Professional Documents
Culture Documents
he bombing, for which Mr. and Mrs. Khurana were not present, was a flat, percussive event that
began
under
the
bonnet
of
a
parked
white
Maruti
800,
though
of
course
that
detail,
that
detail
about
the
car,
could
only
be
confirmed
later.
A
good
bombing
begins
everywhere
at
once.
A
crowded
market
also
begins
everywhere
at
once,
and
Lajpat
Nagar
exemplified
this
type
of
tumult.
A
formless
swamp
of
shacks,
it
bubbled
here
and
there
with
faces
and
rolling
carts
and
sloping
beggars.
It
probably
held
four
seasons
at
once
in
its
gigantic
span,
all
of
them
hot.
When
you
got
from
one
end
of
the
market
to
the
other,
the
wooden
carts
with
their
shiny
aluminum
wheels
had
so
rearranged
themselves
that
the
market
you
were
in
was
technically
no
longer
the
market
you
had
entered:
a
Heisenbergian
nightmare
of
motion
and
ambiguity.
So
the
truth
of
the
matter
is
that
no
one
really
saw
the
parked
car
till
it
came
apart
in
a
dizzying
flock
of
shards.
Strange
sights
were
reported.
A
blue
fiberglass
rooftop
came
uncorked
from
a
shop
and
clattered
down
on
a
bus
a
few
meters
away;
the
bus
braked,
the
rooftop
slid
forward,
leaked
a
gorgeous
stream
of
sand,
and
fell
to
the
ground;
the
bus
proceeded
to
crack
it
under
its
tires
and
keep
going,
its
passengers
dazed,
even
amused.
(In
a
great
city,
what
happens
in
one
part
never
perplexes
the
other
parts.)
Back
in
the
market,
people
collapsed,
then
got
up,
their
hands
pressed
to
their
wounds,
as
if
they
had
smashed
eggs
against
their
bodies
in
hypnotic
agreement
and
were
unsure
about
what
to
do
with
the
runny,
bloody
yolk.
Most
startling
of
all,
for
the
survivors
and
rescue
workers
both,
was
the
realization
that
the
main
dusty
square
was
rooted
so
firmly
by
half
a
dozen
massive
trees,
trees
that
had
gone
all
but
unnoticed
in
all
those
years,
their
shadows
dingy
with
commerce,
their
branches
cranked
low
with
hanging
wares,
their
droppings
of
mulberry
collected
and
sold
until
the
bomb
had
loosened
the
green
gums
of
the
trees
and
sent
down
a
shower
of
leaves,
which
Mr.
Khurana
kicked
up
on
the
ground
as
he
tried
to
uncover
the
bodies
of
his
two
sons.
But
the
leaves,
turned
crisp,
shards
themselves,
offered
nothing.
His
sons
were
dead
at
a
nearby
hospital
and
he
had
come
too
late.
The
two
boys
were
the
sum
total
of
the
Khuranas
children,
eleven
and
thirteen,
eager
to
be
sent
out
on
errands;
and
on
this
particular
day
they
had
gone
with
a
friend
in
an
auto-rickshaw
to
pick
up
the
Khuranas
old
Onida
color
TV,
consigned
to
the
electrician
for
perhaps
the
tenth
time.
But
when
Mr.
Khurana
was
asked
by
friends
what
the
children
were
doing
there
(the
boy
with
them
having
escaped
with
a
fracture),
he
said,
Theyd
gone
to
pick
up
my
watch
from
the
watch
man.
His
wife
didnt
stop
him,
and
in
fact
colluded
in
the
lie.
All
the
watches
were
stopped,
she
said.
The
way
they
know
the
time
the
bomb
went
off
is
by
taking
the
average
of
all
the
stopped
watches
in
the
watch
mans
hut.
Why
lie,
why
now?
Well,
because
to
admit
to
their
high-flying
friends
that
their
children
had
not
only
died
among
the
poor,
but
had
been
sent
out
on
an
errand
that
smacked
of
poverty
repairing
an
old
TV
that
should
have,
by
now,
been
replaced
by
one
of
those
self-financing
foreign
brands
would
have,
in
those
tragic
weeks
that
followed
the
bombing,
undone
the
tightly
laced
nerves
that
held
them
together.
But
of
course
they
were
poor,
at
least
compared
to
their
friends,
and
no
amount
of
suave
English,
the
sort
that
issued
uncontrollably
from
their
mouths,
could
change
that;
no
amount
of
sobbing
in
Victorian
sentences
or
chest
beating
before
the
Oxonian
anchors
on
The
News
Tonight,
who
interviewed
them,
who
stoked
their
outrage,
could
drape
them
or
their
dead
children
in
the
glow
of
foregone
success:
Mr.
and
Mrs.
Khurana
were
forty
and
forty,
and
they
had
suffered
the
defining
tragedy
of
their
lives,
and
so
all
other
competing
tragedies
were
relegated
to
mere
facts
of
existence.
For
a
month
afterwards,
they
made
do
without
the
TV,
which
for
all
they
knew
was
still
sitting
in
the
basement
workshop
of
the
electrician,
its
hidden
berths
of
microchips
heavy
with
dust,
its
screen
screwed
off
and
put
facedown
on
the
floor,
looking
into
nothing.
They
only
caught
their
own
mugs
on
The
News
Tonight
because
a
neighbor
knocked
on
their
door
and
welcomed
them
into
his
house
to
watch
the
news.
He
was
friendly
with
them
ever
after.
Now
Mr.
Khurana,
who
had
been
a
troubled,
twitchy
sleeper
ever
since
hed
become
a
documentary
filmmaker
years
ago,
began
to
suffer
from
dreams
that
impressed
him
deeply,
and
he
never
failed
to
discuss
them
with
his
wife
or
his
collaborators.
He
didnt
mention
that
he
was
terrified
during
their
nightly
unspooling;
that
he
slept
in
the
crook
of
his
wifes
armpit
like
a
baby,
his
body
greased
with
sweat,
his
leg
rotating
out
like
the
blade
of
a
misfired
fan.
But
the
dreams
were
truly
notable,
and
in
the
first
and
most
frequent
one,
he
became,
for
a
few
minutes,
the
bomb.
The
best
way
to
describe
what
he
felt
would
be
to
say
that
first
he
was
blind,
then
he
could
see
everything.
This
is
what
it
felt
like
to
be
a
bomb.
You
were
coiled
up,
majestic
with
blackness,
unaware
that
the
universe
outside
you
existed,
and
then
a
wire
snapped
and
ripped
open
your
eyelids
all
the
way
around
and
you
had
a
vision
of
the
world
that
was
360
degrees,
and
everything
in
your
purview
was
doomed
by
seeing.