Pretty Vile Girl

by Rickie Khosla

  The idea could also have a mindboggling impact on their own personal fortunes.

  And so, Satyendra Saran and Karan Singh Rathore set out on an audacious mission. They began working on a scheme that was going to make them astonishingly rich and incredibly powerful. They even coined a lofty name for it—The Right to Communication Act, a Fundamental Right enshrined in the Indian Constitution no less. They knew that their plan needed to be handled delicately, with care, and without rush. The two decided to focus the remainder of their first-term to prepare all the groundwork for it, and then unleash it upon the nation after the General Elections, now just months away.

  The premise of The Right to Communication Act (or the snappy Right-dot-Comm) was straightforward. It promised sweeping changes to the twin pillars of the 21st century—Information and Entertainment—by completely unshackling their distribution to the general public. It meant freeing up all digital bandwidth, hitherto controlled tightly by the Government and the Defence sectors, and giving it away to private enterprises in IT, Telecom, Media, Broadcasting, Film and Education for free. For free. One could only imagine the possibilities that a generous giveaway of this magnitude could unleash. A digital revolution of this scale meant that all that young, aspiring India craved today was going to be available to them liberally, easily, ubiquitously and cheaply. Not only that, the impact of such a law was bound to have a remarkable impact on India’s economy too—millions of high-paying employment opportunities, better-quality education and information access, and a cutting-edge digital infrastructure.

  Right-dot-Comm was bound to put India in the same league of other technology leaders such as the US, China, Japan, Germany and Korea. The potential to stoke the country’s nationalist pride was another unambiguous positive side-effect.

  In short, Right-dot-Comm was a legislation that promised to be evolutionary in reach and revolutionary in scope. And barely months after the Prime Minister and his Deputy had started working on it, the buzz around the forthcoming law had begun to get strong. Not only was it catching the attention of the media, it seemed to also catch the fancy of its intended target—the Youth. As one commentator put it on a news program—‘Never before in the history of India have we seen a government work on something more inclusive, more progressive and more far-reaching than what the Saran government is planning with Right-dot-Comm.’

  It looked like the propaganda was working well. Yes, the false propaganda was working well indeed.

  In reality, Right-dot-Comm was hardly as chaste in intention as its public persona claimed to be. It was quite the opposite. The new law was ugly and insidious in its objective, and sly and audacious in its enactment.

  Since the PM and his Minister directly managed the Cabinet portfolios overseeing both the Information and Technology sectors, it was natural that their gilded road to riches was going to pass through the Prime Minister’s Office itself. The top honchos of Corporate Houses whose hearts beat to nothing but the music of higher revenues and bigger profits visited this office. The ministers would pose one question – ‘We are giving you all this for free. What are you prepared to give us in return?’ Stated politely and unambiguously. The Corporations, salivating about the goldmines they were about to inherit, would form a response in the form of numbers with too many zeroes to count.

  Politicians and Corporations, scratching each other’s backs. It was a match made in heaven.

  Much of the trail-end of Prime Minister Saran’s first term was spent in silent deal-making. And it was Karan who had led all those negotiations—with Saran’s blessings of course.

  The Media, obviously, was hand-in-glove in the ‘marketing’ of Right-dot-Comm. After all, they were owned by the same Corporations who were in bed with Saran and Karan. Together, they slow-fucked the Indian people towards the ecstatic belief that good times lay right ahead. The Prime Minister and his young protégé were playfully tagged by them as ‘Saran–Karan’. Everyone loved the new moniker for their favourite politicians.

  When the General Elections came, Prime Minister Satyendra Saran’s Indian Kranti Party was brought back to power with a thumping majority.

  While things were going well for Karan at a national level, his extended neglect of his own constituency of Gorakhpur meant that by the time the next Lok Sabha elections came along, his local popularity had hit an all-time low. That fall from grace had coincided with the meteoric rise of Karan’s new opponent Amrit Singh Yadav. The petty low-life politician, playing gutter politics of caste and religion, was threatening to derail Karan’s grand ambitions. A bad loss from his constituency, and that too as a sitting MP in only his second national election, would have looked terrible on Karan’s resume and, perhaps, even risked his chances of inclusion in the Union Cabinet.

