Versione Italiana | Nota biografica | Versione lettura |
Earlier this year (2013) on a wintry February morning when I was taking a walk
around the lake at Hauz Khas village I came across a girl sitting on a stone bench and
crying. I wondered who she was, and why she was crying so profusely but being the
timid type, and not having the courage to go to her and talk, I walked on. When I
reached the same spot on my second round she was still sitting there and sobbing: this
time I decided to go to her and ask. Hello, I am sorry… but do you need any help?
She looked up, sucked in the tears at the corners of her mouth, wiped her cheeks, and
drawing her lips in shook her head. A shy girl, a rare species; my courage came back.
I sat next to her. But I saw you crying? What is wrong? Do you want to go home?
Where is your house? This time she looked up right into my eyes, her big eyes full of
questions and doubts. Ah, I am Ankur Betageri, I am a writer and photographer, I
introduced myself. Please tell me if I can be of any help. I… she started but turned her
face away and burst into tears again. Ah, women and their need for drama! I thought.
But they do make this world an interesting place; the world needs women, and their
tears, and everything else. I waited in silence for her to speak. But when she didn’t
speak, I asked: Do you want to take a walk? We can buy some water at the corner;
that might do you some good. She looked at me, opened her rather fancy jhola and
took out a blue water-bottle whispering, I have water. Good… good. I said. You
should have some; that will help. She took a few gulps from the bottle and held out
the bottle to me. That was a surprising gesture; I liked the kindness and openness of it,
but said: No, thanks. Now she looked like she was ready to talk.
She said she was Shazia Karzai and that she was from Kandahar, Afghanistan. Oh you
look very Indian, I said. But you also look very Afghani. She smiled. Good! I thought.
I can make a woman smile, someone who was just crying. She told me that she was
the daughter of an Afghani diplomat, and though she was born in Kandahar she did
her schooling in different cities of Europe and went to college in London. About six
years ago while she was at college she and her family had to attend the wedding of a
close relative and went home. She was nineteen then. Two days into their visit the
world turned upside down in Afghanistan. The Taliban came to power, and
immediately her father was sacked and all the freedoms and privileges of a liberal and
progressive society were withdrawn. Two weeks after the change of government two
Talibani leaders came to her house and forced her father to offer her as bride to one of
the senior Talibani Generals; her father and the entire family would lose their lives if
they did not consent to the marriage voluntarily. Her father who had brought her up
with so much love and affection had to offer her, with tears in his eyes, to General
Mohammad Uzman, to be his third wife. Life in the General’s house was hell; the
very sight of the fiery and bearded General made her faint on the day of the nikah.
When he came to her room that night she was gripped by a weeping-spell so bad that
she fell unconscious and a doctor had to be called to revive her. The doctor advised
the General to stay away from her for a few days and slowly win her love with little
acts of kindness and gifts. But this was never to happen. The very sight of the General
gave her a panic attack. Her fear and hatred and disgust for the General were so great
that even he began to lose patience. After trying everything in his book for three
weeks he swore to Allah that if she didn’t accept him as her lawful husband by the
Friday of the fourth week he would have her beheaded and conveyed this message to
her through a servant. Shazia feared for her life but she also knew that she would
never be able to accept the General as her husband. She prayed to all the Gods she
knew and wept and thought through the night. There was only one way out. If she
could somehow escape the fortress of his house and reach the French Embassy she
could plan something with her friend and French Consul Madeline Malabou and find
a way to get out of the country. She thought for a long, long time. The General would
never allow her to go out for any reason, and any talk of Embassy or friend would
make him all the more suspicious. He shouldn’t even know that she was thinking of
such a possibility or else he would bar all possible ways of leaving the country. Oh
what could she do? She thought again, thinking of the different ways she could get
past the boundary walls of the house without being noticed. There was no way, she
had almost concluded, when out of the morning window she saw a humongous can of
camel milk being carried into the house by two hefty servants. She ran out of the
room and followed the servants; they took the can to the kitchen, emptied it into a
huge aluminium vat and then carried the can back and placed it in the truck. Shazia
was quite thin and it was possible for her to squeeze herself inside that huge can. As
soon as the servants, one of whom was a driver, got into the truck, she looked around,
made sure no one was looking, and got into the truck. It was not hard to open the lid
of the can, nor was it difficult to get inside it. She did not close the lid though, but
