The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  Salat nodded. ‘You should meet that doctor.’

  ‘You should come along.’

  ‘Need me now, do you?’ he asked, amused.

  ‘Need a ride, yes.’

  He took a second to recover, then said politely, ‘Any time.’

  Mira thanked him and had her coffee.

  Eight

  The afternoon sparkled as if it was the first one ever, new and untried, and yet to fail. The hospital reception informed them that Dr R.S. Gautam was not on duty and referred them to his house among the staff residences located behind the building. They parked the car and walked through the empty lanes of the premises amid a lazy Sunday afternoon. The first knock on the door of the doctor’s first floor house was met with silence; they waited, sure that he was home and resting. In response to the second knock, the door was impatiently opened by a man in a crumpled shirt and slacks.

  He listened sleepily as Salat explained they had a few questions about an accident that took place a few months ago. But the doctor’s focus returned rapidly as he recognized Mira.

  ‘You!’ he said indignantly and stepped into the corridor. ‘I have had enough of your accident for one Sunday! First, it was the policeman an hour ago, who wanted every little detail. And now, you! How dare you, even you, come to ask me questions? You know all about it, for god’s sake!!’

  Salat glanced at Mira; Nuri had meant his words and had already sought police assistance to find Sikander. The second clue must have led them to investigate her accident.

  ‘I am not here to ask about the accident,’ Mira clarified. ‘I want to know if a man had come asking about it a few weeks ago.’

  The doctor’s exasperation quickly vanished. ‘Eager to know, aren’t you?’ he asked kindly.

  Mira was confused by his thoughts. ‘Perhaps yes,’ she answered unsurely.

  ‘Well, if you ask me, you still have a chance.’

  Mira said, puzzled, ‘A chance for what?’

  ‘To get back the man you love.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘‘You don’t have to pretend,’ the doctor assured her. ‘I know everything.’

  Mira stared at him, baffled.

  Salat cleared his throat gently. ‘You see, Doctor Gautam,’ he smiled, ‘I joined this interesting newspaper only recently. So why don’t you tell me what’s this is all about?’

  ‘Well, it seems their relationship ended sometime ago,’ the doctor confided. ‘Sikander was travelling when she had the accident, and when he returned, he was naturally concerned.’ The doctor glanced at Mira, who was looking a little dazed. ‘Can you believe it? He even said you would come searching for him, just as he had come for you,’ he said, getting overwhelmed. ‘You two have a true bond.’

  Amused, Salat glanced at her astonished face, then turned back to the doctor. ‘When did you meet Sikander?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago, I think. You see, I regularly interact with families or friends of patients to help in the recovery process. I pay special attention to accident cases. So, I met with this extraordinary man who sought to know the smallest detail. I mean, if this is not love . . .’

  ‘What,’ Mira managed with effort, ‘did he ask you?’

  ‘About how you felt during the accident, how you were rescued and how much blood you lost. It was clear how much he still cared for you.’

  ‘Was it?’ Mira said, trenchantly.

  The doctor assessed her. ‘I can see you resent him; you even dislike my praise for him. But let me tell you why I liked him, Mira. I get a lot of questions about accident cases as I work in the emergency ward of this hospital. People ask me about recovery, relapse and rehabilitation—the usual. But Sikander asked me things no one ever had; like how you looked when you were unconscious, what your first words were when you woke up, what your memory was and what your dreams were.’

  ‘Dreams?’ Salat repeated, uncertain.

  The doctor nodded and addressed her again. ‘He wanted to know if I could tell what dreams you had, if you dreamt of finding or losing, of knowing or forgetting. He wanted to know if you smiled in your sleep,’ the doctor continued, ‘if you cried in your dreams, and if you cried no more.’

  As he recalled Sikander’s questions, Mira felt the words slip in between her breath like glass to settle deep in her heart, waiting to hurt her later. Then the words ceased and the silence returned her strength. ‘I thought he asked about my shoulder injury,’ she observed.

