River of Gods Read Online Free PDF

where for fifteen
years a sadhu has held his left arm aloft. Shaheen Badoor Khan
reckons the man could not put this twig of bone and sinew and wasted
muscle down now even if his god willed it. Shaheen Badoor Khan is not
an overtly religious man, but these gaudy, cinematic statues,
brawling with arms and symbols and vehicle and attributes and
supporters as if the sculptor had to cram in every last theological
detail, offend his sense of aesthetics. His school of Islam is
refined, intensely civilised, ecstatic and mystical. It is not
painted day-glo pink. It does not wave its penis around in public.
Yet every morning thousands descend the ghats beneath the balconies
of his haveli to wash away their sins in the withered stream of
Ganga. Widows spend their last rupees that their husbands might burn
by the holy waters and attain Paradise. Every year young males fall
beneath the Puri Jagannath and are crushed—though nowhere near
as many as by the juggernaut of Puri rush hour. Armies of youths
storm mosques and take them to rubble with their bare hands because
they profane the honour of Lord Rama and still that man sits on the
kerb with his arm lifted like a staff. And on a traffic roundabout in
new Sarnath, a stained concrete statue of Hanuman not ten years old
is told it must relocate to make way for a new metro station and
there are gangs of youths in white shirts and dhotis punching the air
and banging drums and gongs. There will be deaths out of this, thinks
Shaheen Badoor Khan. Little things snowballing. N. K. Jivanjee and
his Hindu fundamentalist Shivaji party will ride this juggernaut to
death.
    There is further confusion at the VIP reception centre. It seems two
very important parties are both booked into the business section of
BH137. The first Shaheen Badoor Khan knows of it is a tussle of
reporters and sound booms and free-fly mikes outside the executive
lounge. Minister Srinavas preens himself but the lenses are looking
elsewhere. Shaheen Badoor Khan forces himself politely through the
crowd to the dispatcher, credentials held high.
    "What is the problem here?"
    "Ah, Mr. Khan, there seems to be some mix-up."
    "There is no mix-up. Minister Srinavas and party are returning
to Varanasi on your flight. Why is there any reason for confusion?"
    "Some celebrity."
    "Celebrity," Shaheen Badoor Khan says with scorn that would
wither an entire harvest.
    "A Russian, a model," says the dispatcher, flustered now.
"A big name model. There's some show in Varanasi. I apologise
for the mix-up, Mr. Khan." Shaheen Badoor Khan is already
motioning his own staff down to the gate.
    "Who?" Minister Srinavas says as he passes the scrum.
    "Some Russian model," Shaheen Badoor Khan says in his soft,
precise voice.
    "Ah!" says Minister Srinavas, eyes widening. "Yuli."
    "I'm sorry?"
    "Yuli," Srinavas says, craning for a look at the celeb.
"The nute."
    The word is like the toll of a temple bell. The crowd parts. Shaheen
Badoor Khan sees clear and true into the executive lounge. And he is
transfixed. He sees a tall figure in a long, beautifully cut coat of
white brocade. It is worked with patterns of dancing cranes, beaks
intermeshing. The figure has its back to him, Shaheen Badoor Khan
cannot make out a face but he sees curves of pale skin; long hands
delicately moving; an elegantly curved nape, a smooth perfect curve
of hairless scalp.
    The body turns towards him. Shaheen Badoor Khan sees a line of jaw,
an edge of cheekbone. A gasp goes out of him, unheard in the press
corps tumult. The face. He must not look at the face, he would be
lost, damned, stone. The crowd shifts again, the bodies close across
the vision. Shaheen Badoor Khan stands, paralysed.
    "Khan." A voice. His Minister. "Khan, are you all
right?"
    "Ah, yes, Minister. Just a little dizzy; the humidity."
    "Yes, these bloody Banglas need to get their air-conditioning
sorted."
    The spell is broken but as Shaheen Badoor Khan ushers his Minister
down the airbridge, he knows he will