Karan’s brow creased. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.’
‘Did I?’ Rhea cupped his cheek, a gesture to bid him farewell forever.
20
Barely had a few days passed since Minister Prasad returned from his pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi when he received a call from the chief of the Hindu People’s Party.
‘I have been asked to bring up an issue with you. The party wants me to discuss it on their behalf.’
The minister, who had been watching a midnight broadcast of a mud-wrestling match between two beefy black women in yellow bikinis, stood up. His hands reached into his underwear; a rapid scratching motion ensued. ‘It is bad news?’
‘Well, it’s not good news.’
The chief explained to him that since the Hindu People’s Party bore the public mantle of the nation’s morality manager, they felt the hoo-hah over Zaira’s murder trial had given their credentials a serious walloping. ‘I mean,’ the chief said, ‘if the media wasn’t making such a lot of noise over the verdict we would have looked the other way.’
‘But…?’
‘But now the prime minister has taken a stand on this matter.’
‘It makes you wonder if the prime minister has nothing better to do with his time.’
‘And the press is also having a field day.’
‘Our press believes their sting operations will save the country,’ the minister complained. ‘But for them it’s really about the ratings war. Trial by media is absolutely unethical.’
‘The media might be the biggest bastards in the business but no one can deny them their clout. Besides, look how that man—Zaira’s friend—has been talking non-stop to every news channel about the case. He’s got you in a lot of trouble.’
‘That boy needs to be put in his place,’ said Minister Prasad. ‘He’s become too big for his boots.’
The chief spelt out the bottom line. ‘Don’t you believe it’s in your best interest to resign?’
‘It could be,’ the minister accepted bitterly. ‘Since the only other option is for the party to expel me.’
‘Well, we…’
‘I’ve been in politics far too long to suffer fools.’
‘We’re only giving you a choice.’
‘Give me a few days to handle this.’
‘You have two weeks. If the noise around the case doesn’t die out…’
Minister Prasad was not one to be cornered. ‘Something will die out!’ he shouted before he banged down the phone.
Feeling a shooting pain in his guts, the minister rushed to the pot to pass motions the colour of bad bananas and a terrible burning sensation traumatized his stomach afterwards. His ulcer was back, he worried. Over many years it had made it difficult for him to eat or drink in peace; now, inflamed in the light of his imminent dismissal, his stomach needed urgent medical attention. On his way out of the house, he met his wife in the hallway. ‘I’m going to see Dr Rao.’
‘Are you all right?’
He did not respond to her query. He summoned the driver to get the car ready.
‘Two things have brought on the ulcer,’ the kindly Dr Rao said. ‘Stress and alcohol.’
‘I don’t care what’s causing it, just do something about it!’ Minister Prasad snapped. Then he sat up on the inspection table. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Rao. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.’
‘It’s all right; I have treated you for thirty years, Chander; I’m used to your mood swings.’ Dr Rao was as close to a father figure as the minister was likely to have.
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ he said, looking contrite. ‘I thought I’d covered all bases. Malik walked away a free man. And now there’s talk of a retrial.’
‘It must be awful for you and your family.’
‘I can’t sleep at night, Dr Rao; I keep imagining that the police are going to get Malik and put him behind bars. I wouldn’t know what to do if they took him away from me…’ Before he could say another word the tears welled up and then flowed freely.
Dr Rao stood next to Minister Prasad, motionless, speechless, reminded suddenly of his seven-year-old granddaughter, who had wept inconsolably after her goldfish died.
Once the minister had dried his tears, Dr Rao said, ‘Are you worried there will be a huge political backlash?’
‘Who cares about the party? I never even knew I liked my son until I got to know him better over the last few months. I thought he was a sick little loser. But little things about him remind me he has come from me; he is my blood, he is mine. The shape of his eyes. The way he stammers when he is…he is…emotional…’
‘He has also inherited your bad stomach.’
