The Solitude of Emperors Read Online Free PDF

as I would for a final exam. With my father’s coaching I had studied wide swathes of Indian history, ploughed through the scriptures of all the major religions and memorized the sayings of holy men on the universality of God. Most importantly, given the bias of the magazine, I was reasonably informed about the violence instigated by religion in the country—over half a million dead during the partition of the subcontinent, nearly 20,000 dead in riots, the majority of them Muslim, in the country since independence. It had made for depressing reading, the endless catalogue of destruction and death engineered by calculating politicians and holy men, but I had carried on, determined that there should be no question that Mr Sorabjee had that I didn’t have some sort of answer to. He was my path out of K—, I was sure about that, and I was determined not to be found wanting in any way. And then, to my chagrin, the very first question he asked stumped me.
    ‘How do you see yourself, Vijay?’
    I was nervous so might have been excused my stammering attempts to answer the question, but the truth was I didn’t quite know how to. I could have spoken at length on why I wanted to work for The Indian Secularist , the evils of sectarianism and the role of the media, but how did I see myself? What sort of question was that? Should I be completely honest and say I saw myself as a twenty-two-year-old unemployed youth with an undergraduate degree in economics who was so desperate to get out of K— that he would do anything Mr Sorabjee wanted—shine his shoes, marry his daughter, carry water from the well, milk his cows … The seconds passed, and I finally found my voice.
    ‘What do you mean, sir?’
    ‘Don’t be nervous, Vijay, take your time. I was just curious to know how you see yourself.’
    ‘As a South Indian, sir?’ I hazarded.
    He nodded vigorously in approval. ‘Yes, indeed, a South Indian. And?’
    ‘A BA in economics, sir.’
    ‘Very good, young man. Tell me more.’
    ‘A Tamil, sir.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘A Brahmin, sir, although I’m no great believer in caste or religion.’
    ‘Do you mind telling me why?’
    I told him then about my experiences in K—, about how I had begun to feel oppressed by the very things that seemed to nourish and reassure my peers.
    Mr Sorabjee listened attentively, and when I had finished said, ‘You have handled your situation sensibly. But, tell me, why didn’t you lose your faith?’
    I replied that because of my upbringing my own faith had never been so strong that I had felt restricted by it, and therefore tempted to discard it; what I had disliked was the way faith in general had made the environment I lived in claustrophobic.
    He nodded and said, ‘I’m very glad to hear that, Vijay. Here at the magazine we don’t believe in throwing religion overboard. Our stance is that it has its place, it only turns malign when it exceeds its boundaries.’
    I was quite comfortable now as I had expected to be asked this sort of thing at the interview, but then, without warning, the questions became unorthodox again.
    ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to set the subject of faith aside for the moment. May I ask who your favourite cricketer is, Vijay?’
    ‘Kris, sir. Srikkanth, I mean.’
    Mr Sorabjee smiled. I noticed he had perfectly white, even teeth, and then it occurred to me that they were probably dentures.
    ‘Not Azharuddin, Kapil?’
    ‘Oh, they are brilliant cricketers, but…’
    ‘Very well, let’s move on. I assume you’re a movie buff. Who are your favourite movie stars?’
    ‘Kamal Haasan, sir. And I also like the old Sivaji Ganesan movies.’
    Good. What about books?’
    ‘I have read several books by top journalists, sir.’
    And so it went for another ten minutes, with Mr Sorabjee eliciting my preferences in song and food, my views on marriage and friendship, the weather and fashion. Apart from the brief exchange we’d had about my personal experience of religion,