by Kota Neelima
‘No.’
‘They asked you about Sikander.’
‘Yes.’
‘Whom you haven’t found.’
‘No.’
‘There is no evidence of a break in.’
‘No.’
‘No proof that they used force, like bruises or cuts.’
‘No.’
‘So,’ Sita summarized, ‘four unknown men working for unverifiable employers threatened you tonight by using unseen violence that left you unscathed. Correct?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Mira confirmed.
‘But not undeniably,’ Sita countered.
Mira had been searching for ways, and words, to convince Sita when Salat had arrived. After that, things settled down rather quickly. He searched the house and found a medicine for her headache, corroborated the police complaint and sent Sita away. Then, having discovered milk in the refrigerator, he made Mira have a glass before she went to bed. She also remembered he had vaguely mentioned about not leaving her alone ever. . .
Mira slowly opened her eyes again, and this time, they were clear of all sleep. The house sounded empty, but she wasn’t sure. There had been more people there during the last twelve hours than there had been in the last twelve months. She moved around, assuring herself, then stood in the living room reliving the cold fear she had felt last night. If it hadn’t been for Salat, she wasn’t sure how she could have escaped unhurt. Then she tentatively glanced out of the windows. The surveillance jeep was parked exactly where it used to be with the same watchers from last night and the same driver behind the wheel, the man who reported to Kim Sharma. It was as if they knew she could do nothing about them, nothing she could prove.
Mira stepped away from the window, intimidated, and got ready for the day. As she recalled the thoughts of the four men from last night, Mira was glad Sikander was in hiding. They were employed to stop him at any cost, and use of violence was a small price to pay to prevent Sikander from doing further damage. She picked up her bag to leave and hunted around for the front door keys. She was still searching when she heard the key turn in the lock. She froze in fear and then quickly reached for her cell phone to call Salat. The door opened, and Salat walked in to find Mira in the living room; her panic turned into surprise.
‘Good. You are alive . . . awake, I mean awake,’ he corrected hastily. ‘Thought I would take a chance, so got you some breakfast. Sandwiches?’
Too relieved to speak, Mira nodded, and he went into the kitchen.
She hesitated. ‘Thank you for helping me with that phone call, Salat. I don’t remember if I thanked you last night.’
He checked the microwave. ‘You did,’ he remarked, ‘about fifty times.’
‘It was really good thinking!’
‘Not really, it was just instinct. No one else in your life to worry or call, remember?’ He smiled at her. ‘Besides, as a journalist, I could spot leading questions, especially regarding my parents. It was easy.’
She smiled with him. ‘You know it wasn’t.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I just emailed Sita the picture of the surveillance jeep that’s parked outside. I hope now the police will take our word seriously.’
Mira disagreed. ‘That police complaint will never be lodged, whatever evidence we may have.’
‘I’m not bothered about the complaint, Mira,’ he said and placed the sandwiches in the microwave. ‘I want the police to keep a watch; that may deter others from planning another assault like last night.’
‘And you think the police will interfere with the business of PCB or any of the political parties?’ Mira inquired. ‘Sita Patnaik herself was investigating on behalf of Nuri. Remember?’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Salat said, upset. ‘Look, I know it may be useless, but I have to do something to help you be safe. I can’t forget that man on the phone last night or your voice . . . or that long drive here from my home.’
Mira was still, her dark eyes suddenly cautious.
Salat chuckled, apologetically. ‘Clearly, I have had very little sleep. Do you have coffee here, by any chance?’ He rifled through the cabinets. ‘Or rather, do you know, by any chance, that you have coffee here?’
‘Yes,’ Mira said absently. ‘There’s Assam, Darjeeling, Green, Jasmine . . .’
‘Thank you,’ he said, amused. ‘I spotted them last night, quite a collection of tea. Reminded me of Sikander’s kitchen.’
He turned away to make tea, and Mira stood in silent desperation. He was just a friend helping her out in trouble. Why couldn’t she let him be? Because he knew the truth about her, he knew she was an orphan! She didn’t need his help, his concern. It would all turn out to be a lie, and she couldn’t be disloyal to the lessons of her life.
‘I see that you like to keep your kitchen neat and clear of any kind of food,’ he was saying. ‘But what do you generally eat? Anything that’s visible and tangible?’
She interrupted him. ‘Will you lock up the house when you leave?’
‘Lock up the house?’ Salat turned around. ‘I thought we were having breakfast.’
Mira collected her bag from the living room and walked past him to the door.
‘Why are you leaving?’ he asked, worried. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ll see you at the editorial meeting in office.’ She opened the door, then paused. ‘I had to ask for your help last night because I was unprepared,’ she said, her dark eyes cold. ‘Won’t happen again.’
Salat was silent, his handsome face grim.
Mira waited until he understood.
Then said, ‘Sorry about the sandwiches,’ and left the house.
