by Tarquin Hall
Sweetie swerved violently to the left and Jagdish Uncle slammed on the brakes, grinding to a halt inches from the edge of a two-hundred-meter drop beyond.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Toyota racing on and two of his wheels rolling after them down the hill.
Tubelight and Zia were sitting outside their ragpicker tent on the plot across from ICMB playing cards around a cow-dung fire.
It had been nearly an hour since the SUV with the tinted windows had returned with its front smashed in—the result of a head-on collision.
Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Sengupta, the head of research, had left work and Shashi had set off after him on his Vespa.
The operative had soon realized that he wasn’t the only one following him. A black car with two moustachioed men inside followed the geneticist to his house, parked across the road and sat waiting.
“Sir, they look like plainclothes,” Shashi reported to Tubelight, who ordered him to stay put and provide him with regular updates.
After assigning Zia to the first watch, Puri’s chief operative then lay down on a rank-smelling mattress to try to get some sleep.
At five o’clock, he was rudely awoken. The gora director, Justus Bergstrom, was leaving in a car, Zia told him.
The two operatives set off after him.
Half an hour later, they found themselves at Agra airport.
Bergstrom left the car carrying a briefcase and hurried into the VVIP terminal.
Ten minutes later, a jet took off.
Tubelight watched it circle in the sky and then turn east in the direction of Lucknow.
Twenty-three
Ram awoke on the backseat of a moving car with his wrists handcuffed. He attempted to sit up, but the pain in the back of his head was too much to bear.
Grimacing, he lay back down again.
It was early morning—by the light in the sky he guessed it was around six A.M. How he’d come to be there was not immediately clear to him. He had to concentrate hard to remember the events of the night before.
There had been a car chase. In Agra. A black SUV had tried to force the car he’d been traveling in off the road. But it had crashed into a lamppost. At some point, they’d stopped at a dhaba. That had been later—on the side of a highway. A man who smoked a cigar had stood in the parking area talking on his mobile phone. There had been a couple of others working with him. One of them had arrived in another vehicle. Ram had recognized him. He’d been one of the men who’d chased him.
The events in the garden came rushing back to him.
“Tulsi!” he cried out.
A face appeared between the headrests of the front seats. It was the man who smoked cigars.
“Aaah, sleeping beauty is awake at last,” said Hari with a smile. “How are you feeling, young man?”
Ram felt nauseous—the effect of the cigar smoke as much as the concussion he’d sustained.
“A little worse for wear?” asked Hari. “My apologies for the knock on the head. Rishi got a bit carried away. He’s young and somewhat inexperienced.”
“Where is she?” asked Ram, his voice hoarse.
“Tulsi is with your friend Vish Puri, I would imagine.”
It took the young man a moment to place the name. “The fat jasoos? He’s not my friend,” said Ram.
Hari chuckled. “Well, I can hardly blame you. Such a pompous, irritating little man. I’m sure he told you that he’s the best detective in all of India. He didn’t? Well, he’s absolutely convinced of it. And of his damn dharma. One of those self-righteous crusaders. And don’t get me started on his fashion sense. Who wears safari suits and flat caps these days? He looks like he should be out walking a whippet.”
Ram managed to sit up despite the pain. Through his window he could see high walls that demarcated large private properties. Farmhouses lay beyond. It looked like one of the wealthy suburbs of Lucknow.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“To meet my client.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ll find out soon enough—ten minutes, give or take.”
Hari handed Ram a bottle of water. Despite the handcuffs, he managed to gulp down a quarter of the contents and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Why are you doing this?” Ram asked.
“I was hired to locate you and that’s what I’ve done.”
“Do you care what happens to me after that?”
“I’m taking you to the one person who can offer you the protection you need. By lunchtime you will be reunited with Tulsi and the two of you can ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.”
Ram held up his hands and rattled his cuffs. “Then why these?”
“We can’t have you running off again. I wouldn’t give you a very high chance of survival. Half of Uttar Pradesh is looking for you.”
An inquisitive smile crept across Hari’s face. “By the way, I’m curious about something,” he said. “How did you get away from the Gurkhas—the ones working for ICMB? They’re former soldiers. It can’t have been easy.”
“Did they kill my mother?” asked Ram, his eyes as hard as flint.
Hari turned back in his seat. “No, it wasn’t them,” he said.
“Then it was Dr. Bal Pandey,” said Ram.
Hari gave no indication of whether he believed this to be true. He simply stared ahead impassively. But Ram said to himself, “It was him. He murdered her,” and buried his face in his hands.
The sedan pulled through a set of gates guarded by a dozen jawans armed with Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles and the odd submachine gun. A driveway lined with pots of marigold flowers led to a modern bungalow clad in white marble. Hari’s sedan stopped behind three white Ambassadors with Uttar Pradesh state government plates, their roofs replete with antennas and blue emergency beacons.
Ram was helped out of the sedan, his handcuffs were removed and he was led to the front door of the bungalow. It was answered by a male peon in a gray, half-sleeve safari jacket. With swift efficiency, he led them across a hall and down the corridor beyond. They passed a collection of multicolored glass Buddha statues arranged on antique French side tables with delicate, bowed legs. On the wall hung a series of oil paintings featuring giant fluorescent roosters.