  The doctor confirmed that. ‘Sikander was concerned about your shoulder injury, and I assured him you had a full recovery. I also asked him why your relationship didn’t work, I had to,’ the doctor justified, ‘he was so melancholic.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He was unwilling to speak at first, and later, I understood the reason. It’s not easy to speak about unhappy love stories. But tell me this, Mira’, he asked tragically, ‘Was his love not enough? So what if he wasn’t rich and successful?’

  Mira didn’t know what to say and desperately turned to Salat.

  ‘What gave you that feeling, doctor?’ Salat asked.

  ‘It was so obvious!’ he declared. ‘He was poor and struggled to barely survive. His obvious education and perfect conduct couldn’t distract me from noticing the torn, borrowed clothes, the grimy face, the dirty beard and the old shoes.’

  Salat and Mira exchanged a look; that description was not of the man in Sikander’s photograph. It was a disguise.

  ‘And yet, there was something special about Sikander,’ the doctor continued movingly, ‘something you don’t find these days. He had faith.’

  ‘In God?’ Salat tried. ‘In the government?’

  ‘In Mira, of course! he informed him. ‘Sikander was all about her; every thought about her, every thing about her.’

  The familiar fear about Sikander gripped her again as Mira heard the doctor speak about his concern for her. Shutting off the doctor’s voice, she turned to survey the day from the doors of the stairwell.

  In conclusion, the doctor said to Mira, ‘He said you would come here to look for him, and I asked him for his address, just in case you felt remorse and wanted to contact him.’

  Mira turned to him sharply.

  ‘He didn’t give his address but left you a message. I have it here in the notes on my phone,’ he said and reached for his cell phone.

  Mira and Salat waited in anticipation.

  ‘Here it is,’ the doctor found the note. ‘Sikander said to tell you,

  ‘Don’t waste time tracing my steps, just go home.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘Just feel the depth of meaning in those words!’

  Salat chuckled and that offended the doctor.

  Mira was perplexed. ‘Is that the message? “Just go home?”’

  ‘Yes. Try to think about his sacrifice, Mira, his reconciliation with his own fate and loneliness. The . . .’

  Salat struggled to control his laughter, and the doctor studied him with disapproval. ‘Please look beyond the gold watches and shining shoes of those around you,’ he warned her. ‘That’s what I think, but it’s your life.’

  ‘I’m not sure anymore,’ Mira said scathingly. ‘Did Sikander say he would return?’

  The doctor fervently said, ‘Men like him don’t.’

  Mira took hurried leave of the doctor as Salat started laughing again. The sunlight, which was mellow before, now had acquired the edge of sharpened metal. It glinted as they walked to the parking lot and blinded them like the truth they didn’t want to face. They had found out absolutely nothing about Sikander, despite knowing so much about him. He seemed to elude them even though he was constantly accessible. He was making them dance.

  Somehow, they wished it rained again.

  Salat drove her home, and they discussed Sikander’s message.

  ‘It doesn’t fit the pattern,’ he reflected. ‘It’s so direct, unlike his clues.’

  ‘It’s not a clue, it’s an instruction.’

  ‘So, is he telling you to
stop looking for him?’

  She shook her head, fatigued. ‘It’s got to be deeper than that.’

  ‘There can be no limit with Sikander; he can be anyone, the tapes prove that!’ Then Salat added appreciatively, ‘But you were right that he wanted you to meet the doctor. That’s progress!’

  Mira leaned against the open window of the car and felt the wind on her face.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Salat continued, ‘there is another message behind the story he used with the doctor? The story of unrequited love?’

  Mira watched the passing trees. ‘To know if I smiled in my sleep or cried no more? I wonder that he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’ Salat asked.

  ‘That I can’t dream.’

  Salat glanced at her, astonished.

  Mira closed her eyes, the sunlight fell on her face from in between tall buildings, and she answered Sikander as he waited in her mind.

  ‘Happy dreams; what are they made of? Complete circles and happy endings? A body that’s not a cage; a soul that’s not a guest? But I like this arrangement, this hurtling down the slope towards the abyss. I like the transience of happiness. I like finding it somewhere between two desires and a lack.’

