by Kota Neelima
‘Won’t be necessary,’ the manger responded shortly. ‘We had confirmed your address and that you don’t have a police record. But we still need the other documents, Gopi. We have to be careful. We run a respectable book shop and crimes here are committed only between pages of a book.’
‘Or by authors who can’t write,’ Sikander said quietly.
The manager laughed. They walked away chatting and left through the back door of the shop.
As she walked out, Mira realized why Gopi could not keep any job for long. Sooner or later he had to provide paperwork to prove his credentials, and he couldn’t do that. So, the only way for him was to quit and find a new job. Besides, there was a compelling reason why Sikander didn’t want to work at the front of the bookshop. The television news was full of stories about the missing MP. Although his photographs and footage were limited, and his disguise convincing, Sikander wasn’t going to risk being recognized.
The mall’s storage facilities were located in a lane behind the building. Several doors connected them to the mall, but none led outside the premises. The entire mall was secured by a single heavy gate that was always guarded. With a few hours left to return to the ministry building before the offices shut, Mira settled in at the café across the street to watch that gate. Around 3 p.m., Sikander emerged carrying a backpack. He was once again wearing his faded blue shirt and dark trousers, and was headed up the main street. The sun kept the skies clear, as if it expected skirmishes with rain clouds any second. It was so bright that she could follow Sikander at a safe distance and saw him enter an internet kiosk. That was where he must make the CDs of the recordings, she concluded, as he didn’t carry any electronic gadgets of his own. As she waited for him, Mira decided she too must leave her cell phone in her car whenever she visited the lane in future. Sikander left the kiosk after half an hour and headed to the metro station. He changed lines twice, walked through the crowded lanes of Old Delhi and found an unassuming post office to mail a familiar brown envelope. She recognized that envelope in which she usually received the CDs.
When she was convinced he was headed back to Sangam Vihar, Mira left him and travelled towards the ministry building to recover her car from its parking. As the metro wound its way to the heart of Delhi, Mira heard Sikander’s voice in her head again, formulating itself into a character. It wasn’t just one of his many facades; Sikander could send her those personal clues because he was like her. That was the real reason why he chose her, the knower he knew as well as himself. No one could trace him down the conventional way. The only way to catch him was to think like him. Or her.
Back at the office that evening, Mira attended a meeting with Dubey to discuss an old copy of Dwarakanath’s confession of his crime that a reporter had unearthed. Her cell phone rang, and she silenced it without checking. The meeting continued, and Mira agreed with the general assessment that the document could be published. They then discussed the contours of the reportage, and Mira suggested she could refer to the document in her main story for page one. There was a knock on the door and one of the assistants came in with an urgent message for Mira that was left at the reception. Everyone waited in silence, expecting him to deliver the message. The young man uncertainly surveyed the four faces as if weighing whether he should reveal the message, then shrugged and read out from a note:
‘Tired of waiting for a reason to meet you. Please run into me by chance. Nalan.’
Mira stared at the assistant, stunned, and managed to thank him. Then she turned to her perplexed colleagues and assured them that the matter could wait till after the meeting. When the discussion finished after ten minutes, Mira angrily walked out to the reception on the ground floor. Nalan wasn’t there at the busy entrance of the building, and she recalled his message Run into me by chance. Sensing his thoughts behind those words, Mira stormed out of the office towards the shopping area across the street. The clouds gathered above, and grumbled about the delay in the rain. Then a few drops fell on her shoulders, as if to test her reaction. It was difficult to miss Nalan even in a crowd, she thought infuriated, as she spotted him turning the pages of a magazine at a news kiosk. And it was not because of his usual good looks, the usual white shirt and dark jacket, or the usual silver pen that reflected the light usually. He would look special anywhere with those knowing brown eyes that smiled in a greeting.
‘Fancy seeing you here!’ he said, breezily. ‘Don’t you work somewhere nearby?’
‘I do,’ she said, and added witheringly, ‘when I’m not dragged out of office by impertinent messages communicated publicly.’ He winced. ‘You should’ve known better.’
‘And you shouldn’t have given your name!’ She was indignant. ‘I thought there might be others,’ he explained.
Mira refused to understand. ‘There were, a room full of other journalists.’
‘Not what I meant,’ he clarified, amused.
She demanded, ‘Is this about another threat, like last time, in the guise of a warning?’
He didn’t speak. Then turned a page of the magazine. ‘Isn’t this about protecting a man who you know is manipulating you?’
Her dark eyes were instantly guarded.
Nalan scanned the magazine. ‘Or perhaps you slept at your desk yesterday, considering your car was in your office parking lot the entire night.’
She stared at him; she had forgotten all about that and was astonished he knew. It began to rain and enclosed them under the awning of the kiosk.
‘Someone gave me a ride,’ she replied evenly. ‘I didn’t need my car.’
‘That’s what I said,’ he assured her. ‘But I don’t think they believed me. You are risking your life for a man who has put your life in danger, Mira. A man who didn’t have the courage to fight this himself and is in hiding.’
‘He had no choice, did he?’ She reproached him. ‘If men like you had known what he was up to, you would have ensured the tapes were never published. You would have forced him to surrender the truth.’
