by Kota Neelima
‘I had agreed Nalan’s lunch would be off the record,’ she clarified. ‘So we don’t have to mention that.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Salat continued to type. ‘Everyone is talking about the mighty Nalan Malik in our humble canteen.’
She didn’t answer.
‘What did he have to say?’
‘Told me about a letter Sikander had written in support of a company with anti-national links.’
‘Wow!’ Salat glanced at her for a second before he returned to the screen. ‘Did he show you the letter? Are we getting a copy?’
‘We will tomorrow,’ Mira said, ‘along with the rest of the world.’ Salat nodded. ‘This was expected. It’s Nalan Malik.’
Mira hesitated, then said, ‘I need to warn Sikander about the letter.’
Salat laughed briefly. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do, Salat. I have to tell him,’ Mira said seriously. ‘This will ruin all his work, and the Parliament tapes.’
‘He would have seen this coming.’
‘Yes, by counting on me to warn him.’
Salat shrugged. ‘You will lead the surveillance team directly to him if you visit that lane again.’
‘That’s why I need your help. Besides,’ she said uncertainly, ‘I owe you sandwiches.’
Salat stopped typing now, his sharp eyes, surprised.
‘Let’s try your place this time,’ she offered tentatively. ‘We could leave office together . . . then I might sneak out of your house in the night and return early in the morning. It’ll just take a couple of hours.’
Salat pondered. ‘That could work. Sure.’
Mira relieved, smiled. ‘Do you ever say no?’
‘Not to good-looking women who want to go home with me.’ He paused in doubt. ‘Or, perhaps, it’s the sandwiches.’
She laughed, and he smiled with her.
Salat’s house turned out to be a sprawling place with several exits to choose from. She opted for the garden door obscured by the foliage of an enthusiastic creeper. Salat warned her that every door would be visible from outside during daytime, and she promised to return before sunrise. It was 8.30 p.m. when Mira finally reached the main road at Sangam Vihar, it had taken much longer during the extended peak hour traffic. As she turned into the lane, she stopped in her tracks, astonished. The lane was transformed. The dark, damp end was shining with light and echoing with music. Flowers decorated facades of residences, and a sign glittered over the entrance of the lane to announce the wedding of a resident’s daughter. Amazed by the number of people milling around, Mira slowly made her way to Sikander’s room. But it was impossible not to get involved in the festivities all around her. Someone rushed along with flowers and handed her a garland, a few boys danced around to a melody and a lady handed her a glass of almond milk. It was difficult to tell whose daughter was getting married as every house celebrated, and every threshold was filled with colour.
Mira reached Sikander’s room and was perplexed to find it locked. He was usually home by that time and usually never went anywhere else. Except for the tea stall, she recalled. To check, Mira headed back to the entrance and prepared herself to brave the wave of celebrations again. On the way, she managed to turn down the sweets someone offered but was intercepted by two girls, who wanted to decorate her palms with henna. They were disappointed when Mira refused, and unable to see their beautiful smiles fade, Mira agreed and selected a pattern each for her palms. They settled on a step of a nearby house. The chubby strong girl in a green dress made the designs on the right palm, and the slim delicate girl in red on the left one.
The girl in green smiled at Mira. ‘You are married, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Mira answered, taken aback.
‘Really?’ She was disconcerted. ‘I have never been wrong before.’
The girl in red was intrigued. ‘How can you tell?’
The green girl confided, ‘It’s simple, really. Married women look at peace.’
Her friend was unconvinced. ‘That’s not true. Look at Rima, I have never seen her smile. And have you forgotten Nina? She is so unhappy.’
‘Of course she is. I didn’t say married women look happy,’ the green girl said impatiently. ‘I said they are at peace, because they don’t have to listen to the daily rants of their parents to get married. They are finally free of the guilt of spending one more day unmarried in their parent’s home.’
