Mr Iyer Goes To War

by Ryan Lobo

  ‘Look at the bright side, Bencho, the worst has happened, now it must only get better,’ Iyer says, gently.

  ‘Sir, I have lost everything. Everything!’ Bencho heaves as he sobs, dipping his head into the water to clear away his tears, and then weeping again.

  ‘No, Bencho, we have won everything. We have broken free from the world’s temptations. We have triumphed over all of Bakasura’s evil designs and remained pure, no matter what has come our way.’

  ‘I will never become Crucho, sir. That man, he would have killed me. You told me someone would write about us one day? What story will he have? That we got beaten up all the time? That is no story, sir. That is no plot,’ he says.

  ‘You have triumphed. We have everything, Bencho, everything is right here,’ exclaims Iyer, taking a handful of water and letting it fall through his fingers. ‘Our integrity is our offering. Our existence is our story! The journey lies within us, Bencho, and we are already victorious.’

  ‘I have everything?’ Bencho asks, trying to follow. He looks around as if there might be a clue somewhere, when another flock of brown-headed gulls passes overhead, shitting this time on Bencho’s shoulder. Bencho doesn’t even move.

  ‘Bencho! We shall get you another town. Don’t worry,’ Iyer says, gently wiping his shoulder clean with water. ‘You shall get another town, and I will defeat Bakasura,’ Iyer says.

  ‘What if there is no demon, sir?’ Bencho says, hanging his head miserably. ‘What if there is just this?’

  Iyer doesn’t comment, but starts to wade towards the bank, Bencho following silently.

  ‘Sir, what more do you need to do? I want to return to Kashi.’

  As they reach the bank they both think they hear something, but ignore it amidst the din and scrum of worshippers.

  ‘Bhīmaaa!’

  This time Bencho and Iyer look up towards the sound.

  An ape-like creature of sorts stands above them on the bank. It is dressed in armour, carries a plastic baseball bat and wears a helmet with spikes rising up from it. Beneath the helmet, long acrylic hair flows. Gunnysack cloth makes a smock under the armour. The creature leaps off the embankment and lands in the water, drenching them. It leaps to its feet, twirls the plastic baseball bat and moves forward like a predator.

  ‘Bhīma! I have travelled across time and space to destroy you. Prepare to die.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Iyer asks, pushing Bencho behind him and moving forward, his eyes flashing. ‘How dare you challenge Bhīma of Kashi?’

  ‘I am Bakasura, Bhīma! And I will challenge whoever the hell I want to. And now, you are most certainly going to die,’ the demon says theatrically, in a rather familiar voice.

  31

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Bencho says, seeing through the disguise in an instant. ‘We nearly got killed earlier today and now you want to fool around like this? Idiot!’

  Iyer pushes Bencho aside and glares at Bakasura, swaying.

  ‘Rakshasa! Prepare to die!’ Iyer says, and points his staff at the masked Krishna.

  ‘Sir, please stop. It’s just the doctor,’ Bencho says, as Krishna attempts a demon roar that sounds more like a dog howling, hammering the water with the plastic baseball bat.

  ‘Bencho, tell Panchakanya of this exploit, no matter what happens.’

  ‘If I defeat you, you must give up your pursuit of me. Understand? That is the ancient rule, as you know. If I defeat you here, now, it is over, Bhīma!’

  ‘He agrees. He agrees!’ Bencho says, comprehension dawning. ‘I will tell Panchakanya whatever you want.’

  Iyer shouts and charges at Bakasura, his staff held ahead of him. Dodging him, Krishna kicks water into Iyer’s face and lunges forward, whacking him across the shoulders with the bat, which bends in half.

  Krishna twists the bat back into shape, keeping the sun behind himself and in Iyer’s eyes.

  ‘HA! Foul beast, your paltry weapon falls off my heavenly muscles,’ Iyer says, swinging his staff at Krishna, who ducks just in time. The staff continues on its trajectory, its momentum causing Iyer to lose his balance and tumble into the water.

  Standing over him, Krishna laughs, ‘So much for your heavenly muscles! Concede, Bhīma!’

  ‘Never!’ shouts Iyer and kicks at Krishna’s crotch, missing and connecting with the breastplate. Howling in pain, Iyer grabs his foot and Krishna jerks the staff away, twirling it around and placing its tip on Iyer’s chest, forcing him backwards so that he falls into the water.

