"Yes! Daddy, I am going in for a divorce. And nothing you can say, or any of this
hypocritical meaningless nonsense, can make me change my mind!" Shanta said firmly,
slapping down on the dining table her black leather work-bag, thrust full of exams
papers to correct. His wife was rattling pots and pans in the kitchen of their flat,
whether in support of her daughter's statement, or in agitated response, he could not
tell.
It was a hot summer evening, with mosquitoes buzzing round his head, adding to his
discomfort. " But Shantu, what has happened? I know you have had disagreements with
Ravi; which married pair does not? I can help sort things out. Ravi ­ I know Ravi ­
leave it to me, and he will come round, don't I know how to do it?" Sharmaji was
trying to regain control. This was not the time for a scandal. He was held in very high
esteem. He was trying to glue together a coalition of civil society organizations, with
himself at the head, which would use EU money ­ he forgot which DG it came under ­
but essentially for cultural purposes to revitalize traditional values. But people would
laugh if his own daughter at this time went in for a divorce.
His daughter's plump figure was heading towards the kitchen, her hair, cut short in a
`bob,' swaying defiantly round her shoulders. " Shantu, Shantu! Don't be disrespectful!
This is your father speaking, not one of your modern academic friends, who don't care
about values. I will not let you ruin your life! What else do I have in life, except my
children? Everything else I have sacrificed to the nation!" Sharmaji got up ponderously
from the dining table, leaving behind his plate, periodically filled with hot pakodas by
his wife. " Let us discuss this, listen to your mother!" he cried in desperation, following
her into the kitchen.
His wife was calmly giving some hot pakodas to Shanta, who was eating them as if
nothing had happened. " Give me a list of what Ravi has done; let us be rational. He is a
good fellow, you modern people should appreciate him. He never took a rupee in
dowry; even I with my high principles was surprised at that noble gesture. And you
have hardly been married two years, and you jump up and say you want a divorce? You,
why don't you speak sense to your daughter?" His wife, her ample back turned towards
them, continued to make pakodas, but the way she handled the ladle, he knew she was
angry about something. Maybe the silly woman would help him, just this once.
" Father, this is not your business," said Shanta calmly, munching pakodas. " If you like
Ravi so much, marry him yourself. That will give mother a break."
Such effrontery was not to be tolerated, but Sharmaji was at a loss how to regain
control. Shouting at his daughter would make her more obstinate, he knew. If he put up
with insolence it was only to bide his time; but he must bring this cocky stupid girl
round, manipulate her somehow so that she did not spoil everything.
He laughed a dry laugh. " You are angry; my little girl! Whom I have treasured more
than life, seen through every little trouble, protected her, taught her, spent lavishly on
her wedding" ­ he regretted the allusion he moment he said it, this was no time to talk

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of marriage ­ " she is angry with her poor father. Be angry, but I will continue to love
you!"
His daughter seemed unimpressed. She continued to munch pakodas, as if they were
discussing something totally inconsequential.
" Father, you have made a pretty good life for yourself. You twist everybody round,
everything round to satisfy yourself. You are the greatest manipulator there is! But you
cannot manipulate me! I know you too well. I know all about this precious SERVICE
society, and its scams. And remember, I know that poor grand uncle Satyanarayana
passed away without your lifting a finger to save him. So, no talk of values to me, OK?
I will live my life. I just thought I would let you know, rather have a neighbour tell
you."
Sharmaji was getting livid. His rough tongue had made many others back down; maybe
a tongue-lashing would make this girl bend to his will. " Thank You! Thank You! Thank
You!" he said viciously. " We now have no family! These modern women don't care if
they kill off their parents! You have squeezed everything you want from me, and you
don't need either of us any more, I see that! What a fine example you set your students!
No wonder with teachers like you the country is going to the dogs! Dogs, I tell you,
male and female!" He had avoided the word `bitch,' his skills in wordy duelling were
finely honed.
His wife spoke suddenly, unexpectedly. " Shanta wants a divorce, she must have her
divorce. You will never understand."
Sharmaji was stunned. He had never expected that his traditional wife, more over, one
over whom he ruled, gently, but firmly, would support any such non-Brahminical
attitude to marriage. " What is this, what is this I hear?" he demanded moving
threateningly towards his wife, who turned her back on him calmly. " So, you people
have been discussing this for some time, have you? Without telling me? Behind my
back, while I was slaving in the pariah chairy, rubbing shoulders with Muslims, why, to
feed you? Ah, ha! What loyalty, what family feeling! I see now, when you said get a
large-screen colour TV I knew that the rot had set in. It is these films with their
degrading dances that have corrupted you. This is why our Manu Dharma Shastra has
said that women must be controlled by men, or else society is lost, dharma is lost! What
a fool I was not to have seen all this before! What a fool to be soft towards women. One
thing I will tell you, listen to me, Woman! I will not permit any divorce in my house!
That is final!"
With that he went to the bedroom and lay down without switching on the light. His wife
did not come to him immediately. He would take it out on her later. After some time,
the dark, the quiet, and all the pakodas he had eaten, had their effect, and he was
dropping off into a sullen nap, when his wife came in.
" Come, dinner is ready," she said simply.

