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The Beautiful and the Damned

Siddhartha Deb is a novelist who was born in north-eastern India in 1970. His first novel, The Point of Return, was a Notable Book of the Year in The New York Times, while his second novel, Surface, was a finalist for the Hutch Crossword Award in India and a book of the year in the Daily Telegraph. His journalism, essays and reviews have appeared in Harpers, the Guardian, the Observer, The New York Times Book Review, Columbia Journalism Review, Bookforum, the Daily Telegraph, the Nation, n+1, London Review of Books and The Times Literary Supplement. He is the recipient of grants from the Society of Authors and the Nation Institute, and has recently been a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute of Advanced Studies at Harvard University.

The Beautiful and the Damned

Life in the New India

SIDDHARTHA DEB

VIKING

an imprint of

PENGUIN BOOKS

Contents

Introduction

The Great Gatsby: A Rich Man in India

Finding a rich man – the controversial reputation of Arindam Chaudhuri – the Satbari campus – the Power Brands Awards Night – the ambassador of the world – cigar therapy – a leadership seminar – the enemies – the aspirers – the namesake

Ghosts in the Machine: The Engineer’s Burden

An earlier incarnation – supplying happiness – low context and high context – Special Economic Zones – the million-dollar house – the Nanopoet – the Gandhi computer – what the Master said – a fascist salute – caste in America – the stolen iPhone

Red Sorghum: Farmers in the Free Market

The dying countryside – the navel of India – the chemical village – McKinsey and Vision 2020 – Victory to Telangana – the farmers’ market – Prabhakar and the overground Maoists – Dubai and debt – the dealers – ‘Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone’

The Factory: The Permanent World of Temporary Workers

The encounter squad – India’s first Egyptian resort – the steel factory – Malda labour – the barracks – reading Amartya Sen – the security guards – the Tongsman – ghost workers – Maytas Hill County

The Girl from F&B: Women in the Big City

The arms dealer – why Esther wanted F&B – the accident – recession in America – the Delhi Police manual – the momo stand – Manipur – the luxury mall – the boyfriend – Munirka again

Acknowledgements

Introduction

I grew up in Shillong, a small town in the north-eastern hills of India that few people can find on a map. The hills around Shillong ran down to the flooded plains of Bangladesh, an area from where my family had originated but that had become for them, in a common quirk of the twentieth century, a foreign country. In 1947, the year my father graduated from a veterinary college and began working in the north-eastern state of Assam, his village disappeared behind the fresh cartographic lines creating the new, largely Muslim nation of East Pakistan. My father’s family, consisting of his illiterate peasant parents, three brothers who were still in school, a widowed sister and an infant nephew, left behind their hut with its pots and pans and settled down in a slum in Gauhati, the largest city in Assam. Perhaps their home went to a family of Muslims who had abandoned their hut, and their pots and pans, in the new nation of India that squatted between East and West Pakistan. In 1971, after a protracted civil war, East Pakistan seceded from West Pakistan to become the nation of Bangladesh. It was around this time that new waves of migrants from Bangladesh, driven by war, genocide, starvation and insecurity, began to land up in the north-eastern hills of India. The local, mostly Christian, population in my hometown of Shillong began to fear that they were being swamped by Bengali-speaking settlers. They began to consider all Bengalis foreigners and so, in another twist of twentieth-century irony, I became a Bangladeshi to them, resident of the land that my father had left and that I had never lived in.

As a teenager, I sometimes travelled to Gauhati, four hours from Shillong by bus. It was the nearest thing we had to a big city, since the closest metropolis, Calcutta, was another 1,200 kilometres beyond Gauhati. But I had to be careful while visiting Gauhati that I wouldn’t be pulled off a bus by the police on the way back to Shillong. Because I could be called a Bangladeshi and asked to go back to my place of origin, I always carried with me a certificate from the Deputy Commissioner attesting to the fact that I was an Indian and that Shillong was my home. Without that document, I could be considered anything – a Bangladeshi by Indians and an Indian by Bangladeshis.

