As part of the Wheeler Centre's Hot Desk Fellowship programme, Rashmi Patel worked on her novel-in-progress The Family of Rebels.
The Family of Rebels is about a woman who breaks away from her family to form an independent adult life, only to discover at the age of thirty that her values do not make sense anymore. She returns to her ancestral home for the first time in fifteen years after her mother and brother die of COVID. With this return she is faced with the challenges of grieving for these losses, rediscovering her values, uncovering her legacy and learning to face the future with a sense of gratitude towards her difficult past. This story probes the many aspects of belonging, independence, and familial bonding. The following extract 'Faquirdham' is taken from The Family of Rebels.
Faquirdham
It was the month of November in the Gujarati town of Faquirdham, usually the coldest of the year and this year the coldest of the decade. On the town’s newly built airstrip, where a 19-seater plane had just landed from Mumbai, there was a constant crackle in the air, a barely audible splutter as if everything was falling apart an atom at a time, as if the night meant a final something, an end of all ends before a truly new beginning, so that when a new day dawned, Faquirdham would have finally stepped in to the future that everyone had been waiting for centuries. Everyone felt it, from the tired pilot who was flying this inaugural flight to the ground staff who had been sufficiently conditioned to believe that they were the chosen few who had the good fortune of lending a hand in this great scheme to put this town back on the map. Even the passengers who were alighting into this mix of early morning excitement and brutal cold felt a vague sense of pride, though somewhere in their hearts they wished for things to remain the same. This was the night when it would all change; that is what the pamphlets, the news websites, the government billboards proclaimed. In a few hours these would be the headlines: First Flight Lands on Faquirdham’s Airstrip and An Unknown Town of Ruins Wins Bid to Build India’s Largest Car Manufacturing Unit. This future, this sensational rebirth after a prolonged half-death was imminent, waiting in press rooms and drafts of social media accounts of PR agencies. That way Faquirdham had lived up to its reputation of being a place that held eternal great promises. From the time it was founded, sometime in the late sixteenth century, its founder, the ascetic Shera Peer Baba had prophesied and repeated in every sermon of his: ‘This is a town of the future.’ These were also the words that were etched on the centuries-old walls of the town’s half-finished fort that stood to this day as a testament of the town’s belief in its grand vision. That the fort never offered any protection because its construction was halted by the chief commander who diverted all funds to another, more promising settlement, did not bother the inhabitants of the town, then or now. ‘Jyaare thase, tyare thase, pan thase jaroor,’ was the local saying. It will happen when it will happen but happen it will. Had it not been for this lifeline of words, the town would have been long dead, abandoned and sealed in history books as a paragraph smothered by dates and names. But this one-line story, the staunch stubbornness of it meant that Faquirdham had carried the weight of its unrealised potential with the kind of light-hearted resignation that is hard to find in thriving, bustling cities. This weight was about to be lifted and as Niyati stepped out of the flight with her four-year-old daughter Arezu fast asleep on her shoulder, she wondered if there was a price to be paid for these promises to be realized, hidden somewhere in a place and time that would perhaps catch her unawares. Niyati had planned to travel by taxi. That is what had seemed to be the easiest - to take a flight from Sydney to Mumbai, then plop into a taxi and reach home, or what was once home, too tired for any emotion. But then Motaji had called her up and offered her two tickets and she felt that she had no option but to accept.In the fifteen years that she had been away, her body had buried all its natural reflexes somewhere deep, inaccessible. It took a few moments for her to realize that she was now a foreigner here, and like all foreigners in a foreign land, she would have to start from the basics.She had forgotten how dry, dense and solid the winter air here could be. In the fifteen years that she had been away, her body had buried all its natural reflexes somewhere deep, inaccessible. It took a few moments for her to realize that she was now a foreigner here, and like all foreigners in a foreign land, she would have to start from the basics. She wanted to wake up Arezu but seeing the calm on the child’s face, she let her be. Arezu had exhausted herself long before they reached the Indian shores. All through their flight from Sydney to Mumbai, Arezu had paced the cabin aisle, talking to anyone who cared to listen about how excited she was to be visiting India. ‘I am going to India. My mum says it’s the best place in the world,’ she repeated over and over until the listener was obliged to ask more. Who was she visiting? Where in India was she going? What else did she know about India? ‘My granny and uncle died of Covid. We are going to take care of my grandpa.’ In response a confusing mix of pity-filled attention, more questions, cooing noises, gentle pats. She said the words aloud again and again until Niyati heard her, whisked her back and asked her to keep her mouth shut, in those very words. ‘That’s rude. Don’t say shut up,’ screamed Arezu. A stare in return, the kind that had been honed for effect over generations. At the entrance of the terminal a well-dressed young woman welcomed each traveler with a blush pink rose and a pamphlet that had a picture of a national leader in crisp white kurta-churidar above which the heading read: Welcome to Faquirdham. Certified Safest Town in India. The Town of the Future. Years ago, when she had resolved to leave the town and never return, the government had run a similar campaign. Even then everyone knew that certifications and safety and even the future belonged to the privileged, those who knew what was the right thing to believe and practise. For the rest, dangers lurked everywhere, even in the certified safety of their homes and lanes. This is what an interrogation room would look like, she thought, as soon as she entered the bare and overlit one-room terminal. A tightness gripped her chest. She felt exposed as if she had walked into a display room where everyone had come with the sole intention of watching her unravel her real self. Her internal monologue seemed to blare from invisible loudspeakers hidden behind unpainted walls and naked bulbs hanging from half-finished ceilings. With Arezu still on her shoulders, she hurried past the closed cafe, past the overexcited passengers, past floor-to-ceiling posters of local political leaders who grinned and waved in their two-dimensional forms, giant-like, absurd, grotesque. She didn’t know how she would find her family driver Nathubhai. All she knew was that she had to escape this space before the madness in her mind spilled to other parts of her body and collapsed her. ‘He’ll be there inside the terminal. Don’t walk out without him,’ Motaji had instructed her on the phone after sending her a picture of Nathubhai. ‘What if I don’t find him?’ she had asked. ‘Just ask someone, anyone. That is how things work in a small town. People know him. People know me. Say you are Motaji’s daughter.’ She walked to the enquiry booth, unprepared to say the words she was supposed to ‘I am here looking for a driver named Nathubhai.’ ‘Oh Nathubhai,’ the girl behind the counter cooed. ‘You must be Niyatiben. You are Motaji’s daughter, right?’ She shrunk. No one had called her Motaji’s daughter for decades. She had worked so hard to erase this association, to become a person far removed from her origins, to not be her father’s daughter. Now here she was, being reminded that without acknowledging this association she wouldn’t even be able to enter the town. ‘Yes, I am Motaji’s daughter,’ she said. Motaji, the political force of Faquirdham. Motaji, the strong leader who had endured the death of his wife and son with dignity. Motaji, the man to be respected, feared, worshiped for his many qualities. The woman behind the counter smiled. ‘Motaji is a great man. You are fortunate to be his daughter,’ she said.