Scattered Fates - a novel on the second partition of India Read online

Chapter 1: WHEN NAGA MET MAYA

  July 11, 2005, 9 pm

  Sitting pensively on a plastic bucket seat at the arrival gates of Annadurai International Airport, Naga was sweating profusely. He always did, when he was tense.

  It was a damp and sultry Monday. A light evening drizzle had sucked the mercury down a couple of notches, and the cool breeze blowing from the Bay of Bengal helped it slide even further, but that did not dissuade his hyperactive merocrine glands.

  His forehead was moist, the thin beads of sweat slowly expanding in harmony, only to slide and dissolve into his bushy unibrow. A few more adventurous ones managed to escape sideways, desperately seeking to avoid the stress-acne, to find comfort in his hollow cheeks and the company of expensive aftershave lotion; a mingling of classes, so to speak.

  Naga involuntarily sniffed at the pungent combination; absentmindedly patted his face lightly and wiped the cold wet palms on his jeans. Still lost in thoughts, he raised his left hand and glanced at his Rolex- a gift from his roommate Sunder, for his 33rd birthday last Thursday.

  Bang on schedule, Corean Air flight CE608 from Pyongyang to Madras was circling overhead, ready to touchdown any moment now.Not long before his mundane solitary life could get a jolt of excitement, and twist out of shape beyond repair. Hoping against hope, he sidestepped his flirtation with atheism and prayed to Lord Venkateswara that Maya would not completely shatter his illusions.

  After months of nerve-wracking wait, his online friend was finally arriving. Until now, all their social interactions were carried out over a distance of 3,296 miles, with romantic undercurrents splicing through the submarine cables and airwaves. But, it was time now to get real.

  He vividly recalled her first email, seeking clarifications on his op-ed piece that dissected the political economy of South Asian countries over the past two decades. She accused him of using fraudulent data to camouflage the truth, arguing that IMF statistics showed otherwise.

  One look at the email and he nailed the problem; her data was in nominal terms, while he had used PPP computations of gross domestic product.

  How could any serious economics student make this mistake? She claims to be a research scholar at Corea University.

  An unpleasant start to a shaky online friendship, that soon stabilized and branched out to personal interest in each other lives.

  There still was one thing that bothered him, though.

  She used every excuse possible to avoid Skype for a virtual chat. He had explained to her in great detail about this new software that enabled free webcam interactions, but she always came up with excuses to avoid installing it on her personal computer.

  After a great deal of persuasion, she finally sent him a panoramic photograph, taken last winter, which only compounded his frustration. The Pyongyang scenery was captivating, no doubt, almost like a picture postcard; but her face was very hazy, and he suspected, minutely pixelated on purpose.

  What was going on?

  She even refused to tell him her age, admonishing him to be more patient. For all you know, she may have been testing the waters, but it vexed Naga a great deal. He had heard of numerous Internet scams that shattered the dreams of many a gullible bachelor, including one of his close colleagues.

  Dravida was after all one of most industrialized and advanced countries in Asia, and a magnet for many of the impoverished citizens of third world countries like Corea, Thailand and Malaysia.

  While many immigrants came to work in the 3D jobs (dirty, difficult & dangerous) in factories that his people loathed, some more wily ones crawled the web to entice gullible losers, grabbed a Green Card and disappeared.

  Not that Naga was a loser. He was an experienced reporter in his country’s largest English newspaper and came from a respectable family that brought many honors in the Indian Civil War.

  Embarrassingly though, in a country where school kids half his age were experimenting with sexual partners, he was still a virgin.

  I just hope she is who she claims to be.

  Heck. He hardly knew anything about her, just the filtered tidbits through her irregular emails over the past 12 months. He mentally glued together the information he had so far.

  The only child of a retired professor-couple at Pyongyang Development Institute, she is single, in her late twenties, liberal, loves to party, hates the petty-minded Corean guys and is pursuing her PhD at Corea University. Her research is bringing her to Madras and she needs help. Only the broad picture, and no fine details… Did she send the first email just to lure me? Does she only want to use my contacts for her research?

  In a moment of desperation, mixed with self-introspection, he decided to give her the benefit of doubt, as his father’s favorite quotation slithered into his thoughts.