The peon stopped in front of the last door, knocked, waited for a second and then pushed it open. Ram stepped into the room beyond to find two men looking over a collection of architectural drawings spread out on a table. The man nearest to him appeared to be south Indian, the bright white of his kurta pyjama in striking contrast to his dark skin, wavy jet-black hair and big, bushy moustache.
More dazzling still was the sight of the second individual. Standing at just five feet and six inches tall and dressed in a dhoti with unshorn tufts of hair protruding from his ears, it was none other than the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh, the self-proclaimed “messiah of the Dalits,” Baba Dhobi.
“At last you’re here safe and sound!” he exclaimed as he stepped away from the table and greeted the young man with a large, generous smile.
Ram stooped down and touched his feet, but Baba Dhobi raised him up by the shoulders in an avuncular gesture.
“It is I who should be doing you such an honor, young man,” he said, now speaking in Awadhi, his and Ram’s mother tongue. “You have shown great courage and determination in the face of oppression and danger, and I for one am proud to call you brother!”
Baba Dhobi placed a hand on one of Ram’s shoulders as the young man, who was speechless, raised his hands and pressed them together in another gesture of respect.
“We have been looking for you everywhere all these days,” the chief minister continued. “When I heard about your poor mother, I called Hari Kumar personally and instructed him to find you right away. He has worked for us in the past once or twice and always proven reliable and proficient, and I had every confidence that he was the right man for the job. Fortunately, I was right. Thus you are
standing before us alive and well. We are in his debt. Now come, I will introduce you. This is Viswanathan Narayanaswamy, the Vaastu practitioner who is overseeing the design of my new house.”
By “house” Baba Dhobi meant “palace.” And by “Vaastu,” he was referring to the Indian science of construction in which invisible elements and natural forces were taken into account in order to ensure the well-being of the occupants.
“It is being conceived in a traditional way, mirroring a mandala,” continued the chief minister. “See, the prayer hall will be in the northeast and the bedroom to the south. There will be a cow shed, of course. That will be positioned here, to the northwest of the building.”
“The dwelling itself is a shrine,” said the Vaastu practitioner in heavily accented Hindi. “It is not merely a shelter for human beings to rest and eat. Like a temple, it is sacred. Therefore the occupier should enjoy spiritual well-being and material wealth and prosperity.”
“Very impressive, sir,” said Hari.
“Truly beautiful, sir,” agreed Ram.
“You really think so? I’m so glad!” declared Baba Dhobi, who was beaming with pride. “Construction is to start within the month,” he added. “When it is finished you will all be my guests at the opening ceremony. Now come. We will eat together. We have much to discuss.”
They sat in the dining room at a long table laid with china and silver and starched napkins folded to look like hens. Liveried servants came and went through a door to the adjacent kitchen bearing platters of food and pots of steaming tea. With quiet deportment, they served each of the guests in turn and then stood with their backs to the wall, ramrod straight with impassive expressions.
Baba Dhobi looked out of place amidst these trappings. His cutlery went untouched and he slouched over the table eating halwa poori with one hand. Every now and again, he would raise his head from his food like an ancient hunchback, motion to his guests to eat more, and then continue demolishing his food, his lips smacking together with the sound of the sea lapping against a dock.
Ram, Hari and Viswanathan Narayanaswamy ate in an awkward silence, watching the chief minister out of the corner of their eyes. It was only after Baba Dhobi had cleared his plate, wiped his hands, signed a few documents brought by a hovering peon and dismissed all his staff from the room (the Vaastu practitioner included) that he addressed Ram again.
“You’re aware your mother and I used to work together at Lucknow General Hospital,” he said as he emptied a small packet of gutka into the palm of his left hand and began to run his finger over it to smooth out the lumps.
“Yes, sir, she told me many times.”
“In those days things were different. I was a humble administrator. The job had come to me because of the reservation system. There were few of us in positions of power. The doctors were all from the upper castes. They ran the hospital like their own private Raj. We were powerless. Thus when your mother was badly treated … naturally, I conducted an investigation. But ultimately it was her word against his and she lost her job. I did everything in my power to help her. I did not strike her name from the employment roll, thus ensuring that she continued to receive her salary.”
“Sir, she was your greatest admirer,” said Ram. “She often told me about your kindness. Even after all these years her salary came to her every month. You were like a father to her.”
Baba Dhobi made a gesture with his hands, the kind that was intended to communicate humility but somehow betrayed self-satisfaction. He emptied the gutka onto his tongue and moved the tobacco mixture around his mouth.
“Now, there is an important matter that has been brought to my attention,” he said, his mouth filling with saliva. “I understand that a medical research entity—this ICMB—has been operating illegally. Without a proper license, it has taken blood samples from yourself and your brothers and sisters in Govind village.”
“That’s right, sir. They told us that it was part of a medical study and paid everyone a hundred rupees each for their participation.”