When I finally left Shillong, first to live in Calcutta and then in Delhi, the great, urban anonymity offered by cities seemed to have put to rest the question of where I came from. It no longer mattered who I was in terms of place of origin as much as the amount of money I had, whatever its origin. In the mid-nineties, I began working for a newspaper in Delhi, living in an area known as Munirka Gaon, that is to say, Munirka Village. The neighbourhood was located in south Delhi, walking distance from the sprawling campus of Jawaharlal Nehru University. Although south Delhi was an upscale area of the city, Munirka was the remnant of an old village that the city had not fully absorbed. It had become an urban slum of sorts, with buffaloes wallowing in the winding dirt lanes, elderly men sitting around their communal hookah in the evening and women walking around veiled in deference to the patriarchal traditions of the Jat Hindus who were the original residents of Munirka and were gradually transforming themselves from farmers to landlords. The rents charged by these new landlords were low, and the facilities rather rudimentary, making Munirka an attractive place for a spillover of students from the university and for lower-middle-class migrants making their way in Delhi.

At first, I shared a room in a Munirka tenement with three other men, but I eventually moved into a one-room flat of my own. There was no electricity during the day. The building didn’t have the requisite permits, and the owner hooked up an illegal connection only at night, when it was less likely that the power board would send a van on the prowl to look for such instances of electricity theft. For all that, the building I stayed in represented a certain lower-middle-class privilege. Behind it were the small huts occupied by working-class families who often livened up the nights with furious shouts and screams as men beat their wives or fought each other in drunken brawls.

The other residents of my building were all men in their twenties, carrying out a wide range of jobs. Naseer, who lived above me, was a ‘master cutter’ at a garment factory on the outskirts of Delhi. Below were three men, two Sikhs and one Bengali, who were aircraft mechanics. Across from me, in a building that was so close by that we could jump from one balcony to another, there lived Dipu, a bright and anguished man who had been trying for years to pass the examinations for the Indian Civil Service. His room-mate was in training with India’s intelligence agency and would be dispatched in a couple of years to a remote village on the border with China.

I had been living in Munirka for some years when I decided to take the GRE exams as a preliminary step to applying for a graduate programme in America. Because a passport was the only acceptable form of identification for the exams, I filled out the required documents and handed in my application at the Delhi passport office, not far from where I lived. With a week left to go before the exams, my landlord gave me a crumpled letter that had come from the passport office. My application had been rejected. The police had been unable to find my address and verify that I lived in Munirka, the letter said. I went back to the passport office and showed the letter to a clerk.

‘You gave a fake address,’ he said. ‘That’s why the police couldn’t find it.’

‘But it’s the same address that you used to send the letter,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘The postman found it.’

The clerk shrugged. ‘Go talk to the police.’

I went to the police and it made no difference. I gave up on the idea of sitting the GRE exams. But then my boss at the newspaper found out that my application had been turned down, and he had a reporter call the minister responsible for passports. I returned to the passport office, where I was led past the long queues into a private chamber, the officer in charge hurriedly issuing me a passport I could use for the exams, which were the next day. The officer was apologetic as he gave me the passport. Because it had to be produced so urgently, it was valid only for one year. But I could come back whenever I wanted to and make it a regular ten-year passport, he said.

So I should have, but another year went by before I had enough money to apply to universities in America. In the summer of 1998, by which time I’d left the newspaper and Delhi and come back to live with my mother in Calcutta, I received a fellowship to a PhD programme at Columbia University. I needed to get the passport extended in order to go abroad, and one July morning, I took a bus from the outskirts of the city to the passport office in Esplanade, joining a line that had formed on the pavement. It was just past seven, but there were already thirty or so people ahead of me. We tried to keep in the shade, away from the sun that burned fiercely even this early in the morning, and as we waited, a few seedy-looking men went up and down the line, asking people if they needed help with their passport applications.

The line grew longer, the day became even hotter and more humid, and as nine o’clock approached, the excitement became palpable. I counted the people in front of me obsessively and figured that I would be all right. Even with the slowest of clerks, I should be able to submit my application before the counters closed at noon. I had prepared my application carefully, the form filled out just so in block letters, my passport photograph glued and not stapled, the picture displaying both ears (a mysterious injunction whose purpose I didn’t understand), and with the exact amount in rupees for the application fee.

At nine, the gates opened. There was a sudden swelling of the crowd, an infinitesimal moment of stillness, and then the line collapsed, with people rushing in from every direction to take the stairs leading up to the passport office. The uniformed policeman who had appeared just a little while ago to monitor the queue was nowhere to be seen.

