by Kota Neelima
Sita didn’t speak, hurt. Mira glanced at Salat, apologetic, and he shook his head in a reprimand.
Then Salat gently analysed, ‘Your fiancé wants you to choose between the marriage and the police force. And, although you may hate him today for making you choose, you’ll thank him for it some day.’
There was absolute silence in the room for a while. Then Sita said with effort, ‘This is remarkable.’
They remained silent in remorse.
‘I have to report this, so I will leave now.’ Then Sita hesitatingly asked, ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Go ahead and file your report,’ Salat assured her. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
Sita listened to him uncertainly, Mira knew that’s not what Sita had asked.
‘Do exactly what you had decided,’ Mira told her. ‘Get posted away from Delhi and let the distance take care of the relationship.’
There was respect in Sita’s sharp eyes. ‘This is incredible! My colleagues will never believe it when I tell them.’
Salat settled back in his chair. ‘Which ones?’
Nine
There was no sunrise the next morning, and the clouds descended many levels of existence to rain away insidious plans. The story about Nuri continued to make headlines as news organizations across the country did their own research and connected the dots. The NP suffered damage due to the second clue, as much as the PP had done due to the first one. The NP’s response was exactly the same as the PP. The NP spokespersons repeated what the PP spokespersons had said, that the tapes were politically motivated and aimed at ruining the leadership’s image ahead of the national elections in January. Sikander’s disappearance was now an open fact, and his personal letter to his father was widely circulated. The newspaper was criticized by both the PP and the NP, which ensured that everyone else supported it. Know-reportage went through the usual dose of skepticism, especially on the assumption that Mira’s special powers would help find Sikander. But not everyone seemed to share that doubt, as Mira found herself under surveillance through the day and even at night. From her living room windows, she spotted a non-descript jeep with two watchers parked at the street corner.
The first meeting on Monday morning was a tedious discussion with the legal team about the special investigation initiated by the government into the new allegations made in the tapes. All documents, transcripts and notes made by the reporters were explained to the lawyers and copies submitted. Every phone conversation and interview was replayed, and every word spoken on record was cross-checked. Then they discussed the police investigation following Nuri’s complaint, and Mira informed them of her meeting with Sita and also about the surveillance on her. Munshi instructed that there should be complete transparency and full cooperation. ‘We are not the ones who have anything to hide,’ he maintained. Observing his easy conscience, Mira recalled his deals with Bansi and Nuri, and wondered whether being unscrupulous could be a virtue in the fight for truth.
The third tape reached her by the afternoon post under considerable limelight. A number of copies were made immediately and sent to Bansi, Nuri, the police and other investigative authorities. Though the tape was not yet released to the television channels, there were far too many copies circulating in Delhi for them not to reach journalists. The atmosphere in the conference room where the editorial department had gathered was sombre, even without the presence of Munshi. Every decision they took would be watched and weighed, every value measured, every opinion dissected. This noticeably reduced the chatter, and the room quickly settled down to listen to the new tape. In contrast to their subdued agitation, Sikander’s voice was strikingly calm.
‘Today is 5 April . The time is 12.30 p.m. I have just entered the Parliament building and turned left in the main corridor in pursuit of Ajay Sarkar and Bharat Kumar, as they walk ahead of me. They are headed to the lounges, and I’m following them in the hope of eavesdropping on their conversation from a seat close by.’
This was followed by sounds of the corridor and a medley of voices. Then there was silence, as if Sikander followed his targets into a room, and only a single conversation was now audible.
‘I don’t owe you an explanation, Ajay,’ a man emphasized coldly. ‘You can’t threaten me with meetings like these. You are free to leave the party if you don’t like my style of functioning, or,’ he added helpfully, ‘I could expel you.’
‘I just need an answer to a question, Bharat,’ Ajay noted flatly.
‘And I need you to be loyal to your leader,’ Bharat snapped back.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Ajay said, ‘You’re the leader of my party, but we are also friends. We founded this party together to work for the people, to cleanse the system, to make politics answerable. Our movement was about being different, being better than other political parties and politicians,’ Ajay’s voice was pained. ‘But what have things come to, Bharat? A poor farmer committed suicide at your public meeting, and you didn’t even blink!’
‘Don’t get dramatic now,’ Bharat said derisively. ‘You get passionate about little things like honesty and accountability. But what about power? How can I maintain power if I go about telling people the truth all the time? Have you ever thought of that?’
‘Our vision,’ Ajay pointed out tolerantly, ‘was that we wouldn’t have to lie to the people.’
‘Truth in politics is overrated,’ Bharat dismissed. ‘I won’t survive a day in government if I told the truth.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Ajay was forlorn. ‘Answer my question and then you can leave, if you want. It’s about the farmer suicide. You knew the farmer was there to commit suicide; he had announced he would hang himself when he climbed the tree inside the meeting ground. Everyone could see him but your meeting continued in a cold-blooded disregard to this man’s life. Even after the man killed himself,’ Ajay accused him, ‘you continued with your speech; you insisted, ironically, that your party stands firmly with the farmers . . .’