Baba Dhobi leaned over the side of his chair, spat saliva tinged red from the gutka into a spittoon on the floor, and then said, “Tell me what happened next.”
“Sir, when they came to the village, I met Dr. Anju Basu of ICMB. I told her I was studying in Agra and she took my contact info. Some days later, she called me up. She said they wanted to conduct some drug trials and needed someone with my specific DNA. So I cooperated and went to their laboratories, where they took more blood.”
“In return they gave you money?”
“Yes, sir—fifty thousand. But Dr. Basu also provided me with a lakh from her own pocket.”
“So much?” Baba Dhobi spat again.
“Sir, she was very kind. She said I deserved the money—that it would help with my future. She knew about the difficulties I was facing with Tulsi’s family.” Ram hesitated. “Sir, I believe she felt guilty about what ICMB was doing and wanted to make amends.”
The chief minister nodded thoughtfully. “Go on,” he said.
“Sir, two weeks ago Dr. Basu asked to meet with me. She explained that she was leaving her job. She was facing personal problems with one of her coworkers who was harassing her. She had become scared. Also, ma’am said the organization was dishonest. She told me that they had analyzed my DNA and found a genetic trait that could potentially be used in the fight against cancer. She said it was worth a fortune to ICMB, but neither I nor anyone else in the village would get a share of the profits, that we were being exploited.” Ram paused. “Sir, there was something else, also. She said that my DNA was different from that of my father’s.”
“Different?”
“Sir, she told me that my father was not my real father.”
Baba Dhobi chewed thoughtfully on his gutka. “Your mother hid the truth from you all these years?”
“Yes, sir. I knew only that she had lost her job at the hospital a few months before I was born. But she had never told me why—never told me what really happened.”
“Did Dr. Basu identify your real father?”
“Yes, sir. She said that the database had found an exact match. ICMB had taken samples from dozens of Brahmins as part of their research. She said that by coincidence they had my real father’s records on file. He had participated in the program in order to prove that his blood was ‘superior.’ ”
“And she provided you with this research?”
“Yes, sir. She gave me a computer data key with copies of ICMB’s research as well as my father’s DNA profile.”
“Did you speak with your mother about this?”
“Yes, sir, I returned to the village. She confirmed everything. How he raped her and she fell pregnant”—there was a pause—“with me.”
“And you told her you had proof.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Finally she could prove her case.”
Ram gave a nod.
“So you gave her the data key.”
“I told her to keep it hidden, sir.”
“That was the only copy?”
“No, sir, I made another.”
“You have it?”
Ram hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good. Now, it is my responsibility as chief minister to ensure that the interests of our Dalit brothers and sisters are protected. An organization like this cannot simply be allowed to exploit our people without sharing the profit.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. And, sir—Dr. Basu was actually assisting me in this regard. We went to Delhi to consult with a lawyer. He advised me that a group-action suit can be filed against ICMB.”
“No need, no need,” said Baba Dhobi with a wave of his hand. “I have already given orders for the government of Uttar Pradesh to bring a case against this corrupt organization. But for this to proceed we will require a copy of their research. Do you have it with you?”
Ram shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Something is wrong?” asked the chief minister.
>
“Sir, Dr. Basu told me never to show it to anyone, not even the lawyer, until the case was ready to go to trial,” said Ram.
“You are not talking to just anyone, my brother.”
“No, sir.”
Ram looked across the table at Hari, who’d been listening to their conversation in silence. He received a nod of encouragement in return. Then he reached down into his sock and took out a small data key.
He stretched across the table and placed it in Baba Dhobi’s open palm.
The chief minister’s stubby fingers curled around it slowly like the legs of a spider.
“There are other copies?”
“No, sir. That’s the last.”
Baba Dhobi dropped the data key into his shirt pocket. “Dr. Basu gave you good advice—you should have listened to her,” he said.
In an instant, the mask of parental empathy fell away, revealing a hard expression beneath. Baba Dhobi’s eyes now betrayed only cold triumph.
It took Ram a moment to understand.
“My mother came to you,” he said in little more than a whisper.
“Your mother was weak and naïve.”
“She came to you for help and you betrayed her.”
“Sacrifices have to be made or they will trample us. I have fought all my life against them, fought for our rights. Your mother threatened to ruin all that.”
“How?”
As if by answer the door opened behind them and two men entered the room. The first was a goon. He stood just over six feet tall and had the hooked nose and watery green eyes of an Afridi.
The second man, bald and bespectacled, was the Brahmin political leader Dr. Bal Pandey.
“He knows,” said Baba Dhobi.
Dr. Pandey nodded solemnly and said, “I was listening.”
“I’m getting tired of cleaning up your mess,” added the chief minister.
“I told you I would take care of it,” said the Brahmin.
Ram shot up from his chair, his eyes ablaze with hatred. “How can you conspire with him?” he bawled at Baba Dhobi. “You claim to fight for our rights!” Spotting a knife on the table, he lunged for it. But the goon grabbed Ram by the collar and shoved him back into his chair.