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" I will not eat," he said. " You have given me a pain in my chest. You have killed me."
His wife went away. He grimly closed his eyes.
" Come, Dad, don't sulk," said his daughter, indecently cheerful. " Mother has made
brinjals with that special masala you like, and the curds are really thick. So come
before we eat it all up!"
What arrogance! But why should he suffer for their sins? They should be taught a
lesson, not himself. He got up, and went into the next room, blinking in the light, and
trying to look both ill and aggrieved. The food was already on the table, and he sat in
his customary place and made quite a good meal of it, taking whatever was offered with
ill grace.
After the meal, he sat in his easy-chair fanning himself, and satisfied himself with the
paan his wife had made for him. " Eh, you!" he called out to her. " What has happened
to you! Is this the way to make paan? My God!" His daughter was talking in the
kitchen with his wife, helping to clear away the dishes, wash, and dry them. As she left,
she wished him a cheery good-bye, but he deigned no reply.
He had hoped that the whole thing would blow over, that his daughter had thought it all
up just to harass him, but such was not the case. The divorce petition was to be heard in
court. He tried meeting Ravi a few times; but each time his son-in-law was pleasant but
evasive. He was surprised that Ravi himself was not going to oppose the divorce. How
could a man be so lost to shame?
The meeting of the NGO coalition to protect traditional values took place in the Dange
Hall, named after the famous communist leader of olden days, communists being more
interested in the matter of traditional values than anyone else. The walls of the hall were
covered with printed iconic portraits of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, and Ho Chi
Minh. Over the entrance hung the large oil portrait of Dange himself. Delegates
crowded in, many from rural areas, straight from bus stations. On the high dais, was a
long table, covered with the standard red tablecloth one expects in left-wing functions.
Several chairs were ranged behind the table, and each one had a small flower vase with
plastic flowers, and a sealed drinking water bottle, in front of it on the table.
The high dignitaries took their places. To the right of the central chair was seated Mr.
A.K. Nilakentan, former chief secretary to government, who after retirement, became
the leading spokesperson in any left-wing forum. To the left was Dr.
R.P.Chatopadhyaya, famed and retired atomic scientist, who never failed to espouse the
cause of world peace and disarmament. At the very edge of the table, next to the
podium, sat Mr. S.D. Damodhar, retired director general of police, the latest leader in
human rights activities. The central chair was of course reserved for Sharmaji. When all
were seated, and the hall had filled up to three-quarters, forty-five minutes after the
function was to start, young Gopalan, who managed such affairs, welcomed the
audience, and said something rambling for ten minutes about the value of values.

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Slokas in Sanskrit followed ,recited by the last surviving follower of Mahatma Gandhi,
who explained the slokas by repeating them again, but more slowly, in Sanskrit. Then
came the time for the Presidential address.
Slowly, with head bowed but with determined step, Sharmaji made his way to the
podium. Then followed the traditional business of tapping the mike, making a gesture
to the technician fiddling with the amplifier, who turned a knob that let out a deafening
screech. Finally, after taking a sip of water, and clearing his throat, Sharmaji began his
address.
" Mr. Nilakentan, Dr. Chatopadhyaya, Mr. Damodhar, dignitaries on the dais, and in the
audience, friends, all citizens who have come here to uphold our traditional values, our
Indian way of life, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Sikh, and Dalit brethren and sisters,
Greetings! I have been asked to undertake the heavy burden of the Presidentship of this
new coalition, which holds so much promise for our people. I declined several times for
I knew there were many others far more worthy to hold this office than myself. Please
don't interrupt, believe me, I know I am unworthy, I thank you for reposing confidence
in this old man, I thank you for your affection, and regard, but I want to share with you
today, in open assembly, an innermost struggle I am waging, between duty, and truth!
Can there be such a struggle? Yes, my friends, there can be. You all know ­ why should
I hide anything from you, my real family ­ that my daughter has disobeyed me and
filed for a divorce. I said not a word to her! It is the inner conscience that must be
stirred. I hope it will, I can only pray it will. But when such an act is being
contemplated by my own daughter, I can only see it as my own sin. I cannot remain
your President. I therefore, request, Shri Chakravarthy ­ the last remaining follower of
Gandhiji himself" ­ pause ­ to take the chair!"
This was a master-stroke. The centenarian, after the exertion of waiting two long hours
in the hall and reciting the slokas, had already been whisked away home. Sharmaji
could have nominated the civil servant, the atomic scientist, or the policeman, but he
shrewdly sensed that any of them would have gracefully accepted the post. There was
near pandemonium in the hall. A few men rose, from organizations supported by
SERVICE, and with quavering voices insisted that he and only he should be their
President. With great reluctance, Sharmaji accepted to shoulder the burden, unworthy
though he was.

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