‘I know, I know.’ The minister got off the inspection table and smoothened his white kurta. ‘Malik is…he is my son. I did not realize the intensity of my feelings for him, and it is awful to feel so helpless with affection.’
Dr Rao smiled. ‘Then you must do everything you can to save Malik.’
‘My other worry is that the party has asked me to resign. And if I don’t have my post then I will be able to do little to help Malik during the retrial.’ He balled his fingers into fists. ‘But I will not give up this fight. I will not lose.’
‘I admire your spirit.’ Dr Rao patted the minister on the back, as he would have his granddaughter. ‘But you must give up alcohol.’
Minister Chander Prasad shook his head. ‘How can I do that!’
‘The ulcers will get worse, Chander. You have to give up booze.’ Dr Rao returned to his seat behind his desk.
‘I cannot do that; not right now. You must give me some medicines that will work around the Black Label because without whisky my life will be unbearable.’ The minister rose to leave.
‘I’m going to give you a sleeping pill for tonight. I hope you will heed my advice. I’m glad you had a good cry; that should help.’
‘Cry?’ the minister asked, looking shocked. ‘Who cried?’
Dr Rao opened the door of his clinic as he said softly, ‘No one cried, Chander, no one.’
Returning late, in a dour mood, Minister Prasad slammed the main door behind him. ‘I’ll show them!’
Minister Prasad’s wife heard him and came out of the bedroom.
‘That son of yours! He takes after your side of the family.’
Mrs Prasad took a deep breath. Over the last few nights she had dreamed of green grasshoppers feasting on her. She saw one in particular, green as jealousy, sleek as satin, lowering its mouth into hers, feasting on the red flesh of her tongue.
‘What will you show them?’
The minister stared at his wife. Behind her, on the blaring television set, he saw Samar talking to a reporter, saying that he had faith in a retrial. A different judge would preside; old evidence would be reconsidered.
‘What will you show them?’ Mrs Prasad repeated.
The minister looked at her. He did not ever expect her to speak to him; talking was just not part of her job description.
‘They will have a new judge for the retrial,’ he said aloud. ‘What if I can’t get my way with him as I did with Judge Kumar?’
‘Then Malik will have to pay for his crime.’
He studied her face slowly, his eyes travelling from her nose to her chin to her ears. The back of his hand sliced the air before it sent her reeling to the ground in one swift motion. Malik’s mother lay on the floor, her feet drawn to her chest, her right hand on her left cheek. She tasted blood as it slowly oozed out and mixed with her spittle.
21
Samar had just stepped out of the bath when he heard a terrible crash followed by the ominous tinkling of splintered glass. Then he heard Leo cry out in shock.
By the time Samar ran out to the living room Leo was sitting with his back against the couch, trying to dislodge something from his forehead.
Mr Ward-Davies was in the corner of the room looking at Leo, whining.
Samar rushed Leo to Breach Candy Hospital where, in the emergency ward, a thick, angul
ar glass splinter was plucked out of his head; nine neat stitches closed a nasty wound. After depositing Leo at home, Samar went to the police station to register a complaint. The officer on duty asked him why he hadn’t come to them sooner, right after the incident, and eyed him suspiciously, as if he had cooked up the story.
‘The cops said they will look into it.’
Two days had passed since the attack on the house. Leo and Samar were finishing dinner, a light, simple meal of amti and rice, one of Saku-bai’s classics. Tea lights threw careless shadows on the kitchen walls.
‘That’s what they assured you during the time of the investigation for Zaira’s trial.’ Leo spoke slowly, fighting off the searing jabs of pain in his head. ‘You can’t trust the cops. Remember D.K. Mishra?’
Samar stretched his hand to caress Leo’s back. ‘I’m sorry. You must feel sandwiched in all of this.’
‘I need to tell you something, Samar. I tried not to bring it up during the trial because you had too much on your plate.’
‘Can we talk in the bedroom?’ Samar said, wanting Leo to be more comfortable.
‘Sure.’
