Bringing doom upon ourselves

MANY futurologists, including the celebrated astrologer Nostradamus, predict that life on our planet will come to an end at the turn of the century — in short, we have only one year to live. Our demise will not be ordained by Almighty God sitting somewhere above the clouds but wrought by our own hands. Humankind has passed the sentence of death on itself and will take all other living creatures with it to eternal damnation. If it is not a nuclear holocaust, it will be the depredation of our green cover, decimation of forests and wild animals, destroying of marine life that will leave nothing on earth to eat, except ourselves.

Many learned theses have been written on the Greenhouse Effect and fouling of the ozone layer. For the first time we have a young Indian writer telling us, in beautiful but anguished prose, what denizens of our forests and oceans have to say about cruelties inflicted on them by human beings. Amit Chaudhery, a product of Modern School and St. Stephen’s College, who did a diploma in journalism from the London School of Journalism is the author of Voices In My Head (Banyan Books). It is a compilation of short stories in which birds and animals speak of what they have suffered at the hands of humans: elephants killed for their tusks, monkeys’ brains eaten while they are still alive, guinea pigs tortured in laboratories to make cosmetics, bears with nose-strings made to dance, whales harpooned for their blubber, parrots put in cages for lifetime, cattle led to abattoirs to be slaughtered, tigers taken apart by apothecaries to restore potency to impotent Chinese — all because of mindless, sinful, human greed.

Chaudhery writes, "As for eyes, there were none; greed is sightless. It had no ears either; greed is stone deaf. But it had a huge mouth; greed is forever hungry." The catalogue of horrors is summed up in the final chapter The Priests of God. He writes: "The Fireflies came to light up the night. Hundreds, maybe thousands, drifting in the inky stillness. Illuminated bubbles charged with incredible energy. Casting unearthly glows flirting with shadows in tireless hide-and-seek. Shadows and lights of the terrestrial stars ushered in marionettes of images: phantoms of birds and beasts in profile. Perfectly defined; very alive. Core, crippled, starved, broken and mauled, yet brimming with the dignity of tenacity. I saw them one instant; they vanished the next. Only to reappear on the horizon carrying their hearts bathed in beautiful calm and pure shimmering whiteness. Proferred to an unseen deity, in whose spell they treaded. The fireflies then rose upwards in precise formation. To erupt in spectacular starburst. Exquisite crowning glory; enough grandeur to shame a Supernova. In that rain of light, the phantoms looked skywards before bowing their heads in unison; yielding to the blase night." Voices In My Head is a small but brilliant expose of the wickedness of man.

Woman of substance

A young woman of Indian origin who has in the last 10 years become a big name in London’s high society is Surina Narula. Her husband, Harpinder Singh Narula (H.S. to his wife and friends) is among the new Indian multi-millionaires in England, Surina is the woman behind his rise to riches and fame. She is also into organising charities in a big way and is known for throwing lavish parties in her stately mansion Hyjer Hall, a listed historic home standing around acres of lawns and gardens in Hertfordshire about half-an-hour’s drive from North London. Her three sons went to renowned public schools, Harrow and Rugby. The eldest is now studying in the Imperial College.

Surina was born in Amritsar in 1958 and sent to school in Mussoorie. Her father was in the Railways. At 18, she married Harpinder Singh Narula on his assurance that he was looking for a life-partner who would help him in his business and not a housekeeper who would only look after his kitchen, household and children. She continued her studies after her marriage. She also took over managing her husband’s business.

H.S. Narula landed lucrative building contracts in Libya. Living in a severely segregated society was not very cosy, but there was handsome money to be made. The Narulas invested their earnings in buying real estate in England and India. They bought a chain of medium-sized hotels in London and a country home from Vijay Mallaya, (The liquor magnate of Karnataka) and shopping complexes in Delhi. Whatever they took on, they looked after with meticulous care and made it prosper. They liked living in style: one Rolls Royce in England, another in Delhi. They moved in high society but never lost sight of their lesser privileged fellow citizens.

Although Surina had lost several relations in the Partition massacres of 1947, she had no animus against Muslims or Pakistan. A lot of the valuable real estate was burnt down in the anti-Sikh violence of November 1984, but it did not turn her anti-Hindu or anti-Indian. However, they felt they could only prosper in a society free of violence.

A personal tragedy re-inforced their conviction. Surina’s elder sister who was a mother-figure to her was murdered along with her two children by their father in Bihar. It took 10 years to bring this man to justice and be hanged for triple-murder. England became their real home. One branch of the family continued to work in Delhi, a second in Libya and yet a third in the USA.

Surina heads the International Childcare Trust which looks after children of the poor; it has centres in India, Sri Lanka and Kenya. She also raised money for the exhibition of relics of Sikh Gurus to mark the 300th Anniversary of the Khalsa organised by the Victoria and Albert Museum: she hosted a fund-raising dinner — £ 200 for each meal ticket and raised £ 8000 (Rs 5½ lakhs). She had invited me to be the guest speaker but I was unable to make it. Her recent venture was to raise money for a hospital in Lahore and for deprived street children in India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh. She got Pamela Rooks to screen the film Train to Pakistan at Bloomsbury Theatre and invited me to say something about the novel. This time I could not resist. One last look at London, the city in which I spent the happiest years of my life. I did not expect much response as the film had been screened earlier on British television.

I was pleasantly surprised to see the hall packed. Among the viewers were many celebrities: Baroness Flather, Soli Sorabjee (on his way to Congo), Kabir Bedi, and his Niki, Shobha De and her husband and scores of others whose names escape me. I don’t know how much money she raised on the film-showing but she succeeded in getting Pakistanis, Indians, Bangladeshis and Brits together — on a joint enterprise. I also saw the bossy side of this otherwise very feminine woman. She cut short an Englishman who was going on and on about the charity. Presiding over a meeting of her staff of helpers, she asked them, in turns, about assignments they had been entrusted with. She spent another five minutes chatting with them and seeing that they had been served with tea or coffee. She shook hands, waived to her hotel staff and drove off in her Rolls Royce to her country home.

I asked Surina about her future plans. "I want to settle my three sons in businesses of their choosing. Then I will return to India because it is there I belong. I have retained my Indian nationality and passport and not opted for British citizenship because I am and will remain an Indian citizen. I will keep my options open to help my husband and sons whenever they need me. But the poor of India will ever remain my top priority."