‘Oh yes!’ The red girl agreed. ‘Last month, when I turned nineteen, my mother found an eligible boy for me on a marriage website. I told her I wanted to graduate, but she said I couldn’t afford to study any further.’ She stopped, suddenly conscious of Mira’s presence. ‘My parents are saving money for my brother’s education.’
Mira nodded politely.
‘But didn’t your brother fail in the last school exam?’ the green girl asked.
‘So what?’ The red girl was sad. ‘It’s his money, his house.’
‘I don’t understand really,’ said the girl in green. ‘Why do our parents tell us that we are merely guests in their home? They don’t even consider me in their plans for the future because they are sure I will be married by then.’ She paused, distressed. ‘It’s as if I will be dead or something; just a closed chapter.’
Mira frowned at her words, but didn’t glance up from the henna.
The red girl’s face turned tragic. ‘My parents wouldn’t care who married me, as long as the dowry is cheap.’ She paused. ‘I don’t get it. They had an option. It’s illegal, but people do it, right? They could have just killed me . . . ’ She hurriedly glanced again at Mira. ‘I mean, that would have saved everyone a lot of trouble, right?’
Mira couldn’t look up at her.
The green girl disagreed. ‘I’m glad to be alive. I just wish my parents had left me at one of those orphanages, you know. That would have made my life!’
Mira’s hands shook, and the girls glanced at her questioningly. She apologized and made an effort to hold still.
‘If I have children, I hope I never have a girl child,’ the red girl continued. ‘I cook, clean and take care of the house and also study, while my brother plays cricket and fails at school. I wake up three hours before him every morning and sleep two hours after he sleeps at night. When he is married, his wife will do these chores. I don’t see why I should produce one more slave to this society. I will never have a girl child.’
As before, the green girl was more optimistic. ‘That’s why I want to be an orphan, someone who will live for herself and not for everyone else. She would just be a human being, just like the boys.’
Overwhelmed, Mira turned away to observe the lane.
‘What a stupid thing to say!’ The red girl exclaimed. ‘You think boys are human beings? I’m so disappointed in you!’
They argued the point, and that made Mira finally smile. But as she considered their pretty faces and sad eyes, she knew she too could have been one of them. She too could have been a so-called cherished daughter in a so-called loving family; an almost orphan in an almost home.
The feasts of the marriage were organized at different places, and one of them was the tea stall. It was packed with people celebrating, drinking and eating, and Mira tried to locate Sikander from a distance. As the crowd moved a little, she saw him in the middle, laughing at something someone had said. She couldn’t see him as people closed in, but she still heard his laughter. Glasses clinked, and people began to sing, drunk. Standing in the darkness outside, Mira was incensed by his freedom, for the way she felt responsible for him while he let go of everything as if he knew she would stop his fall. She glanced up at the starless sky and wondered. Nalan plotted Sikander’s downfall with inspired planning, and she understood that. There was passion in that hatred, but there was only surrender in Sikander’s love. It was difficult, it asked for too much because it asked for nothing at all.
Mira looked around helplessly, thinking. She was glad he wasn’t home; she now had a choice. If she went up to him to s
peak, it would change everything. Not because she would tell him about Nalan’s plans, but because it would prove her affection for him. And he would be forced to respond, Mira knew. She didn’t want anything from him, she couldn’t afford it because he knew everything about her. She saw him once more in the distance. He replied to someone, and there was laughter again. Mira studied his grimy face, dirty beard and old clothes, the way he drank liquor from the same glasses in which he had tea. This wasn’t equal, she told herself, this wasn’t fair to him. He still had something to lose; he still had everything. She never had anything to lose. And she still had nothing.
Determined, Mira turned and walked back into the lane. Careful with the henna in her palms, she used her key to open Sikander’s room and reached for the backpack in the chair. The notepad with the pen were still in it, and she wrote down a message for him.
‘Nalan has your letter in support of an anti-national company for an airport contract in your constituency. He will make it public tomorrow. Wanted to get your version, but didn’t feel like spoiling your evening—Mira.’