  The car halted suddenly, and Mira opened her eyes. They were at the corner of her street, and she saw two police vehicles in the distance; they were parked in front of the gate of her apartment building.

  Salat’s voice was urgent. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Mira wearily said, ‘Kill Sikander when I find him,’ then added, ‘All right. Let’s go and see what they want.’

  The car didn’t move. Salat smiled kindly and said, ‘Need my help again, is it?’

  ‘If you mean, do I need you to drive again,’ she said tersely, ‘then yes.’

  His face was set as he restarted the car. ‘You know, it’s hard to say this about a girl, but you have absolutely no regard for other people’s feelings.’

  ‘Nonsense, Salat,’ she said reasonably. ‘You can always say that about a girl.’

  The car drove round the corner and headed towards the waiting police vehicles.

  Additional station house officer, Sita Patnaik, stepped out of the van and met them as they reached the gate. She was an attractive, unsmiling young woman with small, keen eyes. She introduced herself to Mira and explained that Omkar Nuri’s office had informed the police of a disappearance. She scrutinised Salat. ‘This investigation has to be carried out discreetly; those are the special orders. Who are you?’

  Salat answered that he was working with Mira on the case. Sita asked if they could sit and talk somewhere, and Mira led them to her third-floor flat. On the way, but too late, she recalled the messy state of the living room. They discovered plates on the desk, newspapers on the floor, unwashed cups in the corners, half-read books in the middle and laundry in chairs. Salat was especially intrigued by an apple kernel that sat outside on a window ledge.

  When they were finally settled in the chairs, Sita recorded Mira’s name, address and age in her register. Sita spoke slowly and deliberately, as if she not just wrote, but memorized each fact. They answered her questions and explained the disappearance of Sikander Bansi.

  ‘What do you mean you have special powers?’ Sita demanded, her sharp eyes on them. ‘Who authorised them?’

  ‘No one . . . I mean,’ Salat attempted, ‘these are special abilities. We are both know-journalists and we . . .’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Sita said, relieved. ‘I know what you mean, and I have been curious for some time now. You do sensational stories, Miraji, and it’s hard to believe that it is all derived from your mind. Honestly now, who are your sources?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Mira said briefly. ‘We are the sources.’

  ‘I see. So what do your powers tell you?’ Sita asked indulgently. ‘Where is Sikander Bansi?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘The controversial tapes are getting you and your newspaper huge publicity. That’s good enough motive for Sikander’s disappearance.’

  ‘Motive for what!’

  Salat intervened, a little dazed. ‘You think we have kidnapped him, Ms Patnaik?’

  ‘Have you?’ Sita inquired calmly.

  ‘Of course not!’ Mira was outraged.

  ‘Then why are the clues addressed only to you?’

  ‘And that makes me a suspect?’ Mira asked incredulously.

  Salat explained, ‘This was entirely Sikander’s idea. You can ask his father, Mahesh Bansi.’

  ‘My colleagues will speak with Mahesh Bansi and also Nuri. But the real question is how to find Sikander, and the real problem,’ she pointed her pen at Mira, ‘is you.’

  Mira sat quietly enraged.

  Sita studied her closely. ‘When did you last meet Sikander?’

  ‘I have never met him.’

  ‘Talked to him on the phone?’

  ‘No.’ Mira was distracted as she began to sense Sita’s thoughts.

  ‘How do you know the tapes are from him?’

  ‘His father showed me Sikander’s letter and provided his handwriting and voice samples,’ Mira replied, keenly following Sita’s thinking process.

  ‘Is it not possible that Sikander’s father had fabricated these tapes, forged a letter from Sikander and got you to publish the tapes?’

  Mira knew Sita was about to ask that. ‘It’s possible, but why would he do that? The newspaper would have published such explosive recording anyway, irrespective of who got them to us or why.’

  ‘As the tapes were made by Sikander,’ Sita deduced smoothly, ‘Mahesh Bansi must have known he was bound to get involved. But by claiming that his eccentric son forced him to publish the tapes, Mahesh has become an innocent victim.’