I was so stunned by the unfairness of all this that I didn’t move at first, and I was suddenly reduced to a solitary dot on the pavement. Then I dived into the mob. I fought my way upstairs, where I saw, with growing panic, that a new line was forming in front of the single counter that took in passport applications. It was a line that in the composition of its members bore no relation to the one that had existed outside for nearly two hours, and it had grown so long that it already trickled back out of the office, down the stairs and towards the pavement, leaving me with the option of reversing my journey to take my place at the very end.

On another day, or in a different season, without the brutal heat, I might have done so. But that morning I made my way towards the counter, shoved aside two men, ignoring their protests, and planted myself firmly in between. A few seconds later, a hand grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me out of the line. I saw a burly, mustachioed man, pulling back his free hand to punch me. I grabbed his hand with my left and his shirt with my right, and we swayed back and forth for a while as the crowd around us stopped being a mob and transformed back into a peaceful queue, watching us with great interest as sweat dripped from our faces and abuse came out of our mouths. The man wrested one hand free and reached for the back of his trousers. I thought he was a tout going for his knife, and I hurriedly let go and stepped back, still angry, but now scared as well.

Instead of a knife, the man pulled out an identity card, shouting, ‘Do you know who I am?’

A policeman in plain clothes, half of me realized with terror, while the other half pulled out an ID card in return, shouting back, ‘And do you know who I am?’

I was holding out my press card, which I should have turned in when I quit my job. But I hadn’t, and so we glowered at each other, a policeman who had been pretending not to be a policeman staring at a man who was no longer a journalist but pretending to be a journalist.

We had shouted in Bengali, and we were saying something other than what the question seemed to mean. Behind the question, there was an anguish expressed by both the policeman and me, both trying to do the right thing and yet in conflict with each other. This became clear when tempers cooled and we stopped grappling with each other, and in a replay of what had happened in Delhi a year before, the policeman led me into an officer’s chamber to get my passport renewed. Yet even though we may not have intended it, when we shouted, ‘Do you know who I am?’ we were asking the question in a profoundly literal sense. Did I know who he was, a man trying to maintain order in the line – afraid that I was a tout with a knife in his back pocket – doing a hopeless job assigned him by his boss? And did he know who I was, breaking the line only after I had tried to follow the rules, wanting nothing more than the passport that was supposedly my right as a citizen of the country?

The outsourcing office was in Noida, a gridwork of factories and offices connected to Delhi by a new four-lane highway suspended over the sluggish, polluted Yamuna river. It was next door to Resistoflex (‘Vibrating Control Systems Since 1947’), and almost hidden behind a row of parked trucks. The office had once been part of a factory; the building was unpainted and exposed at the back, although the front had been done up in the requisite international corporate style, with granite steps leading up to the glass doors. The company handled customer service calls from countries around the world, with shifts in the evening and at night to handle queries from Australia, Great Britain and the United States.

After taking tests and being interviewed for a couple of hours, I was finally led into the office of the man with the authority to hire me. The other employees in the company had referred to him as ‘Wing Commander Ghosh’, and one of them told me that he liked to push candidates to see how they reacted under stress.

The wing commander was a slight, dark and rather intense-looking man whose computer screen saver flashed images of small aircraft at me. As I answered the wing commander’s questions, I realized that the right sleeve of his suit jacket was pinned back. The wing commander was missing an arm. I became distracted as soon as I realized this, finding myself unable to stop thinking about how he had lost an arm, adding this to the images of aircraft on his screen saver and beginning to imagine a terrible accident that had ended the man’s air force career.

The company needed people, however, and even in my distracted state, I passed the wing commander’s stress test. He wanted to hire me right away, although the salary and benefits he was offering seemed rather low by industry standards. There was also the fact that the company, in spite of the talk of faraway Western countries, seemed suspiciously like a family business. But what concerned me most of all, for reasons I could not possibly reveal to the wing commander, was that I needed to know if I would be serving British customers.

The wing commander stared at me firmly. ‘The biggest business now,’ he said, ‘with lots of performance incentives, is in the American process. If you are willing to work in that, you will be calling American homeowners and persuading them to remortgage their houses.’ I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, so he explained further. ‘You will be calling on behalf of banks that are our clients and are offering the homeowners better loans. Your job is to get people to change their mortgages from their old banks to the new ones. This is the work of the future, my boy.’

Six years after leaving for New York with my passport, I was in Delhi again, trying to get a job in what had become India’s best-known industry. I had travelled to the West, to Columbia University, where I’d written a novel. I had left the university to settle into the precarious rhythm of a writer’s life, coming back home whenever I could afford to, often to gather material for a feature article. This trip, in January 2004, was centred around my most prestigious assignment so far, one from the Guardian weekend magazine that involved trying to get a job at a call centre so that I could report from the inside on what it was like to do such work.

