by Kota Neelima
Bhaskar tried again, ‘So you know who it was?’
Sikander’s head was still lowered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You know, any leads would be most helpful to find the assailant, Mr Bansi.’
Sikander didn’t answer. Salat took an angry step towards him, but Bhaskar restrained him.
He asked a third time. ‘Who attacked her, Mr Bansi? Why won’t you tell us?’
Sikander just said, ‘Because it’s my score to settle.’
‘That’s rubbish! You are shielding someone,’ Salat accused him. ‘It’s someone you know, someone more important to you than Mira!’
Sikander looked up at those words, offended deeply, his dark eyes enraged. Salat frowned at the challenge and moved closer. The waiting aide rushed to intervene, but Sikander gestured him not to. Bhaskar could see Sikander was taller than Salat, but Salat was stronger. They were all still for a moment, the confrontation pending. Then surprising everyone, Sikander stepped back from Salat and lowered his eyes again. Salat glared at him and spoke mockingly. ‘This is the man Mira was ready to even die for. I wish she never finds out.’
Bhaskar noticed Sikander’s control as he turned away from Salat. That made Salat hold his shirt and make him turn back.
‘Who tried to kill her, Sikander?’ Salat demanded, outraged. ‘I don’t care what it takes, but you will tell me!’
Sikander met his eyes indifferently, and then glanced at Salat’s hands on his shirt. That’s when Salat suddenly saw he touched Mira’s blood stains and hurriedly pulled away. He stared at his hands distraught and glanced at Sikander who regarded him steadily.
‘It speaks, doesn’t it, her blood?’ Sikander inquired. Salat stepped back from him, unnerved.
‘It tells me things I don’t want to know,’ Sikander spoke, his voice low with agony. ‘It makes me think the way I don’t want to think. I could even kill to make these stains disappear . . .’ He paused, too anguished to speak. Then said, ‘Because I shed her blood, and she won’t stop thanking me for it.’
Soon, Salat and Bhaskar started receiving calls asking about the attack on Mira. A few photographers, who wanted to get a picture of Sikander, were intercepted by the hospital security and politely herded out to the front porch. There they were allowed to set up their cameras and wait for Sikander to emerge. Visitors to the emergency area were screened, and anyone with a press card was disallowed. As measures such as these inevitably made journalists more curious, they managed to sneak in through other entrances and on other pretexts. They found Sikander in the waiting area and jostled with his aides to ask him questions.
‘Why did you make the tapes?’
‘How did you select your targets?’
‘What recording equipment did you use?’
‘Why did you choose Mira Mouli?’
‘Who do you think hurt her?’
‘What will you do next?’
Sikander sat in silence, lost in thought. Salat observed him from a distance without rescuing him. He was still angry with him, but he also noticed something special about the peace on his face, as if he knew he deserved the punishment. Salat leaned forward in his chair, his knower’s mind working out patterns of what he knew about Sikander. Intrigued, his eyes narrowed as he saw Sikander sit absolutely still amid the open notebooks and poised pens.
After about an hour, the doctors came out to speak with friends or family, and led the three of them into the briefing room. They informed that Mira had survived the surgery, but until she regained consciousness, there was still a serious threat to her life. Sikander asked when was she likely to wake up and they said if not within the next six hours, then probably never. That made others hold their questions.
The doctors were almost finished when Nalan walked in. He anxiously questioned the doctors and seemed to breathe again only after he learnt she was still alive. He heard their report mention the risk factor and wanted to know what it was.
‘Since she was brought to the hospital,’ the head of the team said, ‘we have struggled hard to keep her from giving up. Her blood pressure, her heart function and, almost every important parameter has slipped despite our best efforts. We have been unable to find any physical cause and believe it to be psychological. We usually see this in suicide cases, wherein the patient doesn’t have a will to live. But this was an attempted murder, so that doesn’t apply.’ The doctor finally admitted, ‘Honestly, we are mystified.’
No one responded to that.