  Thankfully, a timely intervention by his brother’s live-in whore had fixed the issue for him. Once Yadav was removed, Karan’s path to Delhi was clear.

  Karan’s margin of victory in the Gorakhpur by-elections was better than impressive. The young MP had proved his winning credentials convincingly. In his new term, the Prime Minister awarded his protégé a bigger seat at the Union Cabinet dining table. The Information and Broadcasting Ministry. Many may have seen it as a light-weight portfolio when compared to Finance, Defence and Home, but the importance of the I&B Ministry as the custodian of the new government’s shining jewel—Right-dot-Comm—was not lost on anyone. In fact, one could say that Karan’s rise from the Deputy Minister of Information Technology to the Minister of Information and Broadcasting was a very logical promotion.

  Karan’s new role was another step towards the final mission that Subhadra had set for him a long time ago. ‘You are destined to lead this country,’ the mother had often told her son.

  ‘Saran is doing a fine job for now. Where is the rush?’ Karan had said.

  ‘What if that man lives forever? Will you continue to walk two steps behind him? Like a servant holding an umbrella over his master’s head?’

  He didn’t smile when she mocked him.

  ‘You have to make your own opportunities. In fact, why wait for your turn? You should be looking for ways to grab it!’ she said.

  Karan didn’t smile because his mother was making perfect sense.

  That day when Manjrekar was having lunch with his new recruits at the Delhi Police Cadets Training Institute, Karan had been on the phone with his mother from Delhi.

  ‘I was just watching you in the news, beta,’ Subhadra said. ‘I wish your worthless father could see you now.’ She had always seen it as her personal victory to have groomed Karan to perpetuate her ambitions for the family. Just as she had always seen her husband’s early death —too early to fulfil her ambitions —as a personal failing.

  ‘It’s a pity that neither you nor Arjun could find the time to be in Delhi for my swearing-in,’ Karan said in jest.

  Subhadra dismissed her son’s sly remark by changing the subject.

  ‘What next?’ she asked.

  ‘Now we reap the harvest of the seeds we sowed in our previous term. It is time to cash in.’

  Subhadra knew that Karan was talking about Right-dot-Comm. His declaration made her happy.

  Yes, politics is all about power. but, politics is also about dirty, sexy money. Unimaginable amounts of it. The Rathores were on their way to being very, very rich.

  Richer than what even Subhadra Laxmi Rathore, an ex-Princess, could have ever imagined.

  Jazmeen awoke with a start. Her eyelids fluttered repeatedly, trying to find her bearings, while her mind dealt with the surprise of finding her bedroom.dark. She recalled that when she had drifted to sleep, it had been bright and sunny outside.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ She turned to check the Philips alarm clock on her side of the bedside table. 12.17 AM. She had been out cold for almost twelve hours!

  Jazmeen felt her stomach gingerly. The ache seemed to reappear only when she touched her skin. ‘OK, so not so bad now.’ The long sleep seemed to have helped. />
  Jazmeen had left Yash Raj Studios promptly after she had vomited and collapsed to the floor. The lapse in consciousness had been fleeting, but it had been enough to terrify Sareen and the Production Assistant in the room. There had been frantic yelling about getting a doctor, but Jazmeen had waved away that suggestion.

  ‘Just get me home. Now!’ she had said. The driver had hurriedly brought the BMW to the gate, and the three men had delicately settled her on the expansive back seat. Sareen had sat next to her, her head resting on his lap, while the Production Assistant had taken the seat in front, and the car had shot out of the film studio. The PA had only managed to let the choreographer know about the mishap once they were speeding towards Bandra.

  ‘But she doesn’t want to see a doctor, Masterji!’ the man had said forcefully on the phone. ‘Yes, we are going to her home now.’ Then, turning to take a quick peek at Jazmeen’s sleepy face, he had added, ‘I think the next few days look dicey. We will have to shoot other scenes that don’t require her in the meantime.’