  Whatever happens, happens for the good.

  Maya never claimed any romantic interest and had made it clear at the outset that she was only seeking a friend who could help her during the stay in Dravida. He was guilty of taking the initiative to flirt, egged on by his loneliness and online porn. She finally responded, but cautiously.

  Let’s see whether nanagaru’s motto holds. Hope he is alive and well…

  Suddenly, his thoughts scrambled and he missed his father.

  Although he had had no opportunity to create memories, and the only reminder was a weather-beaten photograph taken with two other gentlemen, which he kept carefully wrapped in a silk cloth, along with his father’s diary.

  While his father had maintained a record in Telugu for just the first 6 months in 1965, it was a goldmine of information into his mind.

  According to government records, Hindustan agents kidnapped him in 1975. A few outliers argued that he was a communist spy and may have defected, but Naga dismissed the allegations as a crackpot conspiracy.

  Reality hit, and his heart skipped a beat when a shrill announcement splintered the airport calm.

  ‘Visitors, please be informed that Flight CE608 from Pyongyang has just landed at Annadurai International Airport. Your guests will be with you in a record 15 minutes. For your information, it takes 2 hours at Nehru International Airport, Delhi,’ a shaky female voice bellowed in the familiar mallu accent.

  Maya will walk out soon.

  His chest swelled with pride upon the sudden realization that it takes such a short time for passengers to pass immigration, collect baggage and step out at the arrival gates. Not for nothing was Dravida’s premier airport voted the best in the world for eight years in a row.

  He had actually filed the story just an hour before racing to the airport. Every single jab at the northern neighbor warmed the cockles of his countrymen, more so Naga now, especially since his potential romantic interest apparently sympathized with Hindustan’s outdated communist ideology, and would experience this efficiency first hand.

  A few days here will change her mind.

  He recalled the email exchange four weeks ago, which nearly made him block all contact with Maya.

  It all began with an innocuous joke that he forwarded:

  ‘Thought this joke will help your research. It is actually true. A JNU professor asked the students: How many different economic systems exist in the world today?

  A student replied: There are three. Our Aatmasamman economic system, Capitalism and Communism.

  The professor asked again: Of these three, which system will be victorious in the end?

  The student replied: I really can't say...

  The professor was outraged: The answer is clear. Aatmasamman is the only system that will prevail over all other existing economic systems and become victorious in the end!

  The student stammered and replied: Yes, I learned that... but when that happens, which country will give us food aid?’

  Her reply in broken English was curt, to the point of being rude.

  ‘Please grow up. I no not like socialist jokes made by capitalists. Hindustan has the respect for self and not bend before American imperialism. It better to share little wealth than
be selfish. Socialism superior to the capitalism.’

  It was a bit of a shock.

  She is a leftist sympathizer, from a country that claims to be treading the high moral ground, although they cunningly receiving material support from the Chinese. Moreover, Hindustan is just a Soviet satellite, claiming to follow its indigenous brand of self-reliance ideology, but everyone knew that its political foundation was communism. Respect for self, indeed!

  He loathed communism, an ideology that divided erstwhile India and put his motherland on constant alert, always ready for war. More importantly, the Hindustani rogues kidnapped his father, and then claimed that he had defected. No one knew his fathers fate. How could he ever forgive anyone sympathetic to those tyrants?

  ‘Bitch!’ he involuntarily screamed, as he read the reply and blood rushed to his head. He considered instantly snapping ties, ties that he had carefully nurtured for so long; but his weakness overpowered him, and a couple of apologies later, he was back to the usual email banter, trying to flirt as best as he could. And here he was now, eagerly looking forward to receiving her with open arms.

  As the weary passengers from Pyongyang started streaming out of the departure gates, Naga suddenly panicked. He had never seen Maya. What if his fantasies crumbled? More importantly, how would he ever recognize her?

  In his last email, Naga had foolishly mentioned that he would be wearing a dark blue shirt with a yellow handkerchief sticking out of the pocket, a scene borrowed from a popular Tamil movie; ‘Dollywood escapist trash’ as the New York Times called it. He never got a reply, and was not sure that she even had time to read his mail.