When the doctors were gone, Nalan glanced at Sikander, his brown eyes on fire. They were seated across the briefing room, which appeared to shrink somehow. Even the small, featureless table between them now looked like a weapon. Bhaskar turned to Salat, apprehensively, as if to suggest they should leave.
‘This is not fair to her,’ Nalan said, his fury barely under control. ‘She could die.’
‘She would,’ Sikander agreed coolly, ‘if she could.’
‘You knew this could happen when you started this game.’
‘And you didn’t?’
Nalan face stiffened with rage. ‘She doesn’t deserve to die.’
‘No, but she wants to,’ Sikander pointed out. ‘You heard the doctors.’
Nalan surveyed him with hatred. ‘Thank you for making the call. On your request, the PP leadership has put me in charge of deciding your future in the party.’
Sikander chuckled. ‘Just thought it will give you something to do.’
‘You’re right,’ Nalan remarked sternly. ‘I will enjoy making you squirm.’
‘Then I must warn you,’ Sikander’s smile was intact, ‘I don’t squirm very well.’
‘I am a patient teacher,’ Nalan assured him. ‘You’ll learn.’
He stood up and walked to where Salat sat in the room. ‘Please do give Mira my regards if . . . I’m sorry . . . when she wakes up.’
Salat thanked him. Sikander, who also stood up, smiled at him in farewell before leaving with Nalan. Salat and Bhaskar followed, and saw them emerge through the main exit and reach the journalists who waited on the porch.
‘Why did Sikander ask for Nalan of all people?’ Bhaskar pondered. ‘They hate each other. It doesn’t make sense.’
Salat watched them face the press, and their aides cleared the way to their cars. ‘No Bhaskar, it makes perfect sense. When you lose a battle, you surrender to your enemy who has been waiting to kill you.’
Nalan advised Sikander not to answer the questions. Then he addressed the journalists. ‘I won’t speak personally, as a mark of respect for a dear friend who is battling against death in this very hospital. But I’m also here on behalf of my party, which has taken a decision that I would like to convey. I shall read the statement here. You can collect the copies at the PP headquarters.’
He glanced around, his expression melancholic, his face drawn. Then he read the statement from the paper:
‘The People’s Party has been most concerned about the cases of corruption in the highest corridors of power that a party leader and member of Parliament Sikander Bansi has boldly exposed. Unlike other political parties, the PP has a commitment to provide a clean government. The PP is always eager to take action against those who are guilty of any degree of misconduct in public life. To this end, the PP will question Sikander Bansi about the evidence he had produced and assess whether it qualifies for action.’ Nalan paused, then resumed evenly. ‘This investigation will commence immediately and under the supervision of party general secretary Nalan Malik. The PP leadership expects a report on the matter within twenty-four hours, based on which necessary directions will be given to the party and the government for taking appropriate action.’
That statement made the top headlines of the day. Stories circulated in Delhi like quinine in blood, killing any hope of Sikander’s political future. Politicians, bureaucrats and businessmen, whose carefully built facades had been demolished by Sikander, got to work against him. It was rare for the shadows of Delhi to join actual battles, but it was not unknown. Sikander
Bansi was no longer a promising politician by the end of that day. He was just a bad idea that had slipped through while no one was looking.
Somewhere on the margins of prime time news and corners of the first pages of newspapers next day, there were brief stories about Mira. These reports talked about the attack against her, the state of her health and Munshi’s statement that the newspaper stood by her. It didn’t seem to matter anymore who helped Sikander in his endeavour or why. There was no time to waste remembering, when the whole idea was to forget. And like an honourable person with a clear conscience, Delhi was very good at forgetting.
Salat was not surprised when Mira didn’t wake up that night or even the next morning. She was tenacious about death, and as Sikander had discovered, she didn’t care for one man’s love or another man’s respect. She was from that end of the spectrum where all these emotions merged into nothingness. It would take more than that to get her to return, more than mere refracted light.