‘I know all this, Ajay, I was there,’ Bharat interrupted him impatiently. ‘What’s your question?’
‘Why didn’t you save the man?’
‘You mean, personally?’
‘Yes. Why didn’t you stop your speech, suspend your meeting and save his life?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bharat replied bluntly. ‘I didn’t think of it.’
‘Was it because you were sure he wouldn’t go that far?’
‘I suppose so.’ Bharat’s voice turned cautious.
‘There was a suicide note found at the site that was not written by the farmer. Who wrote it?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘The police said that the farmer was called to the public meeting by your party colleagues. The police investigation will expose how the farmer was incited to commit suicide.’
‘I have already dismissed the police investigation as politically motivated,’ Bharat countered. ‘That’s the best way to deal with such crises.’
‘But you are in charge, Bharat. You must work with the police, not against it.’
‘What nonsense! If I work with the police, who will I blame for the rising crime in the city, for the dismal protection for women, for the general feeling of insecurity?’
‘Convenient, isn’t it?’ Ajay was sarcastic. ‘The central government should take care of living standards in the city, and the police should ensure security. What about you? What are you responsible for?’
‘I talk about curbing corruption all the time.’
‘You talk!’ Ajay’s voice was restrained. ‘You’re right Bharat, you were elected for your rhetoric, not for your work.’
‘I don’t have time for your sermons, Ajay. What’s that you wanted to ask me?’ Bharat said, tersely.
Ajay was direct. ‘Did you know this farmer would be at the public meeting?’
Bharat didn’t speak.
‘Did you or any of your colleagues arrange this to get the attention of the media? Was it an accident,
was he never supposed to die? Answer me.’
Bharat continued to be silent for a few seconds. Then said, And you say you’re my friend! How can you even ask me this?’
‘Because I know you,’ Ajay explained. ‘I remember you from the days when you were not a politician. A few years ago we were all part of the movement to demand for transparency in government. Ratanbau, your mentor, was on a hunger-strike for many days to protest the government’s apathy. You and I negotiated with the government for consensus on our demands, but you stalled for time to stay in the limelight. You delayed resolution even at the risk of Ratanbau’s life. I know what you are capable of!’
‘And I know what you are capable of, Ajay,’ Bharat said, scornfully. ‘You want to be in my shoes and you are envious of my political rise. But you forget one important thing, my friend; none of you can be me. This party is not about Ratanbau or anyone of you. It’s about me! Understand?’
‘The party is about lakhs of people who donated funds for you,’ Ajay said sternly, ‘supported you and worked for you, because you promised clean politics, transparent governance and subsidies. You must deliver on what you promised.’
‘Which politician delivered on his promises in this country?’ Bharat demanded. ‘Clean politics and transparency are good slogans, but doors of a government must be kept closed for the public. Secrecy is power, transparency is for the powerless. Free water and cheap electricity won the election, but I can’t subsidize these for long. So I am already thinking of other impossible promises, just as a diversion.’
‘You ought to be ashamed!’
Bharat chuckled. ‘It got me elected!’
‘And how will you explain to the voters why you failed?’
‘I’ll blame the central government for stalling my work; blame the local agencies for not cooperating with my policies; and, blame the private sector companies involved in public works.’
Ajay asked sardonically, ‘Then you must have someone to blame for the suicide as well?’
‘Of course. I blame the police, the media, the Opposition parties,’ Bharat paused. ‘They were all there but didn’t help the poor man.’
‘You were there too.’
‘You want me to climb trees to rescue people?’
‘You would have climbed that tree if it was required to win the election.’
‘Are we done?’ Bharat said angrily. ‘I have a busy schedule today.’
‘Aren’t you worried what people may think, Bharat?’ Ajay wondered. ‘They had watched as you continued with your cold-blooded speech live on television news even as the man committed suicide.’
‘I know, the visuals were brutal,’ Bharat said pensively. ‘Perhaps, I will apologize. That seems to work always.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Politicians have never apologized for anything in this country, Ajay,’ Bharat explained. ‘People feel good to have an influential man apologize to them; it seems like an empowerment, as if I serve them and they are my masters. It’s theatrical, costs me nothing and the people don’t have to know if I mean the apology or not. It just makes them feel in charge.’
Ajay sounded distraught. ‘Don’t cheat the people Bharat, that’s not the right way to power.’
‘The right way to power is neither through the minds of the voters, nor through their hearts. It’s through their pockets.’ Then Bharat added, ‘They will forgive me anything.’
Ajay didn’t speak.
‘I hope that answers you question. Now, let me leave . . .’
‘I see no difference, Bharat,’ Ajay told him tragically. ‘No difference between you and any other politician in this country. I was wrong to think you loved the nation, you just love yourself.’
Bharat was patient. ‘Next time, let’s do this on phone. I’m tired of your disappointment with my success.’
‘That’s fine, Bharat,’ Ajay commented sadly. ‘Just don’t let people seek the satisfaction of your failure.’
They listened as the men left and the tape ended. It began again a little while later with birds chirping in the background.
‘This is the clue for Mira,’ Sikander said in an optimistic voice.