Nalan nodded sympathetically, and turned another page. ‘But then,’ he noted indifferently, ‘it’s men like me who warn you, even when you think it’s a threat. Because it’s important for me that you are aware of the danger, and that you are prepared.’
He glanced at her. ‘Still, I have to admit. There is an allure about the rebel that cannot be denied. But just for your information, there are no rebels in politics. There are only politicians.’
‘That’s not true,’ she insisted, speaking above the sound of the rain around them. ‘Sikander is not playing politics.’
He chuckled and kept the magazine back on the shelf. ‘So, who do you think the tapes will help in the end? Me? Or the others named in the tapes? Or Sikander, the man being hailed as the new hope in Indian politics?’
Mira stayed silent uneasily. His words made sense.
Nalan’s smile slowly faded as he met her indecisive eyes and his own turned earnest. ‘I won’t forgive Sikander for many things,’ he told her, ‘but most of all, I won’t forgive him ever for leaving you in the middle of this storm.’
He regarded her, worried. ‘You have to be careful, Mira,’ he said intensely, ‘promise me!’
Unsettled a little, Mira did and thanked him for his concern. She knew he had meant those words.
There was absolute silence in the newsroom that evening. Every eye was turned to the television screens mounted on the walls. Mira leaned to her cabin door to watch the news; the PCB had just released a statement that if the latest tape was authentic, action would be taken against the erring officer and also the All Rights Party chief Anand Mohan for manipulating evidence. This breaking news filled the screens and Mira returned to her desk to finish her report.
Almost an hour later, Salat came back from the studios and after briefing Bhaskar, met her. Mira surveyed him as he dropped weakly in the chair across her desk.
She observed, ‘I see the limelight is making you sweat!’
‘So is Dwarakanath,’ he
remarked, fatigued. ‘For instance, he asked if we checked whether the conversation was meant just as a joke. I noted that only he could joke about a crime. Then he asked if Sikander played fair, why didn’t he confront him with the tape that was recorded secretly? I said Sikander would have if everyone else played fair.’
‘Good answers.’
‘I am tired!’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘You know, our newspaper seems heroic doing the right thing, but we walk a fine line here. We absolve ourselves every time because the tapes don’t spare anyone. The day we hold back a tape from publication, the day we spare someone, will be the last day of our glory.’
Mira nodded, she had realized that.
‘The problem is, I will be left holding the bag.’ Salat smiled cynically. ‘I will have to defend our fall on television, and I will fail. Not Munshi.’
‘That’s the price of the ride you enjoy today.’
He agreed. Then said, ‘Bhaskar says you filed a very good story today.’
‘Just getting used to the tapes.’
‘Or, Sikander.’
Mira was silent, taken aback.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Salat corrected himself. ‘You must have been too busy today to work the clues.’
‘I was,’ She recovered quickly. ‘My friend was in Delhi only for a few hours.’
Salat assessed her. ‘Someone special?’
She remained silent, unwilling to lie any further.
‘What about Sikander then?’
Startled, Mira asked, ‘What about him?’
‘Surely you see that Sikander has written you four beautifully crafted love letters and announced them to the world.’
‘What! Mira was flustered.
‘He asked you to die with him, hasn’t he?’ Salat raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s love; modern, urban, side-effect-to-anti-depressant kind of love.’
She smiled tensely.
‘If you ask me, it’s a little too upfront,’ he said, thinking. ‘I mean, you can’t just ask a girl to die with you. You need to get to know each other first.’
Mira managed to laugh and dismiss him.
‘No, Mira,’ he argued, ‘you have to like the fact that he spent time working out the details. Seems like a caring man!’ He analysed. ‘It’s also nice that he didn’t decide for you. How many men really leave it to the woman to choose how to die? That’s very progressive, you must agree.’
Then he leaned forward keenly. ‘But seriously, Mira. Here is a man who watched you and waited outside your house to know when you switch off the lights at night. Just the language of the clues shows how much he thinks about you.’ He stopped smiling. ‘He seems more real than that friend of yours today!’
Mira grimly met his eyes.
He nodded, as if he understood her silence, then abruptly stood up and angrily walked out of the room.
Thirteen
Mira had a sleepless night and came to office early on Friday. The empty newsroom seemed to still vibrate with last night’s edition, like strings after a symphony. She stood at the windows and recalled the thought that had kept her awake—that Nalan might be right about Sikander’s motives. It had rained all night as the monsoon reached its peak in Delhi. She watched the cement of the building indifferently receive the rain and channel it to the waiting drains. Whatever be his motive for the tapes, she could feel the truth of Sikander’s thoughts for her. And yet, the fact that he knew she was an orphan changed everything. There was reason for her mistrust. She had known deception to lurk, waiting, in the cool shades of affection.