This was a time when globalization was still proceeding smoothly, without the financial meltdowns and the subprime crises that would suddenly add new meaning to Wing Commander Ghosh’s work of the future. It was a time when India was one of the main nodes of globalization, running back offices and customer service centres for companies in the West. There was some anxiety about this phenomenon, mostly from unions in the West that watched jobs disappearing offshore and protested that the work done by Indian call centre staff was inferior, perhaps even carried out by ‘convicted felons’. There were a few critics in India too, saying that the work was old exploitation dressed up in a new costume and that the people doing long hours and late nights while assuming Western identities and accents were just ‘cybercoolies’.

But such protests seemed marginal when compared to the celebration of call centres in business-friendly circles in both India and the West. The point was not that the work was bad or the salaries far lower than what Western workers might expect, the boosters said. It was how call centre work was creating a generation of Indian youth who were being empowered by capitalism, people who had begun to break down the old restrictions of caste, class and gender, and who now exemplified the new India where men and women worked together late into the night and partied into the day, and who spent their money at the pubs, discotheques and shopping malls that had been brought to India by the same vigorous capitalism that had given them their jobs.

The Indian call centres, some owned by multinationals and some by home-grown enterprises, had nevertheless become rather sensitive to any scrutiny of their business. Like much of corporate India, they had become so secretive that it was difficult for a journalist to freely observe work in call centres.

The assignment from the Guardian meant that I had to put aside the Indian passport I had acquired, and the identity presented in its pages, and create a CV that offered a different identity, one more reasonable for an aspiring call centre worker. In order to take a job where I might have to change my name and accent and become a Western person, I first had to erase most traces of the West from my existing self. In order to become globalized through the call centre, I had to stop being globalized and become a provincial Indian, someone leaving Shillong for the first time to try his luck at the networked outsourcing offices of Noida, Gurgaon and Delhi. In the CV that I created, I retained my name and age, but all the other details were invented. I had already worked night shifts in Delhi while living in Munirka, but that had been at a newspaper. The schoolteacher I put down on my call centre CV was an alternate self, someone who had never left Shillong until now.

These questions about who I was, and who the call centre workers were, seemed to be pieces of a larger puzzle about what India was in its new incarnation. In 1998, just as I was leaving the country, the Hindu right-wing Bharatiya Janata Party had won the national elections and formed a government in Delhi. It was a remarkable success for a party that, just ten years earlier, had possessed only two seats in the parliament. As a college student, I had once run into one of the two BJP members of parliament. I had been waiting for a flight at the airport in Silchar, a small town in Assam, when I saw the portly, somewhat forlorn, figure of Atal Bihari Vajpayee. He too was waiting for the flight to Calcutta, having just finished a trip to the border town of Karimganj where he had gone to rouse local sentiments about illegal immigration into India by poor Muslims from Bangladesh.

By 1998, however, Vajpayee had become the prime minister, a coronation celebrated by carrying out five nuclear tests in the desert sands of Rajasthan. Then, in 2002, the BJP government in the western state of Gujarat, headed by the business-friendly chief minister Narendra Modi, unleashed a pogrom on Muslims that left 2,000 people dead, thousands of women sexually assaulted and thousands of others displaced. On the economic front, Vajpayee’s government had continued the process of opening up its markets to foreign multinationals and investors while selling off state-owned assets cheaply to private businesses. An entire elite had been made even richer, while the middle class had become flush with cash, partaking happily of consumer goods like cars and mobile phones. But what was happening to the majority of people in India – the poor, the lower castes, women, Muslims and farmers – was a mystery. They were utterly invisible, edited out of the corporate and government buzz about India, and they resurfaced only when the BJP began its re-election bid in 2004, producing happy faces of the forgotten majority in a campaign it called ‘India Shining’.