He was still wondering about it when, at a formal meeting at the PP headquarters, Nalan Malik submitted his inquiry report to the party president Mahesh Bansi. That would have made a good photograph, but it was done inside Mahesh’s office and beyond the reach of cameras. The report, according to the news channels, had three sections. The first one was an exhaustive list of people mentioned in the tapes and the allegations against them, which showed how dangerous Sikander could be. The second section was an interview with Sikander, which proved how dangerous he really was. The third part contained the findings of the investigation, which suggested how to deal with such danger to the party.
As with all internal reports of political parties not open to the press, it was on the news within one hour of its submission. In two hours, the full copy was with senior journalists in newspapers, including Dubey. Shortly afterwards, Munshi called a quick meeting at 4 p.m. to discuss the implications of the report and the impact on the newspaper’s stories about the tapes. This was the second meeting of the day, and everyone had kept tabs on Mira’s condition in the hospital. There was a moment’s silence as they all sat round the table, aware of the possibility that she might never attend another meeting with them again. Dubey shook his head, as if dismissing a nasty thought. Lina’s lovely face was flushed with emotion, and Bhaskar frowned broodingly. Munshi sat with his eyes lowered, grim. Then he looked up at Salat.
‘Salat, can you please ensure that the hospital agrees to a special request?’
‘Sure.’
He glanced around the table impatiently. ‘If Mira can’t come for the meeting, let’s take the meeting to her.’
There was a wary silence.
‘Call your contacts and please arrange visitors’ passes for all of us and deal with whatever hospitals do to keep away loved ones from patients. We will be there immediately.’ He paused, and then threatened, ‘And we will stay there for as long as it takes!’
Salat stared at him, astonished, and then rushed out of the room to make the calls. Munshi glanced at the stunned faces in a warning. ‘Now, don’t think this sets a precedent. You have to be on the death bed for me to do this, all right?’
Everyone nodded, then smiled at his warning. Eventually, even Munshi smiled back at them.
The hospital allowed them only half an hour and with only two extra chairs in the room. They had to lose their shoes, wear surgical masks and wash their hands. Munshi commented that if Mira did wake up now, she would never stop laughing at them. He occupied one of the chairs, and the other was given to Lina. The rest leaned against the walls, with notebooks open in their hands. Mira lay still, a blanket pulled to her shoulders, her hair still covered. An oxygen cannula reached her nose, and wires connected her to monitors on the wall. They sat in frozen silence, the fear of losing her was more real now.
As always, it was Dubey who remembered his duties. He referred to the summary of the inquiry report. ‘I have here the gist of the report submitted by Nalan Malik to the PP leadership today. He was given one day to complete his investigation and question Sikander. It’s believed that Sikander asked his father to put Nalan in charge of this investigation, a choice that other leaders had no problem with supporting. This happened yesterday and surprised everyone that Sikander should prefer Nalan, a man who expressly worked against him. Today we find an answer in this report . . .’
‘You know Ashok,’ Munshi said, his voice muffled from behind the mask, ‘if you don’t get to the point soon, I might end up in the next room of this hospital.’
Dubey hurriedly nodded. ‘In brief, the report had found various faults with the manner in which Sikander recorded the incidents. Nalan has questioned the ethics of hidden recordings and contended that it is human nature to be inaccurate about events when making informal remarks. And yet, he has left it to the courts to consider the evidence. He has also strongly recommended action against members of government and party who have been mentioned in the tapes. That includes himself.’
‘Brilliant as usual!’ Munshi noted. ‘Nalan Malik knows he must not be seen as shielding the corrupt. He knows people have already judged the tapes through the media. And that Sikander is a hero.’ He paused, ‘There will be no action against anyone. I talked to Mahesh Bansi on phone in the morning today. This is just an exercise for public perception. The Parliament tapes will be given a decent and quick burial, and Sikander an equally decent and quick promotion.’
‘But how can the PP brush aside conversations inside Parliament that revealed sordid deals?’ Lina asked.
‘Who will demand action?’ Bhaskar countered. ‘The Opposition National Party? Omkar Nuri? There is a tape against every one of them, but they cannot denounce Sikander’s work either.’
