Read Online The Solitude of Emperors by David Davidar - Free Book Online

the floor and lay down on my bed fully dressed, not even bothering to take off my shoes. I took in my surroundings—two iron cots with thin, skimpy mattresses, mine made up and Rao’s in a mess as usual, the large unwieldy chest of drawers, its wood scarred by former residents of the room, the oxidized mirror on the nail, the peeling paint, the clothes hanging on pegs driven into the wall—and a feeling of desolation swept over me. I thought about the taxi driver who had been murdered. Deepak hadn’t said whether he was young or old, but I imagined him to be as young as I was, and there was a good chance that he, like me, was a recent immigrant to the city, perhaps from Hyderabad, or some smaller place that did not have enough work or resources to hold on to its young. He would have come here hoping to make his fortune, and maybe in time he would have.
    Why had he worn the badges of his faith to the very end, I wondered. Even when his life was at stake, why hadn’t he thought to take them off? Maybe they were so much a part of him, he hadn’t even seen them as symbols to be discarded. They would have helped him link himself to a community, of course, until he had saved enough to bring his family over from his home town because it was likely he had married young. Until this fateful day, his religion would have saved him from the loneliness of the room in the chawl or slum. He would go to the mosque, meet others as lonely as he was. They would do their namaz together, celebrate the great festivals of Id and Ramzan with feasts of biryani on Mohammed Ali Road. Yes, his religion had been good to him, until the day it had devoured him. Just like that. What did others like him feel, to be singled out for no reason other than having been born into a different faith? I wanted to find out just as I wished to understand how faith drove the agents of persecution.
    In the course of the past few days, as our work at the magazine had grown feverishly busy, I had become aware of vague feelings of discontentment that had swiftly crystallized. I did not want to merely rehash the reports that had appeared in the dailies; I wanted to do more than sub-edit eloquently worded editorials. I wanted to go out on to the front line where the battle was being fought and report on it. That was what I had imagined myself doing when I had first thought of becoming a journalist, and never before had it seemed more important. I thought of my father telling me about his dreams for me, for himself. I thought of his cousin, the distance runner who had lacked the requisite ‘kick’ when it mattered, and the feeling grew in me that the time had come to make my move. My job at the magazine did not involve reporting on events but surely, I argued to myself, Mr Sorabjee would not mind me writing a piece for ‘View from the Front Line’ about what was happening in the city.
    Outside my room, the pigeons who made their home in the eaves settled in for the night. Footsteps approached the door. For someone so small, Rao walked with a heavy tread. ‘Hey, this is really a bummer, you know all this shit going on in the city—it’s putting a dent in my party scene…’
    I wasn’t paying much attention, I was still thinking about how I might get to cover a riot, but Rao didn’t seem to need me to participate in the conversation.
    ‘Apparently the rioting is going to get worse, the Sena and others have just got started, they’ll be going house to house soon, the cops are with them, the ministers are with them, they are going to play Holi again this year, only with blood instead of colour.’
    I could detect no sympathy for the victims in his voice, perhaps my room-mate thought riots were the same as his parties only a little more high concept. As I half listened, an idea began to form in my mind. Although I wanted to witness a riot, I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to go it alone, but if I could persuade Rao to accompany me it would be perfect.
    ‘Hey, Rao,