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Authors: Alice Albinia
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had no fear of speechifying?’
‘Ah, Manoj,’ Shiva Prasad had replied softly, ‘you see, there was no choice. The village elders said to me: Your turn boy . And I was pushed out in front of the crowd, where I gave my speech – a very simple, direct speech – declaring that I, too, would become a freedom-fighter: that I, too, would expel the Britishers, their English language, and their non-Hindu ways from our sovereign land.’
Yes, the crowd had cheered, the newspapermen had come to take his photograph, his grandmother had fainted, and his mother had sent him to bed at the same time as baby brother Hari, for being an impertinence, and only ten years old. She feared that her elder son would end his days in a dank British jail along with all the other young revolutionaries. But Shiva Prasad knew that his father was proud of what he had done, and so, early next morning, he took a bath – washing carefully, for he did not know how long it would be until he could wash again – packed a small bag, and bade goodbye to his family, saying: ‘I must go to join the protest against the unlawful trial of Indian National Army officers in Delhi. I may come back. I may not.’
As his mother stood weeping in the doorway (baby Hari in her arms; Father, as always, was giving extra tuition at the other end of the village), Shiva Prasad took a staff and left the house in Amarkantak. His home town, situated in the forest at the source of the Narmada river, was not a big place, but it was significant; the omens were auspicious; and as he set out on his journey, Shiva Prasad felt like a rishi in the days of yore. He walked all the way to the railway station in Pendra, climbed aboard, and off he went, to show solidarity in the fight against the Britishers.
A militant young Krishna, Shiva Prasad won over crowd after crowd at Pendra, Gwalior, New Delhi, with his pure, Sanskritic Hindi rhetoric. Even Gandhi-ji, it was rumoured, was impressed. Who is this infant Churchill? he was said to have asked, His words are too stirring . It was a glorious beginning.
Due to a happy exposure, in the country’s capital, to the policies of the Hindu Mahasabha, Shiva Prasad returned to Amarkantak determined to rally the people there with a brave new cry. ‘ Now is the time for action! ’ the eleven-year-old would proclaim. ‘We must have pride in our ancient and glorious Hindu culture! We must push back the alienating immigrations of Islam and Christianity and embrace our indigenous Vedic values. Our ancient Arya forefathers gave the world language and science and geometry! Now the time has come for us to conquer once more!’
The crowds continued to cheer, but to his surprise, Shiva Prasad’s father took to locking his son in the buffalo shed every time a rally was planned. ‘Finish school with good grades,’ he said. ‘Only once you have left my house may you practise this new-fangled form of fanaticism.’
Shiva Prasad took this minor setback in his stride. He lost no time in displaying his formidable intelligence, turning out to be the cleverest pupil in the district, consistently topping his class in every subject by at least three marks. Before long, he was bidding his mother goodbye once more, and returning to the capital to protect the culture of which he was so proud.
Once in New Delhi, Shiva Prasad finished his BA in record time, completed his MA with special distinction, and was personally headhunted by the Guruji Research Foundation, a new think tank dedicated to promoting native values and rooting out all imported ones. By the time he was twenty-four, Shiva Prasad’s melodious tones, beaming forth astute political commentary and cultural critique, were in demand at all his Party’s meetings. After he began writing a column for the Party magazine, the publication was inundated with fan mail; he himself received countless proposals from the parents of college-educated girls with wheaten complexions; in certain circles, one could
‘Ah, Manoj,’ Shiva Prasad had replied softly, ‘you see, there was no choice. The village elders said to me: Your turn boy . And I was pushed out in front of the crowd, where I gave my speech – a very simple, direct speech – declaring that I, too, would become a freedom-fighter: that I, too, would expel the Britishers, their English language, and their non-Hindu ways from our sovereign land.’
Yes, the crowd had cheered, the newspapermen had come to take his photograph, his grandmother had fainted, and his mother had sent him to bed at the same time as baby brother Hari, for being an impertinence, and only ten years old. She feared that her elder son would end his days in a dank British jail along with all the other young revolutionaries. But Shiva Prasad knew that his father was proud of what he had done, and so, early next morning, he took a bath – washing carefully, for he did not know how long it would be until he could wash again – packed a small bag, and bade goodbye to his family, saying: ‘I must go to join the protest against the unlawful trial of Indian National Army officers in Delhi. I may come back. I may not.’
As his mother stood weeping in the doorway (baby Hari in her arms; Father, as always, was giving extra tuition at the other end of the village), Shiva Prasad took a staff and left the house in Amarkantak. His home town, situated in the forest at the source of the Narmada river, was not a big place, but it was significant; the omens were auspicious; and as he set out on his journey, Shiva Prasad felt like a rishi in the days of yore. He walked all the way to the railway station in Pendra, climbed aboard, and off he went, to show solidarity in the fight against the Britishers.
A militant young Krishna, Shiva Prasad won over crowd after crowd at Pendra, Gwalior, New Delhi, with his pure, Sanskritic Hindi rhetoric. Even Gandhi-ji, it was rumoured, was impressed. Who is this infant Churchill? he was said to have asked, His words are too stirring . It was a glorious beginning.
Due to a happy exposure, in the country’s capital, to the policies of the Hindu Mahasabha, Shiva Prasad returned to Amarkantak determined to rally the people there with a brave new cry. ‘ Now is the time for action! ’ the eleven-year-old would proclaim. ‘We must have pride in our ancient and glorious Hindu culture! We must push back the alienating immigrations of Islam and Christianity and embrace our indigenous Vedic values. Our ancient Arya forefathers gave the world language and science and geometry! Now the time has come for us to conquer once more!’
The crowds continued to cheer, but to his surprise, Shiva Prasad’s father took to locking his son in the buffalo shed every time a rally was planned. ‘Finish school with good grades,’ he said. ‘Only once you have left my house may you practise this new-fangled form of fanaticism.’
Shiva Prasad took this minor setback in his stride. He lost no time in displaying his formidable intelligence, turning out to be the cleverest pupil in the district, consistently topping his class in every subject by at least three marks. Before long, he was bidding his mother goodbye once more, and returning to the capital to protect the culture of which he was so proud.
Once in New Delhi, Shiva Prasad finished his BA in record time, completed his MA with special distinction, and was personally headhunted by the Guruji Research Foundation, a new think tank dedicated to promoting native values and rooting out all imported ones. By the time he was twenty-four, Shiva Prasad’s melodious tones, beaming forth astute political commentary and cultural critique, were in demand at all his Party’s meetings. After he began writing a column for the Party magazine, the publication was inundated with fan mail; he himself received countless proposals from the parents of college-educated girls with wheaten complexions; in certain circles, one could
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