Munshi glanced at Dubey. ‘You were saying something about how this report explains why Sikander chose Nalan to investigate him?’
‘Yes.’ Dubey pointed to the CD of the report on the table next to him. ‘The politics of the investigation should have been to reprimand Sikander for his methods and later build a case for his expulsion from the party. Instead, Nalan does not suggest any action against Sikander and even recommends that he should be complimented for keeping an eye on general misconduct.’
‘That sounds like the deal,’ Lina said. ‘I agree with Ashok.’
Bhaskar disagreed. ‘That couldn’t have been the deal. Mahesh Bansi would have never allowed his son to be expelled. He couldn’t have remained the party president after that; his rivals would have ensured it. No, Mahesh Bansi had to demonstrate his clout by protecting his son. Although, on a personal level, I’m sure he must have already disowned every action of Sikander.’
‘If that’s not the deal,’ Munshi asked, ‘then why did Sikander ask for Nalan to head the investigation against him?’
No one had an answer to that.
‘Mira could have given us an idea about how Sikander thinks,’ Dubey observed sadly. Then asked, ‘What do you think, Salat? You are a knower too.’
Salat had stood near the wall in silence and observed her with worry. But Dubey’s question focused him. ‘I only know a few things about Sikander,’ he replied, ‘especially after meeting him here yesterday. He is highly intelligent, motivated and intimidated neither by strategy nor by force. He knew his plan was perfect, that’s why he risked bringing Mira into it. And yet, he made one mistake and that cost him everything.’
Salat paused. ‘His targets in the published tapes were all chosen with precision,’ he explained. ‘This worked on two levels; it exposed the corruption and also helped his political career. And there was nothing anyone could do in retaliation. He himself was in hiding, and his frayed relationship with his father was well known. He doesn’t have close friends, and is unmarried and unattached.’
Salat felt his heart slowly fill up. ‘But even Sikander, despite his meticulous planning, missed something—that he would fall for Mira.’ Salat turned to her again. ‘That surprises me, you know. A man who could see into the future of his rivals and manipulate their present was blin
d to his own heart. That was his only mistake.’
Munshi asked, ‘Then that’s the deal? That she should be safe?’
‘If I know Sikander,’ he answered, ‘that’s why he surrendered to Nalan.’
‘So you’re saying Nalan was behind the attack on Mira?’ Bhaskar asked.
‘I don’t know that,’ Salat said, unsure. ‘But perhaps Nalan can keep it from happening again.’
There was a thoughtful silence in the room. It was clear that even though Salat’s analysis might be the truth, there was simply no way to prove it.
Dubey cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure the news channels would run through the entire report by tonight, and there would be little left for us to write in tomorrow morning’s newspaper. However, the channels won’t have the time to play the complete recording of Nalan’s questioning of Sikander. I think there may be a few stories lurking there that we can work on.’
‘All right,’ Munshi said. ‘Let us listen to the interview.’
Dubey set up the laptop on the table and played the recording. They heard Nalan’s cool, comforting voice fill the silence like a drop of blue ink in water, owning it slowly.
‘Today is 3 August. This is the formal interview of Sikander Bansi for the People’s Party panel investigating allegations of corruption against Parliamentarians. I’m Nalan Malik.’
There was a pause. Then he said, ‘Sikander, I have been directed to ask you questions to explain your role in the recordings that have come to be known as the Parliament tapes. Five critical questions have been selected and endorsed by the party leadership, and I request you to answer them as accurately and elaborately as possible. To aid you in this, I have already provided you a copy of the questions. Your answers will be made public and form the basis for any legal action that may be contemplated. Now, I hope that is clear?’
‘It is,’ Sikander answered.
‘Question number one,’ Nalan said. According to the chronology of your tapes, you made the first recording just a few months after you were elected to the Parliament. You must have had no time to study the working of procedures to know their merit. You couldn’t have even attended enough sessions of the House to learn how each issue was discussed. Why, with so little effort at learning first, did you go straight to demolishing a system we have come to cherish?’