Aavarana- The Veil Read online

  AAVARANA

  Dr S.L. Bhyrappa is widely regarded as the greatest living novelist in Kannada. In a literary career spanning over fifty years he has authored twenty-two novels, which have been translated into most of the major Indian languages, including Urdu. His works have run into several reprints and have been the subject of numerous scholarly studies, as well as heated public debates. Of his books, Daatu won the Sahitya Akademi award while Mandra won him the prestigious Saraswati Samman. He lives in Mysore.

  Sandeep Balakrishna is a writer, columnist, translator and recovering IT professional. He is the author of Tipu Sultan: The Tyrant of Mysore and is currently engaged in researching the history of the Vijayanagar Empire. Sandeep heads IndiaFacts, an online portal that aims to restore balance and factual accuracy in the media and public discourse.

  Published by

  Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2014

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  Copyright © S.L. Bhyrappa 2014

  Translation copyright © Sandeep Balakrishna 2014

  This is a work of fiction. All situations, incidents, dialogue and characters, with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures mentioned in this novel, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. They are not intended to depict actual events or people or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 9788129131966

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  PREFACE

  The act of concealing truth is known as ‘aavarana’, and that of projecting untruth is called ‘vikshepa’. When these occur at the level of an individual, it is known as ‘avidya’ and when they occur at the level of a group or the world, it is known as ‘maya’. These concepts, propounded by the Vedantins, have found agreement even with Buddhist philosophers.

  Indian philosophical schools have the distinction of elucidating the problem of truth and untruth by elevating it to the level of philosophy. One problem, however, has bothered me ever since I came of age. This had troubled me at a personal level when I wrote Saakshi (The Witness) a few years ago. The novel ends with the question, ‘Lord, what’s the root of untruth? Can it never be destroyed?’ Although this question marked the end of Saakshi as a novel, it didn’t help assuage either my intuition or intellect. However, after I finished writing Aavarana, I felt—and continue to feel—that this same problem of truth and untruth has assumed both social and national dimensions.

  We cannot truly comprehend our own selves or the history of our nation or, indeed, the history of the entire world, unless we unshackle ourselves from the bonds of false knowledge, desire and action, and elevate the intellect to a state of detached observation.

  ~

  I have no claim to originality as far the historical element in this novel is concerned. Every detail and behaviour of the characters described is backed by evidence and is an organ of the book without violating the boundaries of artistic freedom. Both creative writers and discerning readers will notice this aspect as the technique of the novel unfolds. The character who writes a novel within this novel provides the necessary historical evidence as a prerequisite to her writing. My only claim to originality is the form that I have given to it. If any literary merit has ensued in the backdrop of historical truth, I consider this novel to be a successful work of literature.

  Anybody who embarks upon writing a historical work essentially needs to conduct concrete research to support even the tiniest detail. The author’s responsibility is towards the historical truth of the subject on which his/her work is based. When truth and beauty are put on a scale, the writer’s fidelity must invariably be in favour of the truth. An author doesn’t have the moral right to violate truth and take refuge in the claim that he/she is only a creative artist.

  The reader, too, shares equal responsibility with the author in the quest for truth. He or she must comprehend the characters and situations in the light of objective truth—both factual and artistic. This sort of mental framework helps to actually savour the experience of reading a literary work, rather than getting agitated by reading it with personal prejudices in mind. We are not responsible for the mistakes committed by our previous generations. However, if we equate ourselves with them and regard ourselves as their heirs, we must then be ready to also share the responsibility for their mistakes. We won’t attain maturity unless we cultivate the wisdom to discriminate which deeds of our ancestors we need to reject and which achievements we need to take inspiration from. If learning lessons from history is a mark of enlightenment, so is breaking free from it. This applies equally to every religion, caste, creed and group.

  —S.L. Bhyrappa

  1

  The cool evening breeze gently blew over Razia’s hair, fanning the strands in a caress as she sat looking out of the window. It wafted inside the room on the top floor of the government guest house that overlooked the Tungabhadra River and soothed her limbs, tired from the relentless, all-day wandering around Hampi’s ruins. ‘Should I order tea?’ Amir’s question was lost on her. He waited, unsure, when she didn’t respond. Perhaps the breeze had drowned his voice, or she was just in one of her moods. And it wasn’t the first time. He was familiar with her sudden, inexplicable silences. She was, like him, an artist, entitled to her quirks. But now the sight of the river undulating to the caress of the sundown breeze was markedly romantic. He had to talk. ‘Do you have any idea how beautiful your hair looks, tinged by this twilight? You should have dyed it. The glow would be even lovelier!’ he said, his voice soft with love. She did not reply. The dye remark wasn’t new. On several occasions in the past she had countered it with ‘I’m ready to dye my hair just the way you like it, but you need to dye your beard too.’ He had briefly considered it. A jet-black maulana beard would have posed no problem but his was the Marxist-intellectual variety, which needed weekly trimming at the hands of an expert. The hairstylist would anyway shear the dyed portion. On a man, white hair was a sign of attractiveness and accomplishment, even wisdom, but on women, it only meant old age. But she just didn’t get his reasoning, and instead spoke about equal rights for men and women. Well, it was pointless to add anything further and risk raking up that old argument again.