  All of them look alike. The same slit eyes, pale skin, flat nose, chubby legs, and short build. How can they recognize each other?

  He pulled out her photo from the pocket and carefully scrutinized dozens of Coreans walking past him, all of them giggling for no reason. A sudden whiff of garlic and rotten eggs made him throw up in the mouth. Naga had read about kimchi in his marathon online research on Corea, but never realized that fermented cabbage could be so powerful.

  Then, he heard the soft voice behind him, almost hesitating: ‘Excuse me please. Are you Naga? I am Maya from Corea.’

  He turned around to face an attractive young woman with unblemished skin, save the pimple on the tip of her nose. She was as tall as him, with an oval face, large brown eyes and a sharp nose. Her dark smooth hair fell to the shoulders, and she looked like a diva in the tight white top and khakhi shorts that showed off her curves - the exact opposite of other corean women waddling in front.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed to reply, shoving the embarrassing yellow accessory and photograph out of sight, his heart thumping in excitement.

  Is she really Maya? An illusion too good to be true!

  ‘So glad to finally meet you,’ he continued, secretly checking her out.

  ‘I am so grateful for your kindness. You look so young, small face,’ she complimented him. In her country, a smaller face was considered the epitome of beauty, since most of them had flabby cheeks that melted into their chin.

  ‘No, no, no, my face is really big. Hey, your English has improved quite a bit,’ he said, surveying her luggage. ‘You brought a huge suitcase. Do you plan to settle down here?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’ she giggled.

  ‘Will you, if I want?’ he asked, struggling to lift it.

  ‘That depends on how you treat me.’

  Oh my God. We are already flirting.

  ‘You will not be disappointed.’

  ‘I hope not’ she replied, looking down at his dirty shoes. She was already disappointed with his fashion sense, but let it pass for the time being. His looks were not bad; slightly over-tanned skin, dark oily hair parted on the left, so neatly that each strand stood out; small angular face with a comical double-mustache, one above his nose and the other covering his upper lip. He was slightly taller than her and a little thin, but something that could be easily mended.

  Thank God he is not creepy. He needs a serious haircut and facial makeover.

  ‘Wait here, while I get my car,’ Naga said, leaving her standing at the entrance gates with the luggage.

  ‘Are you sure it is safe for me?’

  ‘Of course Ma’am, this is not Delhi,’ he hollered, disappearing behind the pillar, towards the parking lot.

  Maya clutched her purse close to the chest, with one hand firmly gripping her suitcase. Young ladies stayed indoors in Pyongyang after sunset and only ventured out accompanied by a male. If this had been her hometown, she would already have been accosted by a few touts, with many more frustrated youngsters leering with open mouths and waiting for an opportunity to touch her inappropriately, teasing her for being ‘dented and painted’.

  Infact, just a week before she left, there had been a gruesome assault on a young college student near her home that had made her parents very jittery. They pleaded with her not to go to a foreign country alone, but she was determined to get away.

  Surprisingly, no one bothered her here, although she stood out, and was a foreigner in a strange land. It was the first time she had traveled abroad, and was thankful for small mercies.

  A few minutes ticked by, and the only interruption was a policeman who inquired whether she needed help.

  Before long she noticed Naga driving up in his BMW M3.

  Looks like an expensive car. I am sure it costs ten times abboji’s annual salary.

  It would be her first ride in a foreign car. There were only a dozen imported cars in Corea, all of them in Seoul, the business capital of her country, and none in the capital Pyongyang. In her lifetime, she had seen similar cars only in movies. ‘Isn’t this car expensive?’ she asked, as Naga loaded her suitcase into the trunk. ‘Aiyo no. It is a second-hand 1990-model, very cheap. I am a journalist and we do not get corporate salaries,’ he replied. ‘Com’on get in… Hey, do I look like a driver? Get in the front with me.’

  ‘Sorry. Not used to sitting in private car.’

  ‘It’s OK, you will get used to it.’

  ‘Did you book a Guesthouse for me till I find my own apart?‘ ‘Apart? Oh you mean apartment. No need for that. My roommate Sunder is away, and we have an extra room. You can stay till he gets back from his trip,’ he said changing gears.