  ‘Do you concede defeat? That is the heavenly rule!’ Krishna shouts, pressing down on the staff.

  ‘The heavens can go to hell,’ Iyer says through his pain, as Krishna presses down harder on the staff, forcing Iyer underwater. Dropping the staff, Krishna jumps onto Iyer’s chest and forces his head under. Pulling Iyer’s spluttering head out of the water, Krishna barks into his face.

  ‘Will you accept that I have won?’

  Iyer spits a stream of water into the visor covering Bakasura’s face.

  ‘Never. I will never surrender,’ he splutters.

  Cursing, Krishna shoves him under again and holds him there.

  ‘He will never agree,’ Bencho says, placing his hand on Krishna’s shoulder. ‘Enough.’

  Krishna raises Iyer’s head from the riverbed and Iyer spits again, but with less force than last time.

  ‘Enough,’ Bencho says, grabbing Krishna’s shoulder, but he slaps it away and holds Iyer down again, pulling him up only when the bubbles pouring out of Iyer’s mouth start dying down.

  ‘Do you concede, Bhīma?’

  Iyer chokes and tries to spit but the water dribbles out the side of his mouth.

  ‘Concede, sir, please concede,’ Bencho says from over Krishna’s shoulder.

  ‘I cannot,’ Iyer gasps and punches the helmet, his hand rolled into a fist.

  ‘Agree or die, Bhīma,’ Krishna says, frustrated beyond words. He was so sure his plan would work. Not just was it a waste, but he’s all out of ideas now, and God only knows what it’ll do to their relationship if Iyer sees he’s been attacked by his doctor.

  ‘Finish it,’ Iyer says, seeing Krishna remove his helmet. He peers at him, recognition dawning along with disbelief. ‘You too, Dr Krishna, you too?’

  Wearily, Krishna lets go of Iyer.

  ‘Please agree,’ a familiar voice says, and Iyer turns towards it. Damayanti stands freshly bathed and ethereal on the embankment, the late-morning sun rising behind her.

  ‘Please agree, Iyer Sir, Panchakanya will be happier if you are alive.’

  Iyer looks at her, then at the gulls wheeling above him, and finlly turns to Krishna. ‘It is over,’ he says, shoulders slumping. Krishna helps him up to his feet, one arm around his shoulders.

  Trying to stand on his own, Iyer finds he cannot; his knee has locked up again and a sharp pain radiates through it. He tries to bend it, but it remains as stiff as a bamboo staff.

  32

  The Lover’s back pain is bordering on unbearable. After he limped to the bank after the fight, he found an upturned boat and sat down on it. Getting up is proving hard; he clenches his teeth and raises himself inch by inch. Walking to a teashop, The Lover leans against a pillar.

  His phone rings. He grimaces at the vibration and tries to fish around for it in his pocket without too much movement, though the action of reaching for the phone unleashes a nasty twinge up his back. When he finally gets his hands on the ringing phone, he sees it’s not even his. Come to think of it, that sound isn’t even his ringtone. He’s about to scroll down the call log when he has a better idea. Opening the photo gallery, The Lover finds endless selfies of Bencho: Bencho on his donkey, conducting his campaign. Bencho lying on the vast bed in the guestroom, smiling. Bencho’s photograph in the gilt-lined mirror in the bathroom. Bencho’s head peering out from the shower curtain. What an ass, The Lover thinks, not for the first time. He’s about to exit the gallery when he sees a video. He clicks play. It’s Jayachandra. In front of him i
s the truck into which the idols are being loaded. At least one is visible. There’s even a shot of the consulate address that they’re being dispatched to. I must say, Bencho, The Lover thinks, not such an ass after all.

  He goes to settings and finds that the video has also been saved to Bencho’s cloud storage account. Taking his own phone, The Lover calls Jayachandra and shares his surprise at Bencho’s entrepreneurship with him. They both have the same idea of how to deal with him.

  33

  Inspector Narasimha Sharma doesn’t answer his phone, standing in the quay near where his mother is bathing. He’s not looking at his mother, who’s almost done with a long ritual that guarantees the delivery of her prayers to his deceased father. The inspector is watching Iyer and Bencho who, along with the other day-trippers from the home, are sitting on the bank surrounded by everyone’s drying clothes. Iyer is speaking and everyone is listening. The inspector can hear the sentence, ‘I will not do what the darkeness says.’