I went about trying to get work at call centres even as the BJP campaigned furiously in the background. In some sense, I was at the heart of India Shining, in the ‘sunrise’ industry of the call centres. I took an expensive class in call centre English at the British Council in Delhi, paying more for that brief course of a few weeks than I had for my entire state-subsidized higher education in India. I travelled to recruitment offices in Delhi and the outskirts, where I sat through tests and interviews that often took an entire day while trying to understand something of the lives of the youths who cycled in and out of the recruitment centres. On the surface, many of them were indeed trendy and modern, wearing jeans and carrying mobile phones, but the lives they revealed to me were also filled with frustration and doubt. There was Leena, for instance, from the state of Sikkim, already tired of her job handling customer inquiries about mortgages and loans for an American bank. She had studied literature in college and wanted to become a schoolteacher until the higher salaries of the call centre industry drew her to Delhi. But the city life had turned out to offer her little of the freedom she had expected. She shared a room with five other women at the YWCA hostel, and most of her time was taken up by a job that she liked less and less.

‘The customers get irate,’ she told me. ‘Their transactions often get messed up, and it’s my job to pacify them. I understand that they’re upset, but they start calling me names, and then it gets really difficult.’

My most extended interaction with call centre workers came when I got a job for HCL BPO, an Indian outsourcing firm that had an office in Noida for handling customer service calls for BT. Over the next two weeks, including one week of training, the days blended into each other. The shifts were nine hours long, and with travel time added in, the job consumed twelve to thirteen hours a day. My mornings began with the honking of the company van outside the apartment I was staying in and they ended around midnight with a similar van depositing me home after the driver, in order to avoid having his monthly salary of 4,000 rupees docked for falling behind schedule, had sped through red lights at eighty kilometres an hour. As for the job itself, that involved taking calls from angry British customers who wanted to cancel their BT Internet accounts, trying to convince them to stay on, first by telling them how inconvenient it would be for them to cancel (‘Madam, you will lose your BT email address. What if people try to get in touch with you at that address?’) and moving up gradually to offering free technical support or a free month of service.

When on the phone with their British customers, my colleagues were invariably polite, murmuring into their headsets in their idiosyncratic renditions of the Northern Irish accent our trainers had all brought back with them from the BT facility in Belfast. In real life, however, they were a competing bunch of neuroses and afflictions, with an incredibly low tolerance for difference of any kind. There was Pradeep, a soft-spoken, intelligent man who was nevertheless convinced that he would never marry a woman who had worked at a call centre because she was bound to be promiscuous. Swati, a plump woman whose husband also worked at a call centre, agreed. It was hard not to feel sympathy for Swati, who had trouble with her English and was worried about talking to British customers, especially those ‘Wellish’ people who insisted on speaking in ‘Wellish’. And yet she had the habit of making disparaging comments about Muslims, especially to Feroze, one of the men who led us in a training session and whose English was flawless. The only one among my colleagues who disagreed with these common views was Alok, a discontented man with an engineering degree. I ran into him one afternoon during a break. He approached me in a haze of marijuana smoke.

‘This call centre work is not a career,’ he said, offering me a drag of his reefer along with his wisdom. ‘If I start working as an engineer, I’ll get half of what I make right now. But in five years, I’ll be making more money and have a real job. A friend of mine, a civil engineer, began a couple of years ago with a salary of only five thousand rupees. Now, he’s part of the Delhi metro construction project. He’s doing something with his life.’

Unlike the accounts in the media, most people in the call centre didn’t seem to think they were doing anything with their life. They were trapped in the here and now, and the new work opportunities brought by globalization had given these lower-middle-class youths as much of a sense of vulnerability as of empowerment. They went in and out of the call centre jobs, abandoning them for other work when the long, late-night hours became too oppressive, returning to the call centres when the other jobs they had taken seemed not to offer enough money. They might have been the most visible face of India Shining, but their inner lives, invisible to the world, showed a more complex reality where uncertainty and stasis had as great an influence as the superficial mobility and modernity of their jobs.

By the time I quit my job at the call centre, it seemed to me that the sunrise industry was a rather fake world, dressing up its ordinary routine work in the tinsel of youthfulness. From the Internet terminals scattered along the passageways, to the food courts, the recreation rooms with pool tables and the pictures of workers with American flags painted on their faces, the bigger outsourcing offices gave the impression that they were Western college campuses. But there wasn’t much freedom in these outposts of the free world, with their sanctioned fifteen-minute bathroom breaks for every four hours of work. They were places where along with the monotony and stress of the work, the modernity of India became an ambiguous phenomenon rather than a marker of irreversible progress. It seemed that I was not the only one there with a fake identity.