She stared at her words seriously. This would prove to Sikander that she had solved the clues but had not yet given him up. Wasn’t that what he had expected? That she would do anything for him? Well, he was right, Mira thought weakly. She dropped the notepad back in the backpack and left the house. On the way out of the lane, she paused at the tea stall and saw Sikander still surrounded by his friends. Mira watched him for a moment, letting him go. He smiled at something, and somewhere in the darkness outside the stall, Mira smiled back.
Eighteen
The rain beat down her bedroom window, but Mira suspected that she heard it in her memory. Not possible, she told herself, as she also heard the doorbell. Mira’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up in her bed to listen. It couldn’t be Salat, she was sure, he had just brought her home earlier in the morning. After that, she had taken a bath and fallen on the bed, tired, and slept deeply. Mira heard the doorbell again and rushed to the main door. Nalan was speaking on his cell phone when she opened the door and frowned at him in sleepy confusion. He regarded her coldly and continued with the phone call. Mira didn’t move for an undecided instant, and as he waited, his brown eyes registered her hesitation. Then she stepped aside reluctantly, and he walked in. He stood in the living room looking around and replied to the caller, explaining a voting process. She wondered why he was there. Then she checked her crumpled shirt and open hair. Mira moved towards her bedroom to change and reached the door when she heard him end the call. She turned, and Nalan glanced at her. The silence in the room seemed to be made of inflammable material that came with fire hazard warnings. He surveyed her for a long moment, his eyes hard with disbelief.
‘I got this email in the morning, online from a random address,’ he said and took out two folded papers from his jacket pocket. Mira could discern from his thoughts that it was Sikander’s response.
‘Let me read it to you,’ he continued levelly, ‘it’s just two lines:
“You have a letter I had written two years ago. Please find enclosed the list of sixteen senior leaders from all political parties who had recommended the same company before I had.”
Nalan turned the papers. ‘Needless to say, the list has every important name on it. So I can’t use the letter against Sikander.’
He glanced up at her, and she looked away hastily.
‘How did Sikander get to know about the letter, Mira?’ Nalan’s voice was calm, but the anger in his thoughts made her take a step back from the doorway.
‘How did he find out something that only you and I knew?’ he asked again.
Mira didn’t answer, didn’t look at him.
‘You warned Sikander, you told him of my plans. And now I can’t use the letter.’
She was silent, guilty.
‘But,’ he said trenchantly, ‘I never planned to use it.’
Mira frowned.
‘It was just a trap, Mira,’ he confirmed her conclusion, ‘and you walked right into it. I never meant to use that letter; it was just to make you go to him.’ Nalan threw the papers on her desk, infuriated. ‘And you did. Thank you!’
Mira was stunned by her oversight; Nalan had done this before. She shouldn’t have trusted him. But her concern for Sikander had been much more than her suspicions about Nalan. However, there was no need for guilt, she told herself. Even Nalan had hid his deeper thoughts and misled her with distractions. Just like her. And even Nalan manipulated her mind, or thought he did. Just like Sikander.
‘I know you sensed that I would use the letter.’ His voice was soothing, despite the damage it did. ‘But you see, this was the only painless way left to make you reveal where Sikander is.’
Mira struggled with his thoughts, then finally spoke. ‘You are lying. You don’t know where Sikander is,’ she managed. ‘You’re just trying to fluster me.’
‘Am I?’ he wondered. ‘Let’s find out if I have succeeded.’
He quickly walked towards her and, alarmed, she stepped further back. Nalan’s eyes were friendly until he noticed the colour of henna on her palms.
‘This wasn’t there yesterday when I met you,’ he said curtly, as he examined her palms. ‘Salat seems to be an artistic man,’ he mocked.
Mira faltered a little. She had forgotten about the henna.
‘I know you are not in a relationship with Salat.’ He moved closer, his black shoes touched her bare feet. ‘I also know you left his house in the night and returned in the morning. Question is,’ he asked gently, ‘where did you go?’