held it at the mouth of the can leaving a small opening for the air. The truck left the
gate without any alarm, and after ten minutes of breathless waiting as the truck
slowed down and seemed to come to a temporary halt she opened the lid and leapt out
of the can. The truck was at the Alzabeer Road traffic signal, quite far, but not very
far, from Suboha Avenue where the French Embassy was situated. She jumped out of
the truck, made her way through the surprised drivers at the signal and the bystanders,
and ran to the nearest bus stop. Thankfully she was in her burkha and she covered her
face, and though she knew no one could see her, the five minutes of wait at the bus
stop nearly killed her, and it was only when she got into the bus to Suboha Avenue
that she let out a sigh of relief. Once in the bus she texted Madeline on Whatsapp
asking her to receive her at the gate so that she could enter the Embassy without the
security-check and the flashing of the I-card. Madeline, who knew of her unfortunate
circumstances, immediately responded with: OK. I will be at the gate. When she
reached the French Embassy Madeline was standing at the entrance, in her sky-blue
skirt and striped shirt, with a half-smile of deep concern on her painted lips. She put
her arms around Shazia’s shoulder and took her inside. The next day she was dressed
as a poor cabin crew, given a French name (Mathilda Meillassoux) and a French
passport and flown to Antibes on the first Air France flight. Madeline’s brother
Thierry picked her up at Antibes, and in order not to raise any suspicion, immediately
flew with her to Leonessa in Italy. Once in Leonessa, Thierry called Madeline and
asked her to send a messenger to Mr Karzai’s place to inform him about Shazia’s
escape from the General’s house and her exiting the country safely. He deliberately
withheld information on their current location as he didn’t want to take any risks with
KHAD, the Afghani intelligence agency and the Talibani Secret Police who could be
snooping around. And of course he was calling Shazia, Mathilda, and referring to Mr
Karzai as Mr Meillassoux. The messenger could not reach Mr Karzai’s place as the
General’s men had already taken over the place, but the messenger managed to inform
Mr Karzai’s trusted cook about the safe exit of Shazia into Europe, but he also learnt
from the cook that Mr Karzai was being tortured by the General’s men for
information on Shazia and that his life was under threat. But neither Thierry not
Madeline could do anything for Mr Karzai now, and Thierry felt there was no point in
telling Shazia about the sad condition of Mr Karzai. Thierry used his contacts in
Leonessa and managed to get Shazia a job at the public library there, and left for
Paris. Life in Leonessa was not easy for Shazia, it was very hard for her to
communicate with the local Italians with her English, and as she was officially
Mathilda Meillassoux and understood to be a French woman, the few people at the
Library who knew French grew suspicious on learning that she couldn’t even speak
elementary French. The suspicion and gossip was getting on to Shazia’s nerves, and
when she came across Sharko Gualazzini, an Italian photographer who showed some
interest in her at a local café, she introduced herself as Preeti, an Indian documentary
filmmaker who was travelling under a false French passport in order to observe and
secretly record the rising Neo fascist and Neo Nazi cults in Italy. The Carabinieri
which had been keeping an eye on her movements had got suspicious of her activities
and had frozen her bank account as well as her credit cards, she told Sharko. She told
him that there was imminent threat of her being arrested and she was desperate to get
back to India. She had already couriered the secret video recordings of the fascist
cults to her studio in Delhi and she had to get there and edit the documentary as soon
as possible. She learnt that Sharko was also travelling to India and she wanted him to
take her with him, as Mrs Gualazzini. But Sharko thought this was too much; he liked
her and was willing to help her but he said he didn’t want to get into any trouble by
marrying her. I never asked you to marry me, Shazia retorted immediately, I only
want to travel as an Italian and pretending to be Mrs Gualazzini would give me better
cover. But being Mrs Gualazzini wasn’t the only way of being an Italian; important
thing was an Italian passport and Thierry would be able to secure her one. She had to
choose a name, one that was both Italian and Indian, for the passport, and she decided
to call herself Preeti Leonessa: Preeti from Leonessa. Sharko spoke good English and
had travelled to India several times, so Shazia alias Mathilda alias Preeti, had no
problem with him and could rely on him in India. And as soon as she received her
Italian passport she gave him the French passport and asked him to burn it. And as the
passport crackled and curled in the fire she wept remembering all the gossip and
whispering behind the back about a supposed French woman not being able to speak a
word of French. Now you are an Italian woman who cannot speak Italian, said
Sharko, as if reading her mind. Teach me! She said. Her wild impetuosity made
Sharko laugh. Tu sei pazza, completamente pazza! He said and hugged her.