In April 2004, the BJP, in spite of its vigorous India Shining campaign, lost the elections. A few months later, I found myself in the city of Bhopal, in central India, pursuing a forgotten story. I was there to write a piece on the twentieth anniversary of the disaster that happened on the night of 2 December 1984, when a pesticide factory run by the American multinational Union Carbide spewed out toxic fumes and killed at least 3,000 people in twenty-four hours. In the two decades since then, the death toll had reached at least 20,000, while another 100,000 people were estimated by Amnesty International to be suffering ‘chronic and debilitating’ illnesses caused by the lethal methyl isocyanate (MIC) gas that had leaked out from the factory.

When I arrived in Bhopal in November, I was told that I should meet a man called Abdul Jabbar. Even though no one outside the city had heard of him, he had a reputation in Bhopal as someone who had done the most for victims of the Union Carbide disaster. He ran an organization for women widowed and rendered destitute by the disaster, working from a converted industrial shed in the old quarter of the city. It was a shoddily run place in many ways, with grimy toilets, battered sewing machines, a telephone that was kept, oddly enough, in the kitchen, photographs of Gandhi and lesser-known Indian radicals, an office overflowing with paper, and a verandah where a display case contained hideous stuffed toys that stared at visitors with glassy eyes.

From this strange base quartering an organization with a name that came across as unwieldy whether in full form, acronym or in translation (the Bhopal Gas Peedit Mahila Udyog Sangathan or BGPMUS or Bhopal Gas-Affected Women’s Enterprise Organization), Jabbar and the women sallied out occasionally to picket government officials, demanding the compensation money that had been promised but not delivered twenty years after the event.

The women were mostly working class and usually illiterate. The older ones had lost their husbands in the disaster or its aftermath, while some of the younger ones had been abandoned by their husbands. Jabbar claimed that the organization, which had about 5,000 members, allowed the women to step beyond their traditional roles as victims. But it was also an organization of women centred around a male figure, a place where the women seemed to find a masculine presence that perhaps compensated for the fathers, husbands and sons absent in their lives.

Many of the women had been raised as orthodox Hindus or Muslims, an upbringing they had to struggle with in order to venture beyond the neighbourhood and become members of Jabbar’s organization. Some of the Muslim women had got rid of their veils. Many of them remained religious without being orthodox, and only Feroza, who described herself as a ‘hard-core Muslim’, continued to have a running argument with Jabbar, who retorted, quietly but firmly, that he had no faith in any faith.

Jabbar also claimed to have no faith in the West. He detested multinationals, especially Dow Chemicals, which had since acquired Union Carbide. But he also disliked organizations like Greenpeace that had tried to draw attention to the conditions in Bhopal so many years after the disaster. He did not take money from Western outfits, a position that set him at odds with a vastly more efficient organization called the Bhopal Group for Information and Action. He did not have a website for his organization, although even the local reporters begged him to set one up so that they could have easier access to information. He claimed, when I was first introduced to him, that he didn’t speak to Western reporters or to urban, upper-class Indians. He refused to speak in English, even though he seemed to have a working knowledge of the language. For a soft-spoken man of benign, even nondescript, appearance – short, pudgy, with a moustache and thick glasses – he was surprisingly truculent, and I came away from our initial meeting feeling rather disappointed.

A writer visiting a new place and struggling with unfamiliar topics needs sources who are articulate, people who can point him to the key issues quickly and who can present the information in an organized way. And when the writer needs the stories of people’s lives, those narratives that insert recognizable, human shapes into large but abstract conflicts, he or she depends on people who have a sense of their own trajectories and who are willing to impose form on the chaos of their experiences and memories. Neither Jabbar nor his organization seemed to possess such qualities. When I followed my first visit with a few phone calls to Jabbar, I got some incoherent facts and figures and a half-hearted invitation to attend one of his weekly rallies. I began to see why Jabbar and his organization were unknown outside Bhopal, and why their names had never appeared in the well-researched Guardian and Nation articles I had gone through before coming to Bhopal.

There were, after all, other sources of information in the city, like the Bhopal Group for Information and Action, where activists led me swiftly and efficiently to the principal aspects of the situation in Bhopal. From these people, working in a small office where humming computers and ringing telephones imparted a sense of efficiency and seriousness, I learned that activists from the Bhopal Group, along with people from Greenpeace, had broken into the factory to collect soil samples. These samples had then been analysed by a Boston-based environmental laboratory and found to be full of mercury and arsenic, and the Bhopal Group had the data and reports to show how the groundwater of all the slums around the factory remained contaminated with toxic waste.