  Mira disagreed. ‘I know Mahesh Bansi, and he is far too shrewd to come out into the open like this. If he had planned the tapes, he would have stayed behind the scenes, not in the spotlight.’

  ‘Ah! The special powers again!’ Sita remarked gravely. ‘Convenient, is it not, to attribute all crucial facts to just “knowing” them?’

  Mira did not answer that, offended.

  ‘Have you used your gift to figure out the clues yet?’ Sita asked. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘The two clues represent the same agenda . . .’ Mira fell silent as she read Sita’s thoughts ridicule her and then continued patiently, ‘He has established familiarity with my life and thoughts, as a counter to my own powers to read him. The first clue described my wish to die, and the second was about when I thought I was dying.’

  ‘That’s vague!’ Sita commented, dryly. ‘How do you plan to find him?’

  ‘By surviving his clues, which I know he thinks will be difficult for me, I can know his mind . . .’

  ‘That does it!’ Sita put down the pen decisively on the page. ‘I have had enough of this “knowing” business! Exactly what does it mean, when you say you will know his mind?’

  ‘Exactly that, Sitaji,’ Mira informed her.

  ‘I am not convinced,’ Sita pursued. ‘As I see it, you don’t want to expose your elaborate plan behind this show. Fine, but at least lie creatively. Know his mind? What rubbish!’

  ‘Rubbish?’ Mira repeated the word, infuriated.

  ‘You can make all the allegations you want, Ms Patnaik,’ Salat intervened, ‘but we are not lying about our powers to know.’

  ‘If that’s true, sir,’ Sita suggested, ‘then you must “know” where Sikander Bansi is.’

  ‘We will know, but we don’t yet,’ he said. ‘Please believe us.’

  ‘Fine then. Make me believe you,’ she challenged. ‘Let’s see what you can “know” about me.’

  Salat raised a hand. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would,’ Sita sighed. ‘I want both of you to accompany me to the police station, where you will be detained until you “know” how to get out.’

  Mira considered her, curious. ‘If that’s how you will be
lieve us then . . .’

  ‘No, Mira, please,’ Salat stopped her hurriedly.

  ‘She asked for it,’ Mira pointed out.

  Then she turned to Sita. ‘Let’s see.’ She smiled in her deceptively friendly manner. ‘Well, I “know” that you are unhappy in your job and wonder if you were right to join the police force. The last two years . . . no, three years in the service have revealed the truth . . .’

  Sita interrupted derisively. ‘That would be true of almost any idealist who takes up any job in the system.’

  Mira admitted that and then said, ‘You don’t want to investigate Nuri’s complaint; you rather that the Parliament tapes are published. But your disinterest is in contrast to how diligently you write down facts and how passionately you interrogate . . .’

  ‘Is this all you got? Really?’ Sita demanded, taunting. ‘I myself told you I like your stories, and everyone in my police station knows I love police work. Perhaps, you knew I was assigned to this case and checked up on me before this meeting.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Mira chuckled, enjoying herself now. ‘All right then. Let’s try something outside your police station,’ she said, her dark eyes intense. ‘You are not sure about your fiancé anymore, you don’t know if you want to marry him. But you don’t have the courage to break the relationship, not because it will hurt him, but because you are afraid of being alone.’

  Salat winced. Sita was enraged but also a little confused. She asked suspiciously, ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘You,’ Mira said.

  Sita frowned.

  ‘You keep tugging at that ring,’ Mira gestured to her hand, ‘as if it was not yet part of your life. You have said yes to the marriage, but you don’t mean it anymore.’

  Sita checked the ring, concerned.

  ‘You don’t take it off. The sheen is gone from the gold, and that’s not because you like the ring,’ Mira explained methodically. ‘He should have noticed how you mistreat the ring. You hope he does.’

  Mira paused, serious now, as she detected the real cause for Sita’s doubts.

  ‘He doesn’t want you to be a cop,’ Mira concluded uneasily. ‘He objects to it because you are a woman, and that’s unacceptable to you.’