By 11 a.m. at the newspaper office that day, the next tape had reached Mira in her post. She handed over the recording to Bhaskar as always and walked to the conference room on the third floor for the morning meeting. She was ten minutes early and settled in a corner to think through what had happened the night before. The four watchers had been candid; they couldn’t give up until they found Sikander. She feared what they might do if they found Sikander in that lane, unprotected and unknown to the rest of the world. Mira closed her eyes and tensely felt her forehead. She just hoped she was strong enough to protect Sikander. That’s why she had to resolve the familiar fear she had felt last night after a very long time. It wasn’t the fear of pain or death; it was a cold, unresponsive chill of knowing that she was absolutely and irrefutably alone. This wasn’t the first time she had faced it, she told herself. Won’t be the last, either.
I never had to tell anyone every morning before leaving home what time I would return. I never had to call if I got delayed at work. I don’t have people who visit me or call me to check if I was all right. It is an easy thing to notice, if you are looking for the signs. There are those who do, and they always find me. They don’t go by the lie I have in my record that states I have an uncle. They don’t go by records. They know I am all alone, not just in this world, but also deep in my heart.
That was my last year at the university. The exam results were out, and students were moving out of hostels. I had to find a job quickly, and I also had to look for a place to stay. That night, I was walking back to the university, delayed from my efforts, when I sensed I was being followed on the deserted road. The gate of the university was still some distance away when I felt them rushing towards me. Who were they? What did they want from me? I didn’t turn to find out, and ran to the gate, shouting for the guard to help. Alerted, he came out of his post as I reached the gate. We turned back to look at the road. I was now concerned about the guard, he wasn’t safe from them either. They couldn’t be defeated, those shadows, not by other people anyway. The guard said he didn’t see anyone, and perhaps, that was just as well. I knew how strong they were, I had grown up with them. They came every time I believed I was truly alone. I have battled against them long and often. But they don’t surrender. That wasn’t in their nature, because it wasn’t in mine.
I carry fear in me, fear of being alone, lik
e people carry hope. I preserve it on a high, inaccessible shelf, so that mere men can’t reach for it. Not unless they promise something better, like my death. I realized I didn’t care for anything less. I was twenty-two years old.
The door opened and startled her. Salat entered the conference room and came up to sit in a nearby chair.
‘I’m sorry, Mira,’ he said, frankly. ‘You’re right.’
She blinked, surprised, ‘About what?’
‘I should’ve explained the reason I was back at your house in the morning,’ he said. ‘After the story we made up yesterday, it would have seemed very strange if I had not come to check on you. The four men might have disbelieved us and returned to question you.’
Mira felt that was possible.
‘I thought you would get it,’ he said. ‘That’s why I didn’t think it necessary to explain.’
‘It wasn’t important.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he asked quietly. ‘I thought that’s why you ran away.’
‘I didn’t run away!’ Mira countered sharply. ‘As I told you before, I just don’t like anyone to be concerned for me.’
‘Or was it because you would have had to explain where you were yesterday?’ he was persistent.
‘I don’t have to tell you where I was,’ she said, flustered. ‘It’s personal.’
‘Like that friend you didn’t meet the other day,’ he reminded her. ‘That kind of personal?’
Mira helplessly fell silent. Salat was offended because he could detect she kept the truth from him. She knew that very soon his mind would work out what it was. The staff came in to begin the chair ritual, indicating that Munshi would attend the meeting that day. He joined them a few minutes after 11 a.m. and nodded to Bhaskar, who played the fifth Parliament tape. Sikander’s voice was the same, but Mira now felt anxious thinking of him in that narrow, dark corner of Delhi. He sounded very far from it indeed as he introduced the location of the recording:
It is 9 March and the time is 10.32 a.m. I am at the People’s Party office in Parliament, where the meeting of the party’s members of Parliament has just finished. I am walking up to the room of one of the deputy spokespersons, Lochan Reddy, an MP from a southern state. The corporate friend I will refer to in the following conversation doesn’t exist and has been introduced just as an excuse (my apologies to Lochan).
There was silence for a few minutes.
‘Hello, Sikander bhai!’ A male voice called out. ‘Coming to see me?’
‘Yes Lochan.’ Sikander chuckled. ‘You look hassled, my friend.’
‘What did you expect? Come in and sit down, and shut the door . . . thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘I mean . . .for God’s sake, inform the MPs before deciding to divide their state. People are burning my effigies back in my constituency.’
‘I thought the division was taking place on popular demand and had the backing of the people of the state,’ Sikander countered. ‘After all, over a million people attended that public rally recently in support of the division.’
‘And another million attended the public rally that sought that the state should remain unified,’ Lochan argued. ‘This decision was not based on merit, Sikander. This was something else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Lochan sighed, ‘And I feel hopeless every time I think about it. Anyway, you tell me, how is your father? Do give him my regards.’
‘I will, thank you.’
‘What did you want to see me about? Is there anything I can do?’
‘Well, yes,’ Sikander hesitated, ‘But don’t mention this to my father. He doesn’t understand the new fund-raising methods. He still believes in the old-style politics that if you work and deliver on your promises, people will elect you. He doesn’t realize that it takes money, and not work, to make people believe that you have delivered on promises.’