In comparison to the people working at the Bhopal Group, Jabbar seemed like a relic of the past, not really a character in a coherent story as much as a local demigod of the sort that proliferates in India. One looked at him in passing, and although a native guide might insist that this was a powerful deity, it was impossible as an outsider to enter that realm of local mythologies. It was impossible, in other words, to know anything about Jabbar and his activities without some kind of faith in him, and it was impossible to have that faith in him without the local knowledge.

Nevertheless, one afternoon, I turned up to see the last thirty minutes of Jabbar’s Saturday rally. It was a time of the year when both Ramadan and Navratri (a Hindu festival) were being observed, and the audience was thinner than usual. About fifty women and a few men sat on the grass as Jabbar addressed them, standing in front of some ragged and stunted palm trees. He was less rambling as a public speaker, focused but intimate with his audience. When he ended his speech with a slogan, he didn’t raise his voice in a shout as Indian politicians tend to do. Instead, he said softly, ‘Naya Zamana …’ (‘The New Age …’), a phrase that the women closed emphatically and loudly by leaping to their feet and answering, ‘… ayega’ (‘… will come’). The slogan was repeated once – softer and on a downbeat – and even before the response had come, Jabbar had moved away, coiling up the wire trailing from his microphone.

I liked the closing note. It was somehow more effective than a blood-curdling cry would have been. And I liked the way the women had given the slogan both body and soul, with Jabbar no more than a catalyst for their aspirations. I stayed on to talk to some of the women while Jabbar and other organizers ran back and forth among the small crowd. They were planning a trip to Delhi in the coming weeks to lobby the parliament, and it was important to spread the word to get an impressive turnout. At some point, Jabbar came up to me and said that it was a good time to talk, but he had to take care of a small task first.

I accompanied Jabbar across the street to the Ladies’ Hospital. An ambulance packed with passengers stood in the driveway. I caught a glimpse of a woman in the back and what looked like a baby in swaddling clothes in her arms. ‘Go on to the house,’ Jabbar said. ‘Drive safely. I’ll come later.’ Then we walked back to the park, where Jabbar wheeled his Honda scooter out and asked me to climb on. During our ride through the jagged, amorphous quarters of the old city, I discovered that the woman in the ambulance was Jabbar’s wife and that she had given birth to a boy the night before. The activist had become a father, a first in his life, a fact that in its intimacy and domesticity seemed a little incongruous with the utopian, large-scale issues discussed in the park, but perhaps less incongruous than the fact that I, a stranger, was being taken to Jabbar’s house the same day his wife and son were coming home from the hospital.

As Jabbar negotiated a path through the crowded marketplace, a furniture store caught his eye. He asked me to stay with the scooter while he went into the store, a room open to the street and packed with locally made furniture, most of it cobbled together out of plastic or cheap wood. What had attracted Jabbar’s attention was an infant cradle of pink plastic with a mosquito net attached to it. Jabbar bargained briefly, bought the contraption and handed it to me. The cradle had looked small in the store, but as I sat on the back seat of Jabbar’s scooter, riding up narrow alleyways and under hobbit-sized bridges, it began to assume gargantuan proportions. I had to shout at Jabbar to stop when I thought we were going to scrape against a wall. With frequent halts when I dismounted to cross particularly narrow stretches, we finally arrived at his house.

What kind of man brings a stranger home when his wife has just given birth? In Jabbar’s house, I was introduced to his wife, a Kashmiri woman in her late twenties. She was dressed in a black hijab, her hair covered but her face unveiled, and she looked exhausted from her labour. I saw the baby and encountered a squadron of mosquitoes that made me thankful that the cradle had come with a net. Relatives and neighbours passed in and out so fluidly as to leave little distinction between outdoors and indoors, between sitting room and bedroom. I drank tea and talked to Jabbar’s neighbours. They were working-class people who were proud of him, of the fact that he had become a father, of the trees he had got for them to plant in the neighbourhood, which was poor without being squalid. Then it was time for Jabbar to head out again because he wanted me to meet people in the nearby slums.

But the initial question remained in my mind, if inflected differently. What kind of man takes a Hindu stranger home even when the proprieties of a lower-middle-class Muslim background demand an observance of the purdah, and especially when his wife seems uncomfortable not following such convention? And if that seems needlessly traditional, what kind of man doesn’t see the necessity, accepted even among modern individuals, of separating the private and the public?