  ‘Fine with me, I can save my research funds.’

  ‘So how was our trip? Did you get enough rest?’

  ‘No, I was too excited to sleep. I watched two English movies.’

  ‘I thought they show Dollywood movies also on the flight to Madras.’

  ‘Yes they do…but I found them very boring. I have watched a few Hindi movies in Corea and really liked them. They are more realistic with a strong message to convey.’

  ‘Dollywood movies are entertaining, if you have the patience for musicals. All our movies are escapist, but at least they are honest. Hindi movies on the other hand all propagate Aatmasamman and are made to develop a personality cult of the dynasty.’

  ‘I do not think so, the Hindi movies I saw had nothing to do with their leader Sanjay Nehru or even Indira Nehru.’

  ‘It’s not so simple, there will always be underlying messages, not so obvious to outsiders.’

  ‘Don’t Dollywood movies also propagate capitalism? None of the movies ever show income inequalities or poverty, but only glorify monetary wealth.’

  ‘You are mistaken, we do have strong parallel cinema, but outsiders are aware of only the commercial movies. I will take you to some award-winning realistic movies during your stay here. By the way, you seem to be quite knowledgeable about our movies, does your research have anything to do it?’ he asked, turning on the ignition.

  ‘Hey, I told you before, it has nothing to do with the movie industry. I am studying the contradictions in capitalist countries after civil war. They always grow faster in the short term, but suddenly collapse because of contradictions. On the other hand, socialist countries have a slow start but prosper in the long term.’
/>   ‘Is that why Soviet Union and China are still struggling while USA is the world’s richest country?’ he sneered, unable to believe her.

  ‘No. You misunderstand. Soviet Union and China are communist states, not socialist. There is a lot of difference. I am talking of divided socialist countries like Hindustan, Scotland and Quebec.’

  ‘The difference is only in semantics. So you admit that today they are failed states, but hope to prosper in the long term. Say, 200 years? For your information Dravida, England and Canada, all capitalist countries, are economically superior and thriving for a longtime. No one starves, all citizens are taken care of, and they will only grow stronger.’

  ‘Who said Hindustan, Scotland and Quebec are failed states? Unlike capitalist countries, they are first trying to fix inequalities and then develop the economy. It takes time. And whose fault is it? All the countries that you just mentioned, which are only putting roadblocks in their progress.’

  ‘It gets on my nerves, this holy posturing by communists, sorry socialists… whatever. They are all mango people in banana republics, tolerating no dissent while their ordinary citizens starve. I am sorry, but for me freedom is very important. I can call my President an ass and no one will touch me.’

  ‘Is that why your father defected to Hindustan?’ she countered, and immediately bit her lip.

  Shocked, Naga slammed the brakes.

  ‘Who told you that?’ he raised his tone.

  Realizing the faux pas, and not expecting such a violent reaction, Maya remained quiet, as Naga continued in a stern voice. ‘Nanagaru was kidnapped in broad daylight at Madras Central by those commies. He fought courageously for our independence. Why would he defect?’

  Actually, there was no concrete evidence about his father’s whereabouts; whether he was kidnapped, murdered, met an accident, or ran away to Hindustan- only one eyewitness account, which was skimpy on details.

  One fine day, July 25, 1975, to be precise, he just disappeared, and the family never heard from him again, but Hindustan issued an official statement a month later.

  ‘We are honored to announce that Comrade Subbaiah has defected to our great vatan. He has come on his own free will and is enjoying a peaceful life in our prosperous country. His defection is an eruption of the wrath and grudge against the South Indian conservative ruling forces that exploit and oppress the working people while imposing unemployment and poverty upon them. Supreme Leader Indira Nehru and Young General Sanjay Nehru are saviors of our nation and the eternal lodestar of national reunification that all the Indians hold in high esteem as the sun for their destiny. We are not surprised that Comrade Subbaiah has seen the truth. The South Indian group of traitors is well advised to renounce foolish attempts to break the single-minded unity of our society.’

  No photos, no evidence. Just that.

  ‘I’m sorry. Let us change the topic,’ Maya muttered.