‘Why do you despair if you are a river? Others try a lifetime and die as ponds and puddles. Look up and choose the sky for today, that’s your destiny. Draw from the river at any point, that’s your origin. You will find me when you find yourself, in that place you go to recover your faith.’
Dubey was upset with the tape. ‘I don’t believe this conversation took place,’ he shook his head. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘But Ashok . . .,’ Bhaskar tried to reason.
‘Don’t try to convince me! I know Bharat and I simply cannot believe he is capable of such heartlessness.’
That was expected. Dubey was a staunch supporter of Bharat Party and an emotional follower of Bharat Kumar. It usually coloured his judgment, which was why no one took him seriously now.
Bhaskar was firm. ‘If the story is confirmed, we will carry it.’
‘Can’t you see this is a conspiracy?’ Dubey protested. ‘The traditional political parties, like PP and NP, are trying to discredit Bharat Kumar and his revolution.’
‘We will run it only after verification . . .’
‘If we run this story, we would help all those with vested interests against clean politics.’
‘You heard the tape, Ashok. Is this clean politics?’ Bhaskar inquired.
Dubey couldn’t answer.
Bhaskar glanced around the table for any further objections, but there were none.
The discussion began about people’s versions required for tape verification and further questions that required answers. The new recording was set to start another controversy, and after the last two tapes, Bhaskar wanted to be prepared.
‘The earlier tapes were posted on our website on the day of publication,’ Bhaskar mentioned. ‘But this time, the tape will reach the channels much before we publish it. So, we need a media strategy.’
‘Someone should represent us on television and articulate our coverage process,’ Lina suggested. ‘For instance, someone like Salat.’
Salat disagreed with her and said it had to be Mira. Everyone countered that Mira never allowed any publicity, a reason why even her photograph was not on the newspaper website unlike other assistant editors. Mira clarified that she had no objection if Salat spoke about the tapes on television. After a brief discussion, Salat was nominated for the job.
Lina then turned to Mira. ‘I noticed there is something personal about every clue, Mira,’ she remarked, intrigued. ‘Does Sikander really want you to kill yourself?’
Mira cordially asked, ‘Don’t you?’
‘Not always,’ Lina said evenly, then repeated with great forbearance. ‘Why are the clues so personal?’
Mira decided to answer this time. ‘Sikander Bansi believes his clues will overwhelm me and make it impossible for me to find him.’ She paused. ‘He is right; I do get hurt by every clue. But with every clue, he gives himself away too. It’s almost worth the pain.’
Everyone was quiet, astonished.
‘Well, if you were to ask me, Lina,’ Salat intervened to end the uncomfortable silence, ‘about why Sikander sends such personal clues, I would say that the man is struggling to impress Mira with his poetry. And seems to know it won’t be easy.’
There were chuckles around the table, and even Mira smiled. Putting aside his reservations, Dubey plunged into the preparations for the day. ‘Let me call the reporters who covered Ratanbau’s hunger strike to revisit their experiences. We should get the background stories from Patna.’ Bhaskar approved the idea and they discussed the general deployment of reporters to cover all angles of the story.
Mira glanced out at the grey rain from the windows. Like the rest of the clues, the third clue of Sikander was designed to damage and kill her slowly from inside out. But he also made mistakes, and in the third one, the mistake he made was very special. In the firs
t clue, he misconstrued her wish for death as an escape; she wished it as a destiny. In the second, he mistook that rain set her free from herself; rain returned her to herself. But the third clue proved that Sikander believed there was nothing left for him to know about her. Origin and destination—Sikander was convinced that the two things that defined her life would decide her death as well.
‘Look up and choose the sky for today’
It was not that easy, however. How does one find the perpetual source of meaning to everyday existence? Is there a physical junction where everything mundane intersected with something greater?
You will find me when you find yourself.
It was not that simple either. In his attempt to know her, Sikander had taken her apart and expected she would come together again on her own. But she had never been whole; there was no place, no thing and no one from where she could recover the parts that were lost. She had always been much less than the sum of her parts.
In a way, Delhi was where all the residual powers of fate were stored, preserved in the delicate layers of chance, folded along seams of time and perfumed with ancient dawns of autumn. Delhi never dissolved in blood or ink; didn’t vapourise or disperse. Naturally, there would always be attempts to disprove any claims of such tangible immortality in this world, even though they may only strengthen it at the end. One such attempt was scheduled for that evening, as the television channels aired the third Parliament tape and announced the demise of the political class of Delhi. No political party—the ruling PP, the Opposition NP or even the revolutionary new BP—was fit to rule the nation. Delhi had failed, perhaps for the last time.
The noisy day crashed into the static evening like glass against concrete. Salat began his rounds of television studios, and the editorial department followed him on different news channels from the newsroom. The discussions were packed with experts who served aces at each other, and the anchors turned into umpires, counting points. It did not take long for everyone to discover the main problem with the tapes; the recordings did not pick sides and told the truth the way it was. The facts could not be manipulated to produce the truth of one’s choice. No one liked this kind of truth, the kind that made no one happy.