‘There were men watching the house. Why don’t you ask them?’ she suggested steadily. ‘I was with Salat the entire time.’
‘I don’t have to be a knower, Mira,’ he said severely, ‘I can tell just by your touch that you’re lying.’
Mira tried to free her hands, and he let them go. She could detect the familiar controlled intensity of his mind as he shut her out. However, from past experience, Mira knew how to open those closed doors.
‘You want a knife?’ she asked encouragingly.
‘What!’ Nalan took a second to recover. ‘Of course not!’
‘You might.’
‘Sadly, I like you too much for that,’ he informed her. ‘Now, where is Sikander, Mira? For God’s sake!’
Annoyed, Mira forgot strategy for a second. ‘Why is it so hard to believe that I spent the night at Salat’s house?’
He smiled forgivingly, and then glanced at her open hair.
‘I mean,’ she argued, ‘is it not possible that we had dinner together and . . .’
She stopped suddenly as he reached out to feel her hair.
‘And?’ he said helpfully.
Mira saw his fingers run through the strands. ‘And we didn’t sleep at once, although . . .’
He touched her neck faintly and traced it to the collar of the shirt.
‘Although?’
Mira tried to focus. ‘Although we saw the sunrise between . . .’
He pushed away a strand of hair from her forehead.
‘Between?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Between the clouds and had breakfast before . . .’
He vaguely felt her face, as if he recalled her from a lost time.
‘Before?’
She heard the change in his voice as she continued, ‘Before he brought me home.’
Nalan waited.
Gathering her courage, Mira opened her eyes. ‘I slept until you. . .’ she couldn’t complete as she met his serious eyes that were also, somehow, sad.
‘Where did you go,’ he asked absently, ‘from Salat’s house last night?’
Mira didn’t answer, the question didn’t matter anymore. His mind now opened to her, unfettered, and let her reach as deep as she wanted. It was then that she discovered his restraint was not to spare himself the pain she may cause; it was to spare her. Nalan’s intense eyes were honest and apologetic as he touched her face once more. Unsettled by his thoughts, s
he moved away to escape him, and even he stepped back, as if to escape himself.
He stopped at a distance and said, ‘This is no longer about the Parliament tapes, Mira. This is about retribution, and I don’t want you to get hurt.’ He paused, then added affectionately, ‘Not with that henna on your palms.’
Troubled, Mira turned to him. He smiled reassuringly and was gone.
She heard the door close and shakily reached a chair to sit, realizing she should never meet Nalan again. Ever.
The next tape was on Mira’s desk the same morning when she reached office about an hour later. Following instructions, Bhaskar made quick copies and took it to Munshi first, even before the editorial meeting. This was unusual, and everyone waited inquisitively in the conference room.
Munshi walked in after some time. ‘Let me inform you all that I have already heard the new tape.’ Then he smiled, making everyone reach for their shields and armours. ‘Excellent work on the Nalan tape,’ he said instead. ‘If we do not have a court case against us today, that’s because of your unexpected efficiency.’
They thanked him cautiously.
‘This is the longest-running campaign in the history of the newspaper,’ he told them and added acidly, ‘thanks mainly to Mira, who could not find Sikander despite almost half a dozen clues.’
Mira glanced up from her notebook.
‘But we have opened the doors to Parliament,’ Munshi continued harmlessly, ‘which have remained unfairly closed to the people to whom it belongs.’ He paused. ‘It is not every day that we get to know a man like Sikander Bansi, who seemingly sacrificed his own interests to expose what goes on in the corridors of power. I would have liked nothing better than to help him in his endeavor, but to be honest, I am not sure of his motives, and neither is Mira.’
Mira could sense where Munshi was headed with this talk, and she prepared herself quickly.
‘Sikander had faith that a knower would understand his reasons and his clues. Of course, he was wrong on both counts,’ Munshi said sarcastically. ‘Mira has spent the last two weeks making up exciting new excuses about how she had been unable to solve the clues or to figure out the motives of Sikander.’