In ten minutes, once dinner was wrapped up, Leo followed Samar into their bedroom, Mr Ward-Davies at their heels. The room was square, clean, airy. A king-size bed, with a blue bedspread printed with marching elephants, stood in the centre; paperbacks were scattered across the slim divan along the adjacent wall; a half empty glass of red wine stood atop an oak desk in the facing corner.
Samar lit two candles and the room filled slowly with the sharp, invigorating citrus perfume of lime.
Leo sat on the bed and clasped his knees with his hands. ‘I’m going back to San Francisco.’
‘I’ve been expecting it.’ Samar walked over to the divan and slumped on it. His fingers toyed with Mr Ward-Davies’s ears, thin, pinched back, as delicate as rose petals.
‘Please let me finish.’ Leo’s throat was dry, weary.
Samar sat up, surprised by the thunderbolt of gravity in Leo’s voice.
‘A few weeks ago, I had a blood test.’ Leo steepled his fingers. ‘And the results are not pretty.’
When Leo revealed the news, Samar felt like he had stepped on a landmine. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Leo’s face grew long; his eyes remained fixed on the wall. ‘Doc said it could either take years to flare up, or it could take me out by next year. No one can say for sure. I just want to get on the meds as quickly as possible.’
Gathering all his reserves, Samar walked over to Leo. ‘We’ll get the best docs in the country. I know people at Breach Candy Hospital.’ He squeezed Leo’s shoulder gently.
‘I don’t want to be treated here,’ he said, shrugging off Samar’s hand.
‘But we have some of the most competent doctors and…’
‘I want to get the hell outta here!’ Anger flashed in Leo’s eyes like diamonds in the raw. ‘I don’t want to hang on for a day longer in this savage country!’
Samar bit his lower lip.
‘Do you know how they treat people like me? A guy in Goa was locked up in a sanatorium when they found out he had it. In Kerala, they tied a widow to a tree and set her on fire. Anything could happen to me if they found out.’
‘But no one will know, Leo.’
‘Are you for real? There’s no such thing as doctor–patient confidentiality in India.’
‘We can keep things under wraps,’ Samar said as they faced each other in the candlelight. ‘It’s not difficult.’
‘Why are you so naive? Don’t you get it? Nothing can be kept under wraps now, Samar. Because of the retrial the media is watching our every move; I feel like I’m trapped under a microscope. I can’t even go for my evening walks without a fuckin’ flash popping from behind a tree. If some smutty tabloid gets their hands on this it’s bound to cause a stir.’ The anger in Leo’s eyes smouldered with hysteria. He added, ‘And the HPP will find a way to use it against you and me during the retrial.’
Mr Ward-Davies jumped off the divan and scurried to the door; he looked terrified. Samar went up to his dog and scooped him up.
‘But if you go to San Francisco who’ll look after you there?’
‘Oh.’ Leo stood and slapped his hands on the sides of his legs. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Am I already so fucked up I assumed my boyfriend would come with me? I mean, I was there for him day and night these last few months but now Mr Social Conscience is asking me who’ll look after me in San Francisco?’ He waved his hands angrily. ‘I guess the virus is chewing up my brain already!’
‘There’s an ongoing reinvestigation in the case, Leo…’ Samar said helplessly. ‘I don’t even know if I can leave the country. My passport is with the police.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Leo shouted. ‘I could soon be six feet under and you’re married to the damn case? Drop out of all proceedings. Say you’ve got to be some place else.’
Samar looked at his feet.
Leo looked at Samar and felt out of breath. Samar had always been more devoted to Zaira than to him, he thought, and this was only proof of his suspicions; even in her death she exercised a sly, inveterate force over Samar. How little he had known Samar, and how much he had trusted him!
‘That was the thing from the start,’ Leo said, seething. ‘I could never tell if you were with her or with me.’
‘Please don’t be upset, Leo…’
‘How d’you think I felt when you left me and ran off to Zaira? Your cosy meals together. Walks at midnight. Unending phone calls. On the night before she was taken out you were having one of your precious dinners. Do you know,’ he said, jabbing his finger at his chest, ‘I was at home alone that night?’