  The waiter who brought tea and biscuits awaited their order for dinner. She mumbled that she would be okay with whatever Amir ordered and stood up, teacup in hand, returning to the window, once again lost in her thoughts. This was completely unlike her. Whenever they went out, Razia typically took charge of the menu, carefully selecting the items to order. Amir spoke to the waiter, ‘Chicken pulao if you have it, chicken biryani, if you don’t.’

  ‘Non-vegetarian isn’t available today, sir. We don’t have any other guests here. But I’ll make a great vegetarian meal, sir—chapati and potato curry to go with it, some rice, sambhar and curds.’

  Amir was livid, ‘I’ve been living on vegetarian nonsense since morning! How hard is it for you to understand when I
tell you that I need non-vegetarian at least once a day? How am I supposed to function normally without some meat in my stomach? Do you want me to complain to your bosses about the quality of food here? We’re guests of the government!’

  The waiter, who was clearly used to this kind of outburst, didn’t respond but didn’t alter his sheepish grin either. Even he knew that Amir was aware how government guest houses functioned. Amir’s anger was purely tactical, almost perfunctory, practised to keep such waiters in their place. Amir relented, ‘Fine. But I insist on having omelettes for breakfast tomorrow!’

  ‘Sure, sir! I’ll order eggs from Hospet right away,’ the waiter replied and left.

  Suddenly Amir became aware of the sweat sticking to his body from the day’s sojourn. A little later, he was under the shower, enjoying the water cascading down his body. When he came out, Razia still hadn’t budged from the window. He donned his neatly-ironed trousers and, saying, ‘I’m going for a walk to the dam. I’ll be back in half an hour,’ he left.

  He walked slowly, inhaling the cool air. It felt good. The entire region except this dam was a bloody furnace, he thought. Hampi especially was jahannam, a blazing hell. Why did they choose this as their capital? Because it was safe? Hakka and Bukka, the founders of the Vijayanagar Empire, were goatherds from Hampi. Was it because they were intimately familiar with the place? This explanation seemed more plausible. Besides, thinking about such minor details was Razia’s job. She was in charge of the research, script and narration.

  But why was she so intensely moody ever since they had returned to the guest house in the evening? Actually, it had begun sometime in the afternoon. Now it began to nag him. Whatever their eccentricities, artists couldn’t neglect their work indefinitely, citing mood as an excuse. He recalled that they had fought over this point several times in the past. Film-making was a serious art—and a costly business—not to be left at the mercy of one’s mood and whims. That would inevitably end in the producer’s suicide. Luckily, Razia had almost no part in the shooting. Even then, as Amir recalled rather petulantly, her record of delivering the script within the deadline was consistently poor. He wondered if she would adhere to her unpunctuality for the Hampi project as well. It worried him. The Hampi project reported directly to the central government’s Heritage Department. It was ambitious in intent, massive in its scope and urgent in its need for execution. The initiative involved making documentaries on all the major heritage sites in India. He had been entrusted with Hampi. That sparked an important recollection in Amir’s mind—the government’s unwritten diktat about how the documentaries must be filmed: stills of temple ruins, broken idols and damaged artefacts must be shown in a softer light in order to avoid arousing anti-Muslim sentiments in the viewers.

  This memory sparked yet another: the government’s rationale behind this diktat. Of late, Hindu fundamentalism had increased in intensity. It was true, he thought, no tyranny is worse than the tyranny of the majority. If the majority eventually turned completely fundamentalist, there was no hope for the nation to remain united. About a month back, the frightening evidence of increase in Hindu fanaticism had revealed itself. Exactly a month and eight days ago. The day of horror. The hour when the blanket of security that minorities had felt since Independence was shattered. That moment when the entire nation had shivered in fear. The singular incident that had ravaged the country’s reputation on the international stage. Amir reflected on that for a moment—I haven’t been to Ayodhya but I know how it is there. The place is completely cordoned off to everybody, with round-the-clock police protection and patrolling. A month and eight days and everything changed. What else did they expect after demolishing the Babri Masjid, a mosque sacred to India’s minorities? But mere policing—or force—would not prevent similar incidents from occurring in the future. It looked like the government had realized that inculcating tolerance for different religions in the hearts of citizens was the urgent need of the day. The documentaries on heritage sites were part of its larger objective of propagating a series of foundational programmes to instil and foster societal and religious tolerance. Equally, the other immediate need was to reassure the minorities that they were safe from the fundamentalism of the majority. The ruling party, the secularists and the Left parties were united in their support for all measures initiated to achieve this goal—education, media propaganda and greater representation and visibility for minorities in all fields. More importantly, severely punishing anybody who spoke negatively about them.