  Still trembling with anger, he revved up the engine, and changed lanes to enter the expressway.

  The next 20 minutes flew by in total silence, with Naga glaring ahead at the road and Maya thinking of ways to break the tension.

  He started sweating again.

  What have I done? Shouted at her in the first hour. What will she be thinking? Luckily Maya took the initiative to break the ice. ‘What is your fathers full name? Everyone knows him as Subbaiah.’

  ‘P. Subbaiah,’ he replied softly, still kicking himself in his head.

  ‘I meant full name?’

  ‘Pallypalli,’ he said, even as Maya muffled her laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny? You know it is rude.’

  ‘Sorry… but do you know what palli palli means in Corean? It means to do something in a hurry, as fast as possible. So you are Naga Palli Palli, right? Suits you…losing your temper in a hurry.’

  ‘Actually Dravidians use only initials for all official purposes, so as I told you before, I am P. Nagarjuna. It is the government policy to weed out the caste system from our society, unlike in Hindustan where people proudly attach caste identities to their names. What about you? The real name cannot be Maya, it doesn’t sound Corean.’

  ‘You are right; I adopted this name, since I thought it will be easier here. My real name is Choi Eu-hoo.’

  ‘That’s an even funnier name,’ he said with a deadpan expression, inwardly smiling at his revenge, remembering the popular joke about how Chinese kids are named.

  Many educated Dravidians still believed that newborn Chinese kids were named after the sounds from empty silver vessels dropped on Buddhist temple floors.

  Maya gave a weak twitch, not wanting to make a fuss. She was glad she restrained herself, for it helped lighten the mood, and by the time they arrived at his apartment complex, or apart as she called it, he was humming a popular Corean tune by the Wonder Girls.

  I want nobody nobody But You, I want nobody nobody But You…

  ‘So C-Pop has reached Dravida?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really, I checked it on the Internet. No one in Dravida is aware of hallyu, but they will learn. A few years from now they may do some silly horse-dance steps to Corean music. By the way, I’m really sorry about my outburst. I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘I understand. I too am attached to my father and shouldn’t have brought up the topic.’

  ‘We have almost reached home. See that building ahead, I live on the 26th floor,’ he cut her short.

  ‘26th floor? The tallest in Pyongyang and Seoul have only 15 floors. How many floors does this building have?’ she said craning her neck out the window to catch a better look. She had failed to notice the skyscrapers on the way from the airport, as she had been busy arguing. If she had, it would likely have made her head spin.

  ‘The tallest in Hindustan has only 10. I live in a 40-storey building, but it is one of the smaller ones in Madras, as it was built in the eighties.’

  ‘It does not look too old.’

  ‘That’s because it is well maintained, actually, this is the old part of the city. I will take you downtown tomorrow. You can easily make out the difference.’

  ‘If the old town is so modern, I wonder how the new town will be,’ she thought. Maya was once again amazed when the gates of his complex, automatically opened when their car neared.

  ‘How come there are no security guards. How did the gates open?’

  ‘Maya, Maya, Maya…. welcome to Madras. Everything here is automated. You see this chip on the dashboard; it is a security access chip. Every resident here has one. It automatically unlocks the gates and screens passengers. Your snapshot is already in the database by now. No outsider can enter unauthorized. All the security guards are inside, monitoring everything outside.’

  Preempting more queries, he mentioned that the building had six underground parking lots, as he steered the car to his allotted spot on B4. She decided not to ask more questions, lest she make a fool of herself. All the background research had not prepared her for this, maybe because the dial-up connections in Corea only allowed for text-based Internet surfing.

  In fact, every time Naga pestered her for a Skype chat, she had to give some excuse, embarrassed to tell him that it is not possible from Corea. Only she knew the hell she had to go through to, just for scanning and sending him that photograph. She expected Dravida to be a little more modern than Corea, but the pace of development that she saw around her was unbelievable, and this was just in the initial few hours.

  He first shock was when she got down from the airplane and walked into the expansive bright terminal with sweeping rooflines. The marvelous piece of infrastructure was very clean and neatly maintained with innumerable facilities. The Pyongyang international airport, by contrast seemed like a village bus station.