‘Or not delivered on them, yes,’ Lochan agreed. ‘The Opposition will convince voters about the inefficiency of our government and will win the coming elections. The new government will be equally inefficient, but no one will complain because no one would have spent on the campaign against the new government. Until the next elections!’ He paused, helplessly. ‘People will never get to know these deals.’
‘Was the division of this state also a deal?’
‘Everything is a deal in the running of this government,’ Lochan reflected, cynically. ‘The question is who has bid the highest.’
‘That is what I wanted to see you about,’ Sikander said. ‘I have a friend, a corporate businessman, who has been a supporter and has contributed to my election. He seeks to invest in the state and wants the real picture from inside the party.’
‘A businessman would know more about my party than the party men, Sikander,’ Lochan felt. ‘But here is what I know The division of the state would have never happened if the PP had not refused privatization of natural resources and had not cracked down on militancy in the north of the state.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither did I at first,’ Lochan said sadly. ‘Local PP leaders opposed major industrialists who wished to privatize natural resources in the state. Fearing an impact on lives of common people, politicians of my state including myself, opposed it.’
Sikander heard him in silence.
‘The PP had curbed militant groups in parts of the state, and their movement was affected,’ Lochan continued. ‘Then, when resource privatization was stalled by PP, the demand for separate state was raised in the same parts, and was backed by industrialists. At first it was just as a warning to the local PP leaders to back-off, but when they didn’t cooperate, it became a full-fledged war between the industrialists and the PP government. No democratic government can survive for long against the unlimited funds of business interests. Then about a year ago, our colleague in the PP, Nalan Malik, proposed that the PP should support division of the state. Naturally, this idea was immediately backed by the industrialists and the process for the division began.’ Lochan added dryly, ‘This has ensured that no local leader of the two states will ever have the stature to oppose big business houses again.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘Yes, but who asks the real questions these days, Sikander?’ Lochan reflected, ‘Did anyone ask who funded the demonstrations in the state capital? Who paid for the travel and food for thousands of people who were transported to the cities to disrupt normal life? Who brought people to Delhi to meet leaders and address the press here? Who started new news channels to propagate the idea?’
Sikander heard him in silence.
Lochan was dejected. ‘Nalan didn’t have to do much. The system was already in place. But he was exquisite with his control of the events, the slow turning of the press, the damning reports of think tanks and the tragic hunger strikes.’
‘All the democratic tools of legitimizing undemocratic practices.’
‘Well, they work. We don’t want violent coups anymore, we will settle for opinion polls instead.’
‘What did Nalan get out of it?’
‘He is the most trusted politician in the country for businessmen today. His plan had ensured no industry suffered a loss in the state’s division, manoeuvred party politics and government policy to suit the funders, and where required, facilitated the exodus of investment, business, employment to better destinations.’ Lochan’s voice was forlorn. ‘My advice to your friend, Sikander, is to forget about my state. It has been set back by a hundred years.’
‘Won’t history judge?’
‘I doubt it,’ Lochan sounded resigned. ‘When people organize on the streets for personal gain, we have arrived at the end of history, my friend. What follows is various stages of the epilogue.’
‘But you are the people’s representative,’ Sikander urged. ‘Surely you can speak against what’s happening?’
‘There is a party whip that prevents politicians of the state from opposing the party decision. Besides,’ Lochan asked,
anguished, ‘where will I be heard? Didn’t you see how they passed the bill in Parliament for the division? Elected MPs of the state, who believed they owed their loyalty not to the party but the people, protested against the bill. The doors were sealed to them and others when the bill was passed.’
He paused. ‘We forget to question the system at our own peril, Sikander.’
The ringing of the quorum bell interrupted them.
‘I guess we should go in,’ Sikander said.
Lochan refused. ‘This is not the Parliament I want to be part of. I cannot occupy the same benches as people whose silence or support is up for sale. It weighs on my conscience that I couldn’t even make my arguments before this House. I can no longer attend such a gathering.’
‘Then let’s leave,’ Sikander suggested. ‘This country is more than its Parliament.’
There was the sound of a door opening as they stepped into the corridor.
‘You listen well for a politician, you know,’ Lochan complimented. ‘Listening to people is a habit that governments lose when they gain power and find when they lose power.’
‘Then I hope I always have the power to listen,’ Sikander replied.
Their voices merged with the crowd, and the recording ended. When it restarted, Sikander said:
‘This is the clue for Mira: Layers of different lives obscure what you truly know. You know that you don’t have to find me. You are never without me, and I, never without you. The masks we wear must be discarded because they are just masks. Let’s not hide anymore, let the sunlight shine on that indestructible soul, which neither fire nor water can touch.’
‘This is the second time Sikander Bansi has targetted Nalan Malik through the tapes,’ Munshi observed and glanced around the table. ‘Can this be seen as political vendetta?’
Bhaskar considered that. ‘It can be, yes. But if the tape can be verified, then it won’t matter.’
Munshi agreed. ‘Get the confirmation from Lochan Reddy, and give Nalan Malik the opportunity to respond to each allegation made in the tape.’