tracks into shape. This piece of land, for decades a secluded hideaway for father, was now very much on the map. It would be easy to walk away with a fortune from here, if my family—or what was left of it—could look together in the same direction. But that would mean walking away from the decades my family had spent here, and the days one woman had spent here. All of that would also have to be bartered away, and that was not going to be easy.

I stood statue-like for long—unprepared and feeling hopelessly inadequate. There was a dulling sense of confusion that, by just being there, was chipping away at all that was composed in me. Fortune or no fortune, the real choice always was and will be whether to walk away with peace or to walk away with a heavy heart. Is that what Father tried to tell me the first time he took seriously ill, or was he too busy gauging the imaginary wall between me and his bastard son?

[1]

Agastya was uneasy: his two sons were together under the same roof for the first time in life, and he lay grounded in his room, all six feet of him, trapped under sheets that hid his numb legs and weakened heart. Till a few weeks ago, he looked perfectly healthy at sixty, but then suddenly, one day, a cardiac arrest came knocking and transformed him completely.

Pranay and Karan were outside. He could hear them shuffling and moving in the house. Agastya would have liked to be there, between them, but for now, he would have to let Shashwat manage matters for him. It was the first few minutes that he feared—especially when Karan would step into the house. It was not just the fear of having his two sons face each other, it was the fear of facing his past through their eyes. There are special moments one plays out in the mind for days or even years—practising, probing, preparing. This was one such—and yet, for all his efforts, reality had played a fast one on him, locking him in bed when he would have wanted nothing better than to run the show.

Agastya had started getting an uncomfortable feeling several months before the attack brought him to his knees. The niggling pains in the joints, the palpitations in the heart, the breathlessness of long walks, the tiresome feeling in the middle of the day—all of them had started to move into a second level of orbit. They were no longer minor irritants; each had graduated slowly to become ailments with an independent character and jurisdiction of its own. The clean, fresh air of his farm, the daily walk across the greens, and the fresh foods that had sustained him so far seemed to be losing their potency. He was entering his sixties, and the thoughts of his mortality had finally started forming at the edges of his mind. The attack just made it worse.

Within a few weeks of his first heart attack, Agastya had started feeling claustrophobic in his own body. His arms would not move, his legs had a will of their own, his torso was a stranger to his mind, and pain was the language common to them all. His existence itself had become a battle he was too tired to continue, too old to bother with. The strong and animated body that had been his pride was gradually becoming a drag on his meagre resources, and sometimes he wished he could get up and simply leave it behind to struggle with itself.

After making sure he had taken his medicines, Shashwat would sit next to Agastya’s bed for hours every day and watch his silent battle with a mix of sympathy and helplessness. He would make a few cursory comments about the farm and the weather and then hold Agastya’s hands. The warmth with which he closed his grasp impelled Agastya to hold on and keep up the fight, but it couldn’t instill much optimism in him, for somewhere Agastya had realized he would not survive much longer. He could feel the same sense of foreboding in Shashwat’s look of empathy too.

Shashwat stepped into the room. His gait, usually assured, had become somewhat diffident in recent weeks, as if the shadow of Agastya’s illness was on him too.

When Pranay arrives, should I tell him about last night’s breach? This time it was almost forty feet into our land, he said with concern.

Did the cops come in the morning?

They did. Looked around a bit and left after some vague promises of action. Not worth much, in my view. For the time being, I have gotten the boundary wall re-instated. But each day is getting worse. Someday, they will be stronger than us.

Agastya looked at the expanse of land outside through the French windows of the room. Someday I’ll wonder whether all this was really worth fighting over.

Peace of mind is always worth fighting over, Shashwat replied pensively. Anyway, our time has passed. The boys have grown up now. Let them decide what to do with it.

Then inform Pranay about the situation. Let him decide what to do next.

I thought so too. You remember Dhawan? The buyer who has been speaking to you? He is also coming in today. If Pranay has any ideas about this place, they will come out, Shashwat said.

Agastya shifted in the bed, rather painfully. Shashwat stepped forward to help him.

What about Karan? Agastya hesitatingly spoke after some seconds.

I don’t know him enough. For me, he is a stranger, Shashwat said.

He too is my blood, Agastya countered.

But that does not mean he can be trusted. I do not doubt him; it is just that all of us need time. Some more time and he will be in on every conversation.