Even when they were on the flight to India Sharko’s mind was full of plans; he always
wanted to work with moving images, and now that he had a documentary filmmaker
by his side he thought of realizing his plans of making a documentary film for Rai
Television on honor killings that he had heard so much about. He immediately took
his ipad from the backpack and without even asking Preeti sent an email to his
producer friend in Rai asking him whether he could commission a documentary film
on honor killings in India which he was going to direct with an young Indian director
named Preeti. By the time they landed and were collecting the baggage at Indira
Gandhi airport the producer had replied: Go ahead. Best of luck! I want to see the first
cut by the end of next month. If this works out well both of us will get a new life.
Sharko looked up from the email and told Preeti: You know I am going to work on a
documentary on honour killings, can you be my DOP? Preeti who had never held a
video camera in her life, who hadn’t shot a single minute’s worth of footage, said:
Sure! Sure! That would be great! And that’s how Sharko and Preeti crisscrossed
North India in the next two months, from Sonepat to Gwalior, from Jammu to Jhansi,
from Delhi to Aurangabad, with Preeti fumbling with the camera but still managing to
film and brag, quiet successfully, about a non-existent career in films. How could
Sharko not see through Preeti? Love, as they say, is blind and Sharko had fallen in
love with Preeti. Poor, poor Sharko, what did he know! By the time they had finished
filming and sent the hastily edited first cut to Rai, Sharko was so totally enamoured
with Preeti that he asked for her hand in marriage. If the General’s proposal had made
her break into inconsolable spells of weeping, Sharko’s proposal, which she wasn’t
expecting, made Preeti feel sick to the stomach. Kya? Kyaa? She tried her newly
learnt Hindi on Sharko. Look, do you think I am going to be your DOP all your life? I
have ambitions, political ambitions, and no one will accept an Indian woman who
marries a foreigner as a politician. Sharko was confounded; he hadn’t expected such a
response. What? But why would they not accept? He barely managed to whisper. Do
you know Sonia Gandhi, the wife of late Rajiv Gandhi? Do you know why she
couldn’t become the Prime Minister after her husband’s death? Because she is an
Italian. And Indians hate Italians. That can’t be true, you are crazy! Said Sharko and
covered his face with both his hands. Yes, Sharko, the great Sharko Gualazzini, who
had travelled the world and been with hundreds of women, had broken down, and his
shoulders shook and his chest heaved, as he sobbed inconsolably. And Preeti had
broken him. She chuckled to herself quietly and marvelled at her own power. But she
quickly patted him on the back and said: Get a grip on yourself Sharko. I will see
when you are better, and left. But she was not to see Sharko again. He packed his bags
and left for Parma the very next day, without even saying so much as a goodbye.
Preeti was left all on her own in Delhi, but she was lucky in having met a Bihari lad
named Poorv Rajput. Poorv Rajput was the son of a landlord, and like all sons of
landlords in Bihar believed that there were only two ways of being useful to the
society: either by joining the Administrative or Police Services or by joining politics.