  Helping his mother out of the water, Sharma helps her as she lights a diya with shivering fingers and releases it into the river. They return to the bank, where she joins the rest of the family. Satisfied with her comfort, Sharma walks over to Bencho and taps him on the shoulder.

  Bencho is startled, and automatically raises his arm as if to ward off a blow.

  ‘I don’t want to hit you, Bencho – relax! But I just got a message from our friend Jayachandra. They found your phone and the video.’

  Bencho goes pale and automatically starts scrabbling around in his pants for his phone, knowing that what he said was true.

  ‘They want your cloud password,’ Sharma says, enjoying Bencho’s terror.

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Give it to them and leave now, before they find you,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t remember it myself!’ Bencho has gone white and appears to be having trouble breathing.

  Sharma’s phone rings again. He takes the call and interjects with ‘yes sir’s.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That, Bencho, was my commissioner. You should leave Allahabad, or there will be consequences. Sometimes people are arrested for all sorts of things, things they may not even have done … you know how it goes.’

  Bencho nods, knowing only too well.

  ‘I am going to the bridge checkpoint by boat,’ the inspector says. ‘If you leave the city, come that way.’

  Krishna has changed into clean trousers and a fresh shirt, and Iyer is back in his Mysore suit. Dry and dressed, the group has collected by a tea stall.

  Seeing Khanolkar, Bencho sidles up to him and begs him in an urgent whisper to prepare for the journey back home.

  ‘Sir, please. We must leave and not waste a second. It is a matter of life and death.’

  Despite never having been his biggest fan, Khanolkar nods at the sight of Bencho’s grey face. The relief of seeing Khanolkar showing him some compassion makes Bencho break down. He quickly explains the last two days to him, everything – the promise of being made a politician, how The Lover had tried, and very nearly succeeded, in murdering him, and also the bit about Jayachandra’s illegal antiquities trade and the little video he had made of it, and of the statues in their cases. Khanolkar does not interrupt and listens, whistling in amazement at the more astonishing moments.

  Without delay, Khanolkar rounds the group up, running after Mala, who can always sense when she’s required to do something and does the opposite. In this case, she had taken off towards the water again. He marches everyone towards the boats in a single file, not even haggling, Iyer with his stiff leg being helped by Bencho and Krishna. They cross the river, huddled against the wind, Iyer falling asleep by the time they reach the other bank.

  They pile into the Tempo, Khanolkar and Krishna shouting for the driver, who stumbles towards the vehicle, his eyes more yellow than usual. Bencho carries Iyer on his shoulders; his exhaustion has properly caught up with him and he hasn’t stirred since he got onto the boat. The luggage is tied onto the rack and Krishna helps the driver, an expert luggage-catcher, by throwing the bags up at him. With everything secured, the driver takes over the wheel, getting berated for drinking by Khanolkar, who sits next to him, anxious for the journey to begin. Old yellow-eyes reverses onto the road, hitting the accelerator a bit too hard, and the rear end of the Tempo touches a passing truck’s fender, ripping off its own rear bumper.

  Both vehicles brake and Khanolkar curses, hitting the driver on the back of his head with his palm.

  Bencho jumps out of the passenger seat onto the road and screams, wagging his finger at the truck driver, who also jumps out.

  ‘You son of a whore, watch how you drive!’ Bencho shouts.

  ‘Yes, you son of a whore, watch how you drive,’ adds Khanolkar, his long neck sticking out of the front window.

  When the driver Aurangzeb and Bencho recognise each other, they are equally astounded.

  The passenger door of the truck opens and The Lover jumps out, wincing in pain as he lands.

  ‘You again,’ he says to Bencho, his pupils constricting to pinpricks. Not wasting a moment, Bencho turns tail and runs towards the Tempo for his life. Shouting for the driver to start, he jumps in and clangs the door shut just as The Lover reaches it. He tries to yank the door open, hammering it with his fist and screaming in rage, hitting his own head on the window in an attempt to break the glass. Mala starts to cry, and Damayanti strokes her hair and makes soothing sounds. Krishna glances at Iyer, who hasn’t stirred.