  Her professors had not been very truthful either, and convinced her that Dravida was only marginally more developed than Corea and Hindustan.

  What nonsense. It will certainly take another 20 years for Corea to reach this level of development.


  The elevator sped up to the 26th floor, and she suddenly felt very light as the blood bounced softly into her lungs. Looking out of the glass enclosure, she was amazed at the sight of Madras at night.

  The entire city seems to be filled with skyscrapers, glittering like jewels. This will surely be an experience to cherish.

  ‘Isn’t the sight amazing? All our big cities, Hyderabad, Bangalore and Cochin are similar. We will travel soon and you will know. In Hindustan, only Delhi has electricity. Of course, you have seen the latest cover of Economist.’

  She knew what he was talking about. The Economist magazine that she borrowed from her professor had a midnight photo of the subcontinent taken from the skies. It clearly showed a glittering Dravida, and Pakistan with a black space in between, with just a few glowing lights in and around Delhi. Almost like a censor-strip that her country often placed on offending maps that placed parts of Corea as Chinese territory.

  Her professor had argued that the pallbearer of the free market system had intentionally manipulated the image, and it was what she believed, but decided to keep quiet.

  She watched as Naga punched in the security code to his door, and hoped he would not talk of antiquated steel locks in Hindustan. Luckily he did not.

  ‘Welcome to my abode, you can stay in the room over there. Don’t worry about the heat, this building is centrally air-conditioned,’ he said, pointing to the room on his right. ‘My room is to the left, as is my roommates, and this in front is the study-room. You will get total privacy.’

  She surveyed the living room and was taken in by the neatness. Everything seemed to be in order, although minimalist. It was quite large, unlike Corean homes, where more importance was given to bedrooms.

  An exquisite leather sofa was placed at the center, with a large flat black screen on the opposite wall, the likes of which she had never seen before.

  Two bookshelves on either side of the screen gave out intellectual vibes. While one was filled with hardbound covers in English, the other was crowded with books in scripts that were alien to her.

  ‘What is that?’ She said pointing towards the screen.

  ‘Why, that’s my television, haven’t you seen an HDTV before? It is Dayanora’s latest model. A friend got me a steep discount,’ he replied. ‘I am sure you know that Dyanora Group is Dravida’s pride. It includes the world’s largest IT Company, second-largest shipbuilder, and 5th largest construction companies.’

  ‘I know, read about it in my class on Asian Tigers. The company has a powerful influence on your economic development, politics, media and culture, and has been a major driving force behind your growth, right?’ she said.

  Naga flicked on the remote, as she gasped at the amazing true-life images on the screen. He kept jumping channels, until he came to CBS, Corea’s state broadcaster, whose staple offering was farming programs and news read by middle-aged women hitting menopause.

  ‘Yeah, sure, I changed my satellite provider for your sake, so that you can watch this Corean channel if you are ever homesick.’

  ‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. I want to watch Dollywood movies.’

  ‘The bathroom in your room is quite small. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I am sure it is bigger than my entire house. There is only one small detail. I come from a very cold country and we use toilet paper. Hope there is enough stock.’

  ‘Don’t worry; we all use the bidet and toilet paper here in Dravida. Hindustan of course is underdeveloped and most of them shit on the streets. They have more temples than toilets,’ he mocked in triumph, yet again.

  Maya did not respond. She still had time to retort back with smarter quips. Moreover, she was exhausted from the long journey and just wanted to hit the sack.

  ‘Hope you like your room. I have already put your luggage in the closet with the fresh towels and blankets. The toilet is equipped with all the stuff you may need.’

  ‘I hope I can now take a hot shower and sleep. I am really tired. Thanks for all the help Naga.’

  ‘You are welcome. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat or drink? My fridge is well stocked, so is my bar, help yourself. We can chat tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Sure will. Goodnight. Please wake me up at 8,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He heaved a sigh of relief, staring at the door for a few minutes. He had messed up by losing his temper, but hopefully Maya would not remember tomorrow.

  ‘She is smart and attractive. I have to control my emotions and should not mock her cultural ignorance,’ Naga thought, as he lumbered towards his room, a glass of scotch in hand, humming the Corean tune again.