Poorv was too idle to study for the UPSC exams; though he had done his college in
Delhi he was a village boy at heart, and spent his time reading the jeevnis, the
biographies, of famous politicians from Bihar. But he also knew he was too lazy to
pursue a career in politics, and had decided that he would be, what in Bihar is called, a
‘kingmaker’. But who would he make the king? In his three years of stay in Delhi he
had found no one worthy of imparting his sure-fire strategy of gaining power which
he had learnt by studying the political lives of hundreds of leaders from Bihar. People
ran away from him when he opened his mouth to talk about politics, and no one in his
family, not even his brother who considered his word the definitive word of God,
thought his political ideas were practical. So when Poorv met the lost-looking Preeti
who had, on a whim, taken up a course in Italian in JNU, he felt he had at last found
his calling. Preeti was some kind of tabula rasa, a clean slate; an Indian, a Dilliwali,
who could barely speak Hindi; someone who was lost and confused but also
incredibly stubborn and ambitious. But how come she couldn’t speak Hindi but speak
English like a native speaker? I am an Indian from Australia, Preeti explained, we
shifted to India only a year ago, after the sudden passing away of my father. Ah, that
explains everything, thought Poorv. And what if I can’t be a kingmaker, I will be a
queenmaker, an all the more honourable and dignified calling: the upliftment of the
Indian woman by the careful and systematic elevation of one woman to the highest
echelons of power. The very thought made Poorv’s eyes light up. Finally Preeti had
an unselfish path-shower in India, now she could get rid of that stupid Italian
photographer. Three weeks after her decision to get rid of Sharko, Sharko had
proposed marriage to her and on her declining had left for Parma.
The future looked bright and unbounded to Preeti. Poorv was the guy she had looked
for all her life: a man without any personal ambition, a man ready to invest all his
dreams and energies in her, without any selfish intent. Preeti had met her match, and
was even ready to tie the knot, but just as she thought everything was going to go the
way she wanted, she experienced heartbreak. Poorv who was doing his final year of
Masters got really low marks in a couple of subjects, and after being reprimanded
over phone by his irascible father, suddenly left for Bihar without telling anything to
Preeti. The man who spoke to her day and night, the man who had vowed to stay with
her all through her life, the man who dreamt for – and with – her the big dreams
which made her knees tremble had left her coolly without even a phone call. She tried
calling him but his phone was switched off, he had most likely changed his number.
She called his friends but no one could help her with his contact details or his
whereabouts. She only knew that he was in a district in Bihar called Arrah, because
that’s where his house was, and she felt a deep wrench in her gut just thinking about
the hopelessness of her situation.
But no matter how stupid and fickle Poorv was his dreams had made her destiny seem
real for the first time; she felt at home in this destiny, in this dream of the future. She
decided to become Indian officially and called up Thierry to arrange for an Indian
passport. Thierry on his part only wanted his and his sister’s childhood friend to be
happy and was ready to do anything in his power to make her happy. In a week’s time
her Indian passport was ready, and she was asked to collect it from an official of the
French Embassy in Delhi. Thierry also hired an expert to put together all her
documents and papers to provide her an authentic Indian identity. This is how her new
bio read: Preeti was born in Sydney, Australia, to a Rajasthani mother and a U.P. born
father. Her father passed away when she was quite young and she migrated to Delhi,
India with her family at the age of 12. She did her higher primary and high schooling
in different cities of Europe and went to college in London where she studied botany.
She came back to India and did a Master’s in Italian, and taught Italian to sustain
herself.
In order not to lose track Preeti followed a strict routine and diet. She would wake up
every morning at 5.45, freshen up, have a glass of milk with a couple of almonds and
walnuts, and at eight go to a gym in C.P. and workout till 10. Thereafter she went to
work at the college where she taught Italian, if she was to teach on that particular day,
or else went to the library, to study for her PhD, for yes, she had also enrolled herself
as a doctoral candidate at a university in Italy. Like a pious Indian woman she kept a
vrat, and fasted on Mondays. She also regularly met Congress party officials and
lobbied for a permanent AICC membership which would, in the near future, help her
secure a Congress ticket for her to fight the election. She was following Poorv’s
instructions to the Tee but suddenly one morning when she woke up she could no
longer relate to who she was; she no longer knew or could remember who she really
was. She was exhausted and felt she didn’t have the strength to go on anymore. Who
am I? Who the hell am I and why am I doing what I am doing? She asked standing
before the dressing mirror. Her reflection did not speak back and she didn’t know
what to do. She came out of her house, started her car and had come to this lake in
Hauz Khas village just to regain the peace of mind which seemed to have totally
deserted her. And as soon as she sat there in the misty February morning she was once
again gripped by that inconsolable weeping spell and that was when I had seen her.
Ufffffffffffff! I let out a big sigh. What a story Shazia – or should I call you Preeti?