Agastya did not respond and closed his eyes, reflecting on the latest intrusion into the farm.

In the past five years, the lands neighbouring Agastya’s had started passing into private hands on one pretext or the other. Some had gone to large farmers and some to investors who never showed up to inspect their properties, choosing to leave them barren and wasted. Agastya had not paid much attention to these dealings until one clear morning a few months ago when Shashwat pointed out building spires coming up far away on the horizon to him. As they both stood watching dozens of trucks ferrying men and material and ripping into the heart of agricultural lands, Shashwat said, We won’t stay untouched for long. The roads carrying those trucks are coming to our door step. Men and their greed won’t be far behind.

What have I got to do with them? Agastya asked. Yes, it will be noisier around here, but I will live my life and will let them live theirs.

Yes, you will let them live their life but they won’t let you live yours, Shashwat said, smiling. You sit on a magnet and you will attract all sorts. Land has that whore-like fascination in some ways—men can look away all they like but eventually every man wants a piece of it one day.

Shashwat was proven right when encroachments on the farmland began a few months ago. It started with small threats—a random broken fence here or a missing corner gate there—but gradually the incidents became bigger. Once, a large portion of the barbed wiring on the west end of the land was found ripped on the very next day it was repaired. Some days later the brick wall around the main gate was found broken. Apart from this, cows would often be found grazing on the land and stray dogs would strangely bypass the animal barriers installed for them. Trees that fell over the boundary would routinely be chopped away during the night. If ever there was confusion between overactive kids and malicious miscreants, the hammers resolved it. Shashwat found a bunch of them near the broken wall one morning. After that it was clear there were men, very strong men, out to scare the family.

The encroachments, expectedly, were followed by lucrative offers: neighbours coming by as agents for nameless buyers or acquaintances making veiled bids on phone. When Agastya turned down all of them emphatically, anonymous calls followed, warning him of dire consequences if he did not sell the land.

Agastya’s heart sank on realizing that his secluded lifestyle was under threat, that the one thing that had been the constant epicentre of their lives for decades suddenly seemed like just another tradable commodity. If that worry had not been enough, a paralytic stroke and heart attack almost pushed him off the edge. Even Shashwat was starting to get perturbed, which was unusual. Between the threatening calls and Agastya’s illness, Shashwat would sometimes pray for the return of the uneventful days of just a few months ago.

I think it’s time the boys get a flavour of this place, Agastya said to Shashwat one day. Call them and invite them over, though on different days. Pranay first and then Karan. Let me speak to both alone before they meet each other. Anyway I owe it to Karan’s mother by now.

I will call them at once, Shashwat said and left.

Agastya looked out of the large French windows that faced his bed. There was a light wind outside, and the curtains flew casually in it, letting through glimpses of the view beyond his room. Agastya did not require an uninterrupted view of his land to picture how it must look. Yes, the farm changed colour with the seasons and the wind and the men who tended it, but over the years, Agastya had learnt to recognize its immutable core that would always remain solid, that could not be touched by beast or man. It was an invisible but comforting presence, one that let him sleep peacefully at night.

[2]

Pranay arrived in the morning with Shreya, who had heard about the farm from him a number of times. Pranay had described it as the expansive land of his family, as the one bright spot in the wilderness around, as the lone object of his father’s obsession and Shashwat Uncle’s efforts, and as the home where he had spent the first few years of his life.

The farm had never been easy to access from Delhi. Pranay had to either rent a car for a whole day, which was prohibitively expensive, or squeeze into a series of unpredictable public buses, which wasted the entire day. This time, Pranay chose the latter. From his rented apartment near the Ramlila Grounds in North Delhi, he hired a rickshaw to the main bus stand with Shreya, lugging a couple of suitcases. At the bus stop they had to wait for half an before they got the first of the three buses on the route. These buses were utilitarian at best and downright dumps at worst, and all of them were always packed to capacity.

It will get better someday . . . Pranay whispered to Shreya, sensing her discomfort at the bone-crushing crowd in the third bus. Let the roads come up.

Don’t worry about me. You must be doing this trip often, she replied.

A few times, yes. Father would like me to come almost every weekend but . . . Pranay broke off and completed the sentence with a shrug.

After they got off at the Haryana border, they boarded a shared taxi to the Gurgaon town centre about three miles away, from where Pranay called up home and asked Shashwat Uncle to send a car to ferry them to the farm, which lay tangentially away from the town centre.