  Taking a step back, The Lover picks up a fist-sized rock.

  ‘Leave now,’ Bencho shouts at the top of his voice, but the driver is having trouble with the gears. The stone shatters the side window and Khanolkar wastes no time, wrenching the driver out of his seat and taking the wheel, methodically tapping on the accelerator, easing the gear into place and starting the engine as another stone smashes through the window, hitting him on the shoulder.

  ‘Hurry, sir,’ Bencho says, whispering, The Lover smashing at the remnants of the window with another stone. He puts his hand into the vehicle, searching for the door handle as Bencho struggles to hold it closed. The Tempo starts, and the door is yanked open just as Khanolkar reverses. Holding on to the door, The Lover is carried along, lifted off his feet. Swerving left, Khanolkar executes a perfect turn onto the road, flinging The Lover off the road and into the mud, and narrowly missing a group of priests, who scatter, their begging pots clattering across the road. Revving the engine, Khanolkar yanks the gearstick into second gear and takes off properly.

  Waking, Iyer throws off the blankets swaddling him and hobbles to the rear window in time to see The Lover as he runs back towards the truck, screaming at Aurangzeb to start the vehicle. Hitting the accelerator, Khanolkar comes to a bend in the road and, watching from the rear window, Iyer loses sight of the truck. Just as he sits back and exhales, it bursts out around the bend again, barreling towards them, smashing a guava vendor’s cart.

  ‘To arms! To arms!’ shouts Iyer ‘Where is my staff?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s on the roof, sir, and don’t leave your seat,’ Bencho says from the driver’s cubicle as Khanolkar swerves around a camel caravan, throwing Mala off her seat and into the aisle. Shrieking, she climbs back up and holds on for dear life.

  Bencho, hanging out of the shattered front window, yells at people to clear the road, waving a rag as the senior citizens sit there in quiet terror, years of living experience having taught them that screaming is a waste of energy.

  Ignoring Bencho, Iyer moves to the last window, holding onto the seats to keep his balance as the Tempo hits maximum speed on the potholed road. The only way to the roof and his staff would be out of the window closest to the ladder that runs up the side of the Tempo. Mala occupies the last seat, holding on to the grille with both hands, her feet wrapped around the armrest in an effort to not be flung off again. ‘Get away from me, demon,’ she shrieks.

  ‘Mala Madam, please let me get to the window. I
have to save us from these dacoits,’ Iyer says, eyes wide in supplication. ‘Please, madam. Please.’ Iyer claps his hands together.

  Still holding on with all limbs, Mala begins to curse, but finally relents as Iyer keeps begging. She shuffles out of her seat and Iyer quickly opens the window, reaches out and grabs the external ladder. Pulling himself out, he climbs out of the Tempo and onto the ladder, holding on with great effort, using his stiff leg for support as he sits on the window, his legs on the inside. Carefully, he grabs onto the ladder and inches his way out of the hurtling vehicle. He sees a truck coming towards them from the opposite direction, and using all his strength, reaches the luggage carrier in the nick of time, barely avoiding being knocked off the bus.

  I will overcome.

  ‘Iyer is on the roof,’ Mishra says, suddenly noticing the activity. Bencho turns to look just as Iyer’s feet leave the interior of the bus.

  Iyer crawls down the roof of the moving Tempo towards his staff, reaches it and wrests it free from under the bags. Holding it tight he sits up, facing the truck that follows them and getting clobbered by the green twigs of a low-hanging tamarind branch. Dazed, he leans forward with the impact, which stings more than it stuns. He turns his head to the front and is hit again, this time by the hanging roots of a banyan tree. Iyer falls back on the bags, dazed.

  The clouds seem not to move, still and immense overhead.

  I am flying.

  The truck has gained on them, and even though Khanolkar has floored the accelerator, the Tempo does not go beyond eighty kilometres an hour. As Khanolkar pulls on the choke, willing the Tempo to go faster, the truck slams its rear bumper. Khanolkar is hurled forward in his seat with the impact.

  ‘Please, sir, I cannot do this,’ Aurangzeb says as he bashes into the Tempo again, the revolver pressed firmly to his ribs.

  ‘Oh yes, you can,’ The Lover says, hitting Aurangzeb across the face with the revolver and jamming it into his ribs again, twisting it hard to inflict maximum pain.