One possible answer – and it was the answer Jabbar gave me when I asked him this – is that the idea of separation, between men and women, Hindus and Muslims, the private and the public, is an artificial one. ‘My mother never observed the purdah,’ he told me. But the disaster of 1984 had broken down other walls, Jabbar said. For some, it had been a temporary erasure of boundaries as they stopped to help the dying and the injured for a few weeks. For Jabbar, who had at the time been a small contractor drilling borewells, the change had been permanent, marking him out for a life as an activist rather than as a businessman.

Another possible answer – and this was one Jabbar didn’t come up with – is that it is an obsessed person, one without a sense of proportion, who doesn’t observe the distinctions between private and public life, between the needs of activism and the demands of domesticity. It was an answer that had some interpretative power when it came to Jabbar’s life, because Yasmeena was his second wife. Jabbar had been married before to a woman called Rehana, a marriage significant enough a decade after its dissolution for Jabbar, his neighbours and his rival at the Bhopal Group for Information and Action to refer to it.

Rehana had been an early member of Jabbar’s organization, a woman from a lower-middle-class Muslim background similar to Jabbar’s. She had been in her twenties, a divorced mother of two children, at the time she began working with Jabbar in the organization. A bad-tempered, arrogant woman was how Jabbar’s neighbours referred to Rehana, as did Usha and Jamila, two of the women in the organization who had known her. Jabbar spoke about Rehana less emphatically, with a touch of despair that was somewhat unusual for him. He had married her because he had been attracted to her ‘radical’ personality, he told me, using the English word to emphasize the quality that he had found appealing.

‘It wasn’t easy for me to convince my family to accept our marriage. Even though she was young and beautiful, you know the kind of stigma our community has against divorced women. And she had two children from her previous marriage, which prejudiced them against her even more. I was young, a man, and they thought I could do better.’

But Rehana’s radical nature changed into simple querulousness with marriage. Jabbar said that it had made him so unhappy – her fights with neighbours, with small children – that he had wanted to kill himself. But what made him end the marriage was her newly discovered sense of status. She wanted him to rise socially and economically, to become important, to be more than an organizer.

‘I found out – and I found out after a long time, because my comrades kept the fact from me – that if anyone came to see me at home and she answered the door, she would turn them away. She would say, “Come back later, the boss is sleeping.” That was something I couldn’t accept.’

It sounded annoying but not a serious flaw, I thought. Perhaps she had wanted to spend more time with him. But Jabbar wouldn’t accept this argument.

‘When she said, “The boss is asleep,” she was doing something horrible. The people who come to me for help, I am not their boss. When we organize the afflicted, we have to believe that they are our equals. Otherwise, we become like the politicians and civil servants who are supposedly there to serve us, who are elected by us, paid from our taxes, and yet treat us as their inferiors.

‘You will have noticed,’ Jabbar continued, ‘that when some of the older women speak to us after the rally and want our contact information, I rebuke my associates if they just rattle off the phone number and address. I ask them to write it on a slip of paper and give it to them, because otherwise we’re taking advantage of the fact that an elderly, illiterate woman won’t remember a phone number or address given out so quickly. She won’t know how to write it down and it will make her feel small, make her feel inadequate. But when you write it out and give it to her, you show her that you are not a politician, not an incredibly important person, not her boss. That’s what Rehana wouldn’t understand, that I didn’t choose to do this in order to become a boss, to be someone rich and powerful. The other thing she didn’t understand is that organizing doesn’t stop at five in the evening. The people who came to my house were often desperate, perhaps about to be evicted, perhaps with a child who had to be admitted to hospital.’

Failed marriages are notoriously tricky narratives even when one of the protagonists isn’t an organizer. But when one person is obsessed with work that knows no limits, that involves interacting with suffering and poverty on an everyday basis and that does not lead to easily quantifiable rewards, the person can find his or her work destroying an otherwise resilient relationship. And Jabbar’s work, which I observed through long mornings and afternoons spent at his office, the flow of time punctuated by the cry of the muezzin from a nearby mosque, involved an unending set of challenges and rather small victories.

The organization had filed a case in the Supreme Court asking the government to distribute the full amount of the compensation money it had taken from Union Carbide. Two decades after the event, the government had paid out no more than an interim amount of $80 for each person, and even that money had to be divided with corrupt lawyers and officials. People who came to Jabbar for help included those who weren’t members of his organization, such as a middle-aged man who showed up one afternoon and began to cry with rage and frustration as he told us his story.