  By the time they had reached Naveli Apartments, Jazmeen was feeling better. She had quickly shooed the PA away. She didn’t want anyone fussing over her. After making sure she was resting comfortably in bed, Sareen had left too.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine now!’ Jazmeen told Arty when he had called her from Dubai around noon. ‘How are your meetings going?’ she had asked, deflecting attention.

  Of course, Arty was not going to let go that easily. ‘You should have gone to the doctor right away, you stupid girl!’ he had yelled. ‘Look, promise me that you will do so if you feel worse, OK?’ he had said, his tone deadly serious.

  ‘This is not the way I want people to know about the baby. Plus, I am already feeling better!’

  ‘Jazmeen!’ he’d shouted in exasperation.

  Eventually, he had stopped protesting. A few minutes after the call ended, she had drifted off to sleep. The last thing she had remembered seeing was a film scene on the television. The movie was Trishul and Shashi Kapoor was addressing Hema Malini by her character’s name that had made Jazmeen smile. ‘It’s a sign!’ she had thought as she had switched off the TV.

  Sheetal.

  There was that sound again. Jazmeen realised that she had been woken up by knocking on the main door of the flat. The noise was quite muted, the kind that a small dog stuck outside and vying for its owner’s attention might make. ‘Who the hell could that be?’ There was no one else at home at this late hour; as they did customarily, the domestic staff must have secured the flat and retired to their quarters behind the building by around 11.30 PM. She decided against ringing for them to return at such a late hour.

  Slowly, Jazmeen peeled herself off the bed and stood up. The room spun around her, once, twice—but she quickly clung on to headboard to stop her surroundings from lolling about again. She released a dry retch from her mouth. Thankfully, there was nothing more than just acidic air left inside her—everything that she had eaten since last night had already been deposited on the carpeted floor of Yash Raj Studios.

  ‘At least my stomach doesn’t hurt much.’

  She heard the sound again.

  Jazmeen steeled herself for the interminable walk of fifty feet to the main door. She made the journey slowly, clasping at walls, doorknobs, table tops and chair backs along the way. The only sources of light in the drawing room were the small table lamp on the far side and the sliver below the main door from where the outside hallway light was spouting in.

  Finally at the door and, by now, bereft of all energy, Jazmeen pulled the handle open. It was the building’s Security Guard. The face was familiar and foreign both at the same time. Was this the same guy she had been seeing for many weeks? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t care.

  ‘What is it?’ she snapped. ‘What do you want at such a late hour, bloody hell?’

  The man smiled at her. Then, suddenly—and with the agility of a panther—he lunged forward and smacked her on her face, making her entire body heave to the side. As Jazmeen’s powerless legs gave way and she dropped to the floor, the man kicked her once, in her stomach, plunging her into a river of melting iron. Before a shrill cry for help could even make its way through her lips, it had already been snuffed out by the man’s hard hands on her mouth and nose.

  Jazmeen slowly drifted out of consciousness again. The attacker closed the main door, getting ready to take care of the final business of his victim’s life.

  Manjrekar had actually begun to enjoy the company of the young men at his table. They sounded so eager about life, full of vitality about the promise of future. It gave Manjrekar immense joy that they appeared to have joined the Police Force for all the right reasons. It made him recall his own early days—the thrill of getting selected, wearing the uniform for the first time, seeing the pride in his parents’ eyes. His life may not exactly have been a bed of roses, but there were still plenty of reasons for him to be proud of it.

  Each young trainee was now recounting the reasons why he had decided to become a policeman. So far, those reasons had ranged from honouring the proud history of their fathers and grandfathers who had also been in the Force to a compulsion of serving the nation. It was now Rizvi’s turn. Strangely, the otherwise chatty boy had been quite muted ever since the group had begun talking on this subject. Rizvi’s audience looked on expectantly as he took his own time to open up.