Anyway, what an incredible and crazy life you have lived! Lives, I must say! But, you
know, how do I know what you have told is the truth? I asked her. You can’t know it,
she said simply. Because even I do not know what the truth is. There are many
definitions of truth; my simple definition is, truth is what I want. For a long time I
knew, or at least thought I knew, what I wanted. I no longer know it. So I am unable
to tell you anything for certain, I only know that everything is uncertain, and that is
the only truth I know.
The only truth you know is that everything is uncertain? How can that be? Surely,
there is one identity of all these identities that you were born with? You surely know
where you were born, who your parents are – surely there is an identity that was given
to you, and that is apart from all the identities that you adopted?
Every identity is an adopted identity, and no, no identity is given. What is given is
false, or at least it fades, withers or dies away. We become new everyday, and while
we become this something new, we adopt different identities; every identity is this
becoming something else, this becoming new, that is our destiny as human beings.
Who are you now?
I don’t know?
Why?
Because I don’t know what I want.
What should I call you?
Whatever you feel like.
Should I call you Preeti?
It’s OK with me.
OK, so Preeti, where do we go from here?
I don’t know. You tell me.
Do you want to go have some breakfast?
OK.
Should we go to Saravana Bhawan in C.P.?
Isn’t that very far?
But I feel like having a good South Indian breakfast and I don’t trust the restaurants
here.
OK.
OK, let’s go then. Can we go in your car? I don’t feel like driving, I will come back
pick up my car later.
Alright.
So we walked to her car quietly. When she started driving I looked at her eyes in the
rear-view mirror. Eyes which are said to be the index of the soul. They seemed
impassive, also a little tired. She caught me looking at her and smiled. I smiled back.
While we were near the Zoo near Pragati Maidan I noticed a burkha in the back seat
and suddenly had a brainwave. I was also carrying my new Leica. Why don’t I take
your pictures? I have never met an Afghani girl before.
Ah, so you are sure that I am an Afghani? She asked.
No, you also look Indian, I said. She just smiled.
So… Can I click a few pictures?
Sure, she said.
Not here in the car, I said. I want you to park the car somewhere. I want to shoot you
out in the open. The light is good.
So, you really are a photographer?
Of course, why would I lie to you about something like that?
Nobody lies. One just becomes someone else. That is how it is.
I understand, I said. Yeah, you can stop here. I would like to shoot on this foot-over
bridge.
OK, she said and parked the car in front of National Sports Club.
I want you to wear that, I said pointing to the burkha.
OK, she said, and sitting in the car, wore it over her dress. We walked out and
climbed the rather slickly built foot-over bridge, which was also designed to be some
kind of a hangout to get a good view of the Pragati Maidan area, with about three to
four steel benches. I asked her to sit on one of the benches and began to shoot. Then I
made her stand with Mathura Road to her back and took a few more shots. She was a
very good and obliging model, alive to the moment, responsive to the instructions and
aware of the significance of the subtlest of expressions and postures.
In between taking shots I asked, Isn’t taking pictures a battle against the uncertainty
of life – an attempt to retain its ephemerality by carving it into the permanence of an
image? Don’t you think our images seal our identity to a certain extent, to an extent
we ourselves cannot deny?
I don’t think so, she said. Our identity is not our identity-card; our identity-card and
our image on it grow old and outdated; we never do, we renew ourselves every day.
An ideal identity card should perhaps have a small mirror in the place of a
photograph, to capture the changing essence of our identity from moment to moment,
but then how much of our identity can even a mirror capture, she said and became
thoughtful.
Hmmm. Stay there, I said, and clicked a picture.
After taking a few more pictures in the vicinity of Dargah Matka Pir, we went to
Saravana Bhawan.
You are certainly the most mysterious person I have ever met, I said tearing the
masala dosa at the restaurant. I would like to take a few more pictures of you – this
time without the burkha. She just smiled as if she was flattered. So after the breakfast
we stopped at the DDA Park on Siri Fort Road, and I made some really good pictures
of her in the damp, forest-like park. And of all the pictures that I took of her that day
one photograph (which I am unable to reproduce here for reasons of privacy) with her
wearing a hijab and looking up dreamily, sitting on a colonial style metal bench under
a flowering bougainvillea tree with pink flowers strewn all around her, has remained
with me as her most intimate and innocent identity. Who knows – she might just be a
poet living through different lives!