I had not noticed him before that day, before he told me at the college canteen that he really liked me. At first, it had meant nothing. My every effort was focused towards education and deciding on a career to support myself. If there was time left, as a habit I spent it learning about the thoughts and lives of strangers. So, I had no idea what to expect when we started seeing each other. It was simple at first and we met with friends on the campus. Then we went out alone to watch movies, to theatre, or to just have a cup of tea. I was drawn to his kindness, the nice words he had for me. I got addicted to his attention, his concern. This looked like the place I had been waiting for; I thought I could rest my soul a while in his gentle arms. And so, I told him about myself. He seemed pained by my fate and was sympathetic; he even talked of a rescue that I had never imagined I deserved. There was still a degree of disbelief in me, I had seen a bit of the world by then, and people like him didn’t exist. I knew as an orphan I had no past and probably no future. But he said it was enough for him, and he meant it, I could tell. He said exactly what I always told myself, that I should be what I choose to be, destiny had no say in it. I understood, tentatively and vaguely, the meaning of love. I didn’t have to search for proof, I found it in his eyes every time I looked. Until he invited me to his hostel room one evening and suggested that it was time we got to know each other better. I consented, I thought I was prepared. But I stopped despite myself and said I wanted to wait. He was hurt, but I told him it wasn’t about him. He asked if I didn’t trust him or his love for me. I said I could refuse even if he loved me, and even if I loved him. It had to be my choice too. He laughed at that word ‘choice’ and said it didn’t suit me at all. He asked me what choice did I have in life? He reasoned that I had to accept whatever came my way. So, how could I refuse this?
Well, I did refuse and it was the end of that relationship. Although I was upset at my wrong assessment of the man, I was also grateful for the practical insights it gave me about the places I shouldn’t rest my soul. It taught me the truth about love. I was twenty years old.
Overcome by the memory, Mira sat alone in the empty newsroom. The silence in the long hall was unnatural and eerie. Words could be weapons, even if they were cloaked in kindness. The lessons were hard earned and couldn’t be forgotten; she couldn’t trust the affection of anyone who knew she was an orphan. That’s why she kept it a secret in the first place.
The phones started to ring at around 10 a.m. Callers gave information about press conferences, press statements and timings for photo-ops. The earliest calls to newspaper offices came from government departments, hospitals and the police, the first people to get to work in Delhi. Later came the calls from businesses, public relation firms and informal lobbyists, those who came in to work after a late night’s work or play.
The staff brought rain up to the office door, dripping from umbrellas, raincoats, shoes and bags. The peace of a newsroom was always uncertain, as if it was due to some malfunction of a device that should have already exploded. The nature of silence had changed from that restless recalibration before to a suspended detonation now. Mira shut the door of her cabin and reached for the envelope in which Mahesh Bansi had provided samples of his son’s bills and addresses. Vantage points, she thought, were important for her special powers to work. Like a street with a signpost in the corner that waited for birds and bystanders, or the shop window that changed the observers into the observed, or the traffic signal that kept the red longer than the green. Like the conversation she had overheard at Sikander’s work place in the mall or his habits she recorded from her secret balcony. His bills showed Sikander preferred repetition in certain things and risk in others. They were mostly from a handful of shops, restaurants, theatres and spas. The bookshops didn’t change and neither did the music shops. He drove jeeps and motorcycles, but owned three cars. He watched different movies with friends in theatres, different ones alone at home, he liked to party in clubs but preferred to drink alone at bars. His facades were his shields; he used them as a protection from the more abrasive materials of life. That’s how he learnt to break through her masks.
Sikander’s political career had been like a furnished apartment. He moved in immediately and could leave anytime without baggage. There were rites of passage he was exempted from and circles of trust he was born into. It was a given that he should shift to a visible, more urban constituency like Middle Delhi from the rural seat that he presently represent
ed. Visibility was one of the burdens of his legacy; secrecy was another. And the Parliament tapes proved how much he wanted to rewrite that legacy, which predestined his life. This may have been an ingenious way to get the tapes out to the press and yet remain untouched by the impact, but that was not all. Nalan was right; the tapes would be the making of Sikander Bansi.
The newsroom was buzzing by now, every chair was busy and every computer alive. Even though she couldn’t hear the noise in her closed cabin, looking through the glass, she perceived the constant ringing of the phones, the attempt to keep conversations low, the patience and forgiveness of mornings and the anticipation of a news day yet to be reported. It was almost as if she had imagined the peace before.
The PCB headquarters at Connaught Place was built of red brick and metal on some futuristic lines. Mira and Salat were escorted to a small conference room so clean it appeared guilty of hiding microphones and cameras. Even the green plant in the corner appeared dubious, and Salat walked up to examine it closely.
The fourth Parliament tape managed to provide evidence of something that had been speculated for a long time—that the PCB investigations were politically motivated and served whichever political party was in power. Soon after that morning’s editorial meeting, Bhaskar had directed them to meet PCB Officer Fernandes to dispel any notion of partisanship on the part of the newspaper and establish its innocence, if possible. Munshi had also reached an agreement with the PCB on how to deal with the fallout from the tape and wanted Mira and Salat to give the officer an opportunity to accept a face-saver.
Fernandes didn’t look like he had any use for face-savers. He walked in for the meeting exactly on time, and after introducing himself, wished them curtly. He was neatly dressed, and from his close-cropped hair to the shining shoes, he was sharp and angry.