Pranay sat back somewhat tensely once they were inside the car. He was not very tall, and the way he slinked in one corner of the backseat, biting his lips, made him look even shorter. Shreya, on the other hand, settled down comfortably, relieved to finally be out of the congested buses.

The moment the road veered away from the town, the wind, which had been hard to come by so far, swept easily into the car, cooling the temperature, and the greenery around multiplied manifold. For most part though, the scenery surrounding them was still a wasteland and seemed untouched.

Shreya, who had been thoughtful and rather quiet all along, opened up finally. You look nervous, she said, taking Pranay’s hand into hers.

All that mess with the IAS exams I am leaving behind will come out some day, even if I keep quiet about it. And it’s also the first time I will be introducing you to Father.

"But you will have to talk to him."

I know. I just don’t know how weak his heart is and whether it would be able to take any strain. If it can’t, I am in a mess!

You think too much sometimes. It would be fine. You are his son after all, Shreya chided him.

I am but so often I get the sense that I don’t know him at all—what makes him happy or what doesn’t or what makes him tick at all. So I am never sure of what I should say to him.

They spoke softly, for the driver was an old hand at the farm. The car dropped them at the main gate of the property and then sped away for another errand. Shreya turned around and had her first look of the farmhouse. Pranay held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

It was a while before Shreya commented, It’s quite a place. Much bigger than you described it. But let’s go in first. The farm can wait; you should meet your father first.

They stepped inside and started walking towards the main building where Shashwat and Agastya waited for them. Shreya gently trailed her fingers through the small hedge by her side as they walked along, breathing deeply, taking in the smell of the place.

Can you smell the flowers? There must be lots of them around somewhere, she said, turning to Pranay. I can’t tell which flowers but they seem to be in bloom.

It’s a farm, Shreya. The smells here will be different from what you and I are used to—different and better.

Shreya flashed a smile at Pranay. I like the place. It smells good, feels good.

Pranay looked at her animated face and felt relief and joy at the same time. Good. Let’s go in, Pranay said, took her hand, and led her straight through the main door.

[3]

It was Karan’s first visit so far away from Delhi, but he was used to stepping into unfamiliar territory. He had a motorcycle and asked his way around to the farm. Finally he found himself outside its large gate—an unguarded, old-iron structure flanked by two big peepal trees, whose rusted edges belied its age. After double-checking the address he had hastily scribbled down with the almost-illegible number plaque installed near the entrance, Karan pushed the gate open. He parked his motorcycle in one corner and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, which had clothes for a few days’ stay. He did not expect a welcome and did not get one. That gave him time to meander through the farm at leisure, without being questioned.

Compared to the patchy greenery on the roads he had come by, the lushness of the farm stunned him for a moment. He noticed a large fruit garden on his right, surrounded by foot-tall hedges all around. Several papaya, chickoo, and mango trees spread out over possibly a quarter of an acre of the garden. The main farm began on his left and continued as far out as he could see, with crops laid out in neat, contiguous rows. Apart from a few benches on the cobbled path he stood on and a one-room cemented outhouse in the middle of the farm, the place was all nature. The main house was straight ahead from where he stood, towering over the vegetation nearby, but seeming quite modest before the scale of the rest of the farm.

It is obviously a labour of love, Karan thought. He knew Agastya loved his job, and it showed in the way nature had been tamed all around him, and in the fragrance of pride in the air. He could almost see farm workers walking unhurriedly between the neat rows of plantation, noticing the flaws in crops, trimming the yellowing leaves, and gently stroking their vibrant colours. Being there in the middle of a well-tended farm was an incredibly pleasant feeling. And to realize that he could possibly be the part owner of such an enormous piece of land was almost heady.

The main farmhouse began with a wide courtyard placed atop a short flight of stairs. The courtyard was laid with broad, stony tiles that had been out of fashion for decades. He knew a bit of history of the place from his mother. She had mentioned that the basic structure had been in place much before farming had been taken up there in earnest. It was a simple brick structure that had yellowed with age but remained functional without any major cracks or faults. Karan could see windows on the ground floor and the first, unevenly open and shut, as if no one had bothered to check them for a while. Karan entered the door of the main farmhouse without running into a single soul. He felt both welcome and unwelcome, welcome because it was his father’s house and unwelcome for he knew nobody else there. He walked into a wide anteroom, but instead of going further in through the open door at its far end, he silently sank into a plush chair in a corner, gathering his thoughts and waiting for someone to discover him.