‘I went to her place because I thought inviting her over to our place would be an intrusion for you.’
‘Don’t turn this into some sort of sacrifice you made for me! I was never a part of your sweet little set-up. You think I didn’t know that she couldn’t stand the sight of me?’
‘Zaira did not hate you, Leo; you have the wrong impression.’
‘Just shut up, Samar. Shut the fuck up!’ Leo was pacing the room. ‘She hated my guts; she hated herself for introducing me to you. As far as she was concerned, I was taking over her turf.’
Mr Ward-Davies looked nervously from one man to the other. He leapt off the bed and bolted again for the door.
Samar knew he could either feed the fire of this row, or he could bow and rein in the situation with grace; he chose the latter. ‘Leo, I was being stupid. Of course I’ll come. Nothing and no one is as important to me as you are.’
‘It doesn’t matter; I can take care of myself,’ Leo said defiantly.
‘Let me wrap up the loose ends so we can fly out together.’
‘You sound like you’re doing me a favour. I’m not waiting around for anybody’s charity…and I certainly don’t want you to feel like you gave up on the case for me.’
‘I want to do this for myself.’ He sensed his response had been thoughtless, and this filled him with guilt. If he had to forsake the trial to look after Leo then that’s what he would do; there were only so many battles he could pick, and only so many he could survive. ‘I’m sorry. I’m unspeakably sorry…’
The emotion in Samar’s voice melted Leo’s rage. ‘Samar…’ He sat down on the bed.
‘Yes?’
Burying his face in his hands, Leo sobbed from the dark, tarnished core of his being. ‘What have I got myself into?’
Samar looked over his shoulder; the candle in the room had gone out.
22
A few days after Leo’s disclosure, Samar called Karan. ‘Can you please come by?’ Outside his window, dawn dipped its arms into the bowl of a scarlet sky.
‘Of course.’ Karan heard fear tremble in Samar’s tone.
As he pulled on his jeans and his tee-shirt he remembered the time Iqbal had called him to report that Samar had been spotted at Gatsby. He could clearly picture Samar tap dancing on the bar counter
, hitting his head against a suspended lamp. He remembered Diya Sen standing in her knickers, a sparkling vision of lust, and a man in an orange sarong with a dandy wrist. What a long way he had come from that night, he thought in the taxi on his way to Worli, as an indescribable sorrow clenched his heart.
Karan reached Samar’s cottage at 5.00 a.m.
Samar was waiting for him by the pool, watching Mr Ward-Davies roll about on the dew-drenched grass. He rose as soon as he saw Karan part the French doors. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’
‘Sure.’
On the Worli promenade, under the sheath of retreating night, Karan asked him about the latest developments. ‘Any news from the police?’
‘Wrote it off as a vandal attack.’ Samar pulled at Mr Ward-Davies’s leash.
‘Cowards.’
‘Did I tell you I got two threat calls? The bastard on the line swore he would tear me into two if I spoke up in the retrial.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said I wasn’t going to back off, and that if he called again I’d get the police on their tail.’
‘So Minister Prasad is really gunning for you now.’
Samar looked at Karan quietly, desperate to tell him about Leo’s illness.
‘Look at it from the minister’s point of view,’ Karan continued. ‘If his son was sent to the lock-up, the HPP would kick his sorry ass. But now that Malik is walking free, they’ve still got him in a corner.’
‘He’s not a happy man.’
‘Aren’t you grateful for the media’s support?’
‘I guess…but Leo believes the attack on the house was set off by my talking so much to the press.’
Karan said, ‘How’s he recovering?’
But before Samar could answer, Karan sneezed loudly.
‘His cut is healing well; the stitches should be out next week.’ Samar touched Karan’s shoulder. ‘You look pretty wrung out yourself.’
‘Rotten cold last couple of days.’
The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay Page 22