  ‘I wanted to become a policeman to understand what makes them turn into horrible human beings,’ the young man finally said. The strange confession left his friends’ mouths agape. Manjrekar, who had been gnawing at a piece of cucumber from his salad, stopped chewing. All eyes were on Rizvi, as if silently urging him to elaborate. Rizvi, in turn, stared steadfastly at his lunch plate, avoiding all eye contact. When he spoke, it was barely louder than a whisper.

  ‘The only cops I have seen in my life have been cruel bastards. Insensitive to feeling. Impervious to the pain they cause others. The smaller their victim, the greater their barbarity. The more powerless you are, the more savage they become. They can shear you of any honour or self-respect that you have. They can beat you, slap you, kick you to the ground… simply on a whim. Just like that! And you, you just stand there and take it, trembling with fear, crying quiet tears and praying for them to leave you alone. Maybe you even pee your pants, because that’s all that you can do. Because you don’t matter. Only they do. They matter, because they can get away with whatever they want.’ Rizvi paused, considering whether he needed to expand on his sentiment any further. His voice had still not displayed any emotion, not even the anger that his words contained.

  ‘Yes, that’s why I have become a policeman,’ he went on, noticing how his friends were staring at him in shock. ‘I just want to find out how a human being transforms into a beast. Because frankly, I can’t imagine anyone being born with the kind of disdain for his fellow man that a policeman has. It has to be something they acquire on the job.’

  No one at the table spoke for several minutes. The only sounds were the ambient clatter of a busy lunch room, and from the TV near them that had been switched by someone from the news channel to an entertainment one. The program now playing on it was film star Jazmeen’s recent TV interview on Charan Grover’s show. No one at the table paid any attention to it, except Rizvi. He shifted his gaze from the table to the TV screen.

  Manjrekar picked up the half-eaten cucumber slice from his plate and chewed noisily. Without looking at anyone in particular, he said, ‘Looks like Rizvi has something interesting to tell us. You know, boys, sometimes the best education one can get in life comes from Life itself, not from a stupid classroom where we all have to be in fifteen minutes.’ Then, Manjrekar looked at the boy. ‘So, why don’t you educate us by telling us your story, Rizvi?’

  The boy took his eyes off the television and smiled. ‘If I tell you my story, none of you will believe me,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, try me. You have no idea about the unbelievable things I have heard in my life,
’ Manjrekar said.

  Rizvi stayed silent some more for dramatic effect. Then, as if he was about to give away a giant secret, he started slowly, ‘You know that woman on the television?’ He didn’t wait for an answer—obviously, everyone knew who Jazmeen the film star was.

  ‘That woman is my sister.’

  For the second time that night, Jazmeen’s eyes fluttered open trying hard to place her surroundings. This time, however, the recall was instantaneous and jolted her to attention in a nano-second. She felt almost immune to the dull pain in her underbelly. Most of her attention was now diverted to the throbbing agony where the attacker had hit her on her face.

  ‘The attacker! Where was he!’

  ‘And where the hell is my bloody phone?’ she thought, as her eyes frisked the room for any sound or movement. ‘The police, I must call the police!’

  The tiny light from the corner of the room revealed the partial destruction around her. The sofas were askew and three of the dining chairs were lying toppled on their sides. The Hussain on the wall had crashed to the floor and an ugly gash had split the painted horse’s head from its body. There was glass everywhere, churned into tiny bits from vases, table tops, light fittings and the full length mirrors along the hallway to the bedrooms. All the three silk carpets were partly upturned.

  It was as if a plundering typhoon had just raided her home.

  ‘What happened here?’ Jazmeen’s head was exploding almost as much as her face. ‘Has he left?’ She couldn’t hear anyone.

  Slowly Jazmeen rose from the floor where the attacker had tossed her like a crumpled piece of paper. She noticed that the main door of the flat was not fully closed. She didn’t want to make any sound so she gently opened the door fully, ready to run out of the house at the first sign of new trouble. The damage along the hallway to the bedrooms had piqued her attention—she wanted to see for herself what had caused it.