‘Don’t we get our own?’ he had asked his father, upset at the shared tables. He had conjured up visions of grandeur from his father’s talk. At least the kulfi will be big.
When it came, Shantum was bitterly disappointed. Where was the foot-long slab of heaven that his father had promised? What was in front of him was not more than three inches big.
‘Kemon?’ asked his father expectantly as they both tucked into the ice cream.
‘Darun, Baba’ he smiled, unable to deflate his father’s happiness. ‘Wonderful,’ he gushed.
No wonder my entire childhood seemed small, thought Shantum, towelling himself. Nothing could live up to my father’s talk.
Arghya came running to him as he walked out of the bathroom.
‘When are you leaving?’ he asked Shumona, picking up the still sleepy boy.
‘I am out in an hour,’ she replied. ‘Can you please give Arghya his cornflakes and make sure he brushes his teeth first.’
Putting toothpaste on the child’s brush, Shantum handed it to him.
‘Ma says we are going out, Baba,’ Arghya looked questioningly at him.
‘Yes,’ said Shantum. ‘We are going to have an Indian ice cream.’
‘What’s that?’ the child asked.
‘Well, you will see for yourself. I hope you will like it,’ Shantum said smiling, watching his son brush.
‘I don’t like the underground here, Baba,’ Arghya said. ‘Why can’t we take the car?’
‘Because your mother needs it, and the metro doesn’t go to Howrah.’
‘But the underground goes everywhere,’ said Arghya, slightly surprised.
Not here, it doesn’t, Shantum thought, grimacing as he climbed onto a crowded compartment with his son. The Kolkata metro was the country’s first and the age showed. Despite recent improvements, it was no more than a few tracks, inadequately servicing its long-suffering commuters.
Shantum was surprised when he came to Rallis. The place wore a deserted look. The crowds which had thronged the place of his childhood had moved on to newer, shinier establishments. Rallis looked positively seedy. Shantum stood outside, unsure.
‘Baba, can we go somewhere else?’ Arghya tugged at his hand. Shantum picked the boy up.
‘No, Arghya, let’s eat the Indian ice cream and then we will go somewhere else. I promise.’
The kulfi, if anything, had become even smaller. Shantum looked doubtfully at the syrupy red liquid poured on the top.
‘Kemon?’ he asked his son hesitantly. The five-year-old looked up, his mouth full of cream, and smiled.
‘Darun Baba, first class.’
About the Author
Somnath Batabyal worked for a decade in journalism, covering crime and criminality, hobnobbing with politicians and policemen, before entering the quieter world of Western academia. His first book, Making News in India: Star News and Star Ananda, was published in 2011. He has also edited a volume, Indian Mass Media and the Politics of Change (2010). Somnath now lives in London where he teaches at the School of Oriental and African Studies. The Price You Pay is his first novel.
READ MORE BY SOMNATH BATABYAL
Sample Chapter
‘We must ask ourselves what kind of society we are policing, mustn’t we?’ Commissioner Pratap said to Abhishek, who nodded between mouthfuls of chicken biryani.
‘Let me tell you what happened the other day, which really made me wonder if I am the right person to head this force.’ Pratap helped himself to some soup. ‘Gruesome incident in Mayur Vihar. You stay there, don’t you? This man, posing as a courier, rings the doorbell of a third-floor apartment. It’s mid-afternoon. The husband has left for work, the maid has come and gone. Mother is giving her nine-month-old daughter a bath. She opens the door to a man who shoves her inside. He has a knife with him. He ties the woman to a chair, then takes his time going through the cupboards, the safe. He takes the jewellery, takes the cash, and after about half an hour he is ready to leave. Suddenly the infant starts to cry and he notices her. She’s still in the tub. Maybe the water’s got cold. She’s wearing these thin gold earrings. He tries to rip them off her ears. The baby screams and the man drowns her in the tub of water. Right there, in front of her mother. For a pair of earrings, he takes a life.’ Pratap paused and looked at his lunch companion, who had stopped eating. ‘Now tell me, how do I police this society? What kind of a man is this? I police human beings. Is he human? If we are to police animals, do I have to become an animal too?’
Abhishek reached for his notepad.
‘No, no. This is not for a story. I am asking your opinion. Tell me what you think.’
Abhishek answered slowly. ‘I don’t know, sir. I wish I did. In the last one month, I have seen more things than in my entire life. I have no opinion. Right now, I think I am just observing.’
‘Yes,’ the commissioner said kindly. ‘It must have been quite a month for you. I’m glad that you say you are observing. When you start having opinions, you can write editorials.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, editors and senior police officers are much the same. We have opinions. We don’t go out on the streets any more. It’s you guys – reporters, the younger policemen, my constables – who are our eyes and ears. We need your curiosity.’
Abhishek was enjoying the lunch but did not forget work. He asked the commissioner to explain the rise in kidnappings in Delhi.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the influx of migrants,’ Pratap said after a thoughtful pause. ‘People come here from all over the country in search of a better life. In the villages, in the small towns, everyone knew each other. They had an identity, right? You were the tailor’s son; somebody was the cobbler, barber … whatever. Here, who knows you? No one. There’s a feeling of having been set loose. People can do anything. And they do. They kidnap, kill, rape.’
‘Are you saying rising migration to the cities is a problem?’
‘No, I’m not saying that,’ the cop replied quickly. ‘The home minister would kill me if I said that, given his plans for a fifty per cent urban India. I know that’s the worldwide trend, but here it will wreak havoc, Abhishek. The entire social fabric of this country is being changed. Suddenly some people have got very rich. Others want it too and will stop at nothing to get it.’ He paused. ‘Look, I can’t give you a quote on this. Ask Uday. He has all the quotes in the world.’
Pratap poured himself a glass of water and then sat back on the sofa. ‘The other day you met that man who butchered his daughter. Uff, horrific. Why do you think he did it in Delhi and not in his home town? One word: anonymity.’
The commissioner suddenly looked tired, and for a moment Abhishek felt he had been offered a rare glimpse inside the mind of one of Delhi’s most powerful men.
Over coffee, Pratap told him, ‘I’ve followed your reports with much appreciation. You’ve done very good and impartial work, and you have rightfully taken the police to task. As I’ve offered before, we should work together. I’ve given you my personal number. You can come to me for anything you feel like. I mean it.’
Abhishek was ecstatic. ‘Sir, I couldn’t have done anything without your help. I appreciate it and will respond in any way I can.’
By the time he took his leave, the morning’s scolding had faded to nothing. Abhishek felt on top of the world. A month ago, he was just another college graduate looking for a job. Now he took part in thrilling police operations, wrote front-page news stories and lunched with Delhi’s topmost policeman. Had Abhishek been given to emotional displays, he would have punched the air. Instead, he kept walking, head down, hands in his jacket pockets.
His host was also satisfied with how the lunch meeting had gone. It had been calculated to do one thing: make the young journalist toe the line, and the commissioner was fairly sure that Abhishek had been bought. In his many years of service, he had never met a journalist who could not be wooed by power. They might scoff at money – in any case, blatant bribery wasn’t his style – but power was always an
effective, and cleaner seducer. A little homework on Abhishek had revealed his small-town middle-class upbringing. In years to come, Pratap knew, the gifts offered would have to be upped. But for now, words of praise and understanding from the establishment were enough.
There was one other matter. Pratap rang his staff officer. ‘Have you heard from Vikram on the Abhishek Dutta issue? Is something being done?’ A little destabilization would be useful.
First published in India in 2014 by Harper21
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers India
Copyright © Somnath Batabyal 2014
ISBN: 978-93-5136-995-0
Somnath Batabyal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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