It was a neat but imposing room. Strong wooden divans and cupboards occupied the right side of the room, and a large but basic dining table stood at its far end. The walls were mostly bare, except for a framed flowery painting on the right wall and an encased revolver on the left, a few inches above a wooden cabinet, looking somewhat out of place. He compared it to the small house that his mother ran, and it immediately struck him that the place was keenly missing a feminine touch. It was obvious there had been no woman in the house for some time.

On his left a large, antique-looking mirror hung on the wall. He got up and looked at his reflection in it. His curly hair was all dishevelled, and his face was covered with a layer of dust and grime. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his face and used his fingers to sweep his hair back into place. After a quick minute of cleaning and arranging, he took a last look in the mirror and found that he now looked presentable, if not his best, and plumped down on the sofa again.

He sat quietly for a few minutes, relishing the softness of the cushion after the long journey. There were muffled sounds coming from the open door at the far end of the room, but Karan knew it would be awkward to walk into a room full of strangers. So he remained at his spot, trying to make out what was being said.

Shashwat walked into the anteroom just then and Karan sprang up in surprise.

I am— he started.

Karan? Shashwat interrupted him mid-sentence. Weren’t you supposed to come tomorrow?

Yes, but my plan changed. Mother said I should go as soon as possible.

You could have called.

I did, but no one picked up the phone.

Shashwat reflected. Having Karan and Pranay in the house on the same day was not what Agastya had planned.

Is everything fine? Karan asked, noticing the silence.

Yes, so far. Now that you have come, you might as well meet your father. But let me first check whether he is ready to meet you. Wait here, Shashwat said and turned to walk back inside. He paused again on the threshold, looked back, and asked, Did you meet anyone so far?

No. I just came in. There wasn’t anyone around.

Fine. Wait here. I’ll send someone with a drink.

Karan nodded and sat back slowly, his eyes watching the door. He had sensed from Shashwat’s perfunctory and somewhat measured greetings that the journey from being a stranger to being family was going to be slow and painful.

Just then he saw a woman pass by the door and his breath got caught in his throat. He blinked rapidly, hoping that his eyes had failed him. But then the woman passed back again and he was sure. If this was the Shreya he knew, in the house where he was yet a stranger, becoming family was going to be even harder.

[4]

Shashwat stepped into Agastya’s room, watching him flit between wakefulness and drowsiness. He looked distinctly drugged. Shashwat stayed quiet for a few minutes. He had not seen Agastya in such a state ever since they had met decades ago.

Karan just came in, a day before he was supposed to, he said softly, when Agastya noticed his presence and raised his eyebrows.

And Pranay is still here?

Yes.

So there is no getting away now?

Well, when they are both here, let them see each other. They have to meet some day. Why not today? Shashwat replied in a sober, comforting tone.

I was hoping for a more planned meeting . . .

At some point, you will have to trust and believe in fate . . . maybe some bit of yourself has passed on to them. Why be pessimistic? They may react as you would have reacted, calmly and unemotionally.

Agastya nodded gravely. Yes, maybe you are right. Maybe it’s time to make amends . . . or make matters worse.

You have no way of knowing that.

Yes, there is. It’s called premonition and there was never a good one.

Shashwat went and called Karan in. Karan entered the room diffidently. Shashwat closed the door behind him.

Come here, Agastya looked at Karan and said. My voice doesn’t carry very far these days.

Karan walked to the chair near his bed and sat down on it, hesitant and unsure.

Agastya looked at his son quizzically. He had never understood his elder son; his impassive face rarely betrayed any emotion. Rather late in the day to have a heart-to-heart talk, he said finally, but, well, the mistake is entirely mine.

Karan thought his father’s tone was almost apologetic. He did not respond.

Agastya continued tersely, I called you here for a reason. I wanted to share something with you.

Karan almost smiled. Like what?

A lot actually. The memory of all that I have built up has now taken root in this house and the farm outside, in the way I live and spend my days, in the way the air here smells and this door creaks when someone comes in, and . . . there’s a lot I want to convey, but it won’t be possible in just one meeting, though I could make a start. A good enough reason to call you from Delhi?

Karan nodded. "It’s as good a reason as any other. You called me and