  That raised a doubt in his mind—did they give me this project only because I’m from the minority community or because I’m really a talented film-maker? Whatever their opinion, he reasoned, I know I’m good…and…well, they know it as well. This is not a project an inferior film-maker can handle. I wouldn’t have accepted it if it wasn’t this challenging.

  But the bigger challenge was the long-term promise. The government had already hinted at the possibility that he could bag the remaining projects if he delivered Hampi in time and according to their expectations. That meant revenues in tens of millions. His thoughts reverted to Hampi, a place he had visited many times in the past. Only this time he had to look at it from a different perspective. But Razia was his perspective-provider, he reflected happily. She would read expert literature, make notes, prepare the script and the narration for the voice-over. As director, I will instruct the still photographer to take pictures, collate them according to the script and shoot the actual documentary.

  The next step wasn’t really mandatory, but he wanted Razia to be present at the shooting. Her input had proven valuable 90 per cent of the time, her mood notwithstanding. And then he suddenly realized that she was not merely moody today. She seemed depressed, almost melancholic… Maybe she was just worn out. The heat in Hampi wasn’t ordinary. It struck in waves from all directions, emanating with great intensity from massive boulders.

  They had hired a car, which they didn’t use much because Razia preferred to see the ruins by foot. She stopped at every ruin and examined it in minute detail. This meant standing at the same place for extended periods, altering positions—bending, crouching and sitting on one’s toes—for closer examination. Done over three consecutive days, it resulted in a strain that a fifty-four-year-old woman couldn’t easily endure… But our ages are the same, and I feel quite okay. He pondered—I shower fastidiously, and take long walks every day. He smiled conceitedly. Whatever the noise over gender equality, nobody can really alter the fundamentals: a woman is always the weaker one, physically and intellectually. God’s creation cannot be false.

  Razia seemed to have turned inwards, withdrawn even, during dinner. Later in bed, he said, ‘I guess we have covered everything here. Had we known we would finish today, we could have caught tonight’s train to Bangalore. But in a way it’s good. We have the whole day to relax tomorrow and board the train at night. You anyway have more research work on your hands, or you can start working on the outline of the narration. Can you prepare the narration from memory? If you need more material, we can hire a good local guide to give us the relevant historical information for each item we show.’

  When she didn’t respond he grew suspicious: was she merely in an off-mood or angry with him? He couldn’t recall from the day’s events what he could possibly have done to upset her. And then, he quickly reasoned, there was really no logical explanation for women’s quirks. Her latest bout of unresponsiveness left nothing for him to say, and any further attempt to make conversation would only wound his self-respect. Neither was this the first instance where his pride risked injury at her hands in their long years of marriage. But he had borne them all with grace, accepting ego clashes as an inseparable part of married life.

  He shifted his focus to the cool wind drifting inside the room through the open windows and the sound of the river waves ceaselessly breaking over the wall of the dam. He thought of standing by the window to watch the river flow, but realized it would be a futile attempt. It was impossib
le to see anything in the dark. Razia finally broke the silence and spoke at last. ‘It’s not that easy to write the script and narration for a subject like this. We need to provide the accurate historical backdrop for each image and artefact that we show the audience. Pictures and words should say the same story. We can’t fool the audience by showing them something and telling them that it’s something else…you can’t make the camera tell a lie. But if you think this’ll prove uncomfortable, let’s not show unpleasant historical truths; in which case, it’s meaningless to even shoot the Hampi documentary, isn’t it?’

  He was relieved. ‘Well said! And I agree! But give me examples of what you mean. An artist is definitely much better equipped than most people to overcome artificial notions of embarrassment and shame and has no fear of showing the truth to the world!’

  She said, ‘Remember the idol of Ugra Narasimha? In its current mutilated form, it is difficult to distinguish whether it really is Ugra Narasimha or Lakshmi Narasimha. Whatever, but it’s truly exemplary for its workmanship, sense of proportion, balance, intricacy and sheer artistry! Enough to transport you to a higher plane just by looking at it! But who broke the idol’s arms and legs? And who demolished the Vijaya Vittala temple? Originally, the Narasimha idol was inside a temple complex of the same size as Vijaya Vittala. Piles of large wooden logs were stuffed inside the temple and they were set afire. The fire gradually burned the hard stone until it cracked. And then the arms and legs of the Narasimha idol were broken with large iron crowbars. Most temples here received similar treatment. For instance, even an untrained eye can easily detect that the Vijaya Vittala temple suffered the same two-phased demolition, because the burnt remains of the stones of these destroyed temples are still visible there, around the site. If we show all this, we also need to tell the audience the truth of who destroyed these temples and why—if we’re serious about the documentary’s credibility. If we aren’t, our narration would be dishonest.’