by Akhil Sharma
We were about to go in and check on Ajay when, one after the other, perhaps ten cars and police jeeps pulled up before the morgue. The boy who parked for Mr. Gupta popped out of one and began lining the vehicles in a row along the road.
Mr. Gupta came to me and Mr. Mishra and thanked us for coming. He was wearing the suit he had worn at the prayer. We, along with Mr. Mishra, several BJP men, police officers in khaki uniforms, and five or six of Ajay’s relatives whose names I did not know, moved together into the morgue.
Ajay was on a table on the second floor. The technicians had tugged a white short-sleeved shirt onto him, and they must have sprayed water inside his mouth and orifices, because drops kept slipping from his nose. The water somehow made Ajay appear more dead.
The stench was undiminished. My eyes teared from it, but perhaps from politeness, of the fourteen or fifteen men there, no one covered his mouth or nose. We stood around Ajay for several minutes. Mr. Gupta and Ajay’s father-in-law, a tall Sikh with a loose white beard and a shirt pocket full of pens, stood closest to Ajay. His father-in-law was the only one crying, in slow sobs, like a candle beading as it melts. The BJP men whispered among themselves. A neighbor of Mr. Gupta’s, a businessman, had taken off a heavy metal watch and was jiggling it in a loose fist. Two of Ajay’s brothers-in-law, boys about seventeen and nineteen, leaned against a wall and looked at everything but him. Mr. Gupta kept turning his head from side to side, as if he was waiting for someone else to take charge.
I had to betray Mr. Gupta soon, I thought, or I would be betrayed. Here was a man who could not scare people away from killing his son. How was he going to win an election?
“He can’t be taken home this way,” Mr. Gupta finally said calmly, “he should be put in formaldehyde.”
“Formaldehyde won’t stop the smell,” a technician answered. “The only thing that will stop the smell is a special coffin.”
The BJP men stopped talking. The brothers-in-law looked at Mr. Gupta. But no one said anything for a while. “Shall we arrange the coffin?” I asked. Mr. Gupta appeared lost again. The only alternative was to take the body directly from the morgue to the crematorium.
Ajay’s father-in-law said, “Yes, do it.” He had a rich British accent.
For several minutes the crowd stood still as Mr. Gupta watched the body. The doctor was supposed to come and reassure them that Ajay’s body would receive the best possible care. I did not want to stay for this. I told Mr. Gupta that I had to return home. He did not acknowledge what I said.
Mr. Mishra left with me, and when we were outside, he hugged me. “Be careful,” he whispered, “you are better than these thieves.” The road was empty and all the shops had closed. We walked half a kilometer or so to the nearest bus stop. We did not speak. Mr. Mishra hugged me again before he got into his bus and I into an autorickshaw.
At home the tapped telephone made me think of Ajay, and the phone became pregnant with danger. Once Mr. Gupta lost the election, the BJP would not continue to protect him. He had no history with them. His ability to raise money would cease once corruption charges were brought against him. Congress might even have him killed. Because I had raised the Congress money which Mr. Gupta stole and because I had managed the sale of school lands, there was no way his fall would not include me.
I lay on my cot and imagined disappearing with the campaign money. I would be found eventually and, if not, then the BJP’s and Congress’s anger would focus on Asha and Anita.
Congress was not as dogmatic as the BJP and would be easier to buy protection from.
Mr. Maurya was eating lunch by himself in his office, a small air-conditioned room. From the name printed on the paper napkins on his desk, I could tell that the food had been brought from a restaurant. When I sat down across from him, he said, “My wife is a vegetarian and won’t eat with me if I am having meat.” I smiled and nodded. “Will you come with me to Mr. Gupta’s?” he asked, pulling off the last piece of flesh from a chicken bone and depositing the bone into a polythene bag with other bones. I was dressed in a white kurta pajama, ready to join Ajay’s funeral procession.
“It’s a tragedy,” I said, and then, waiting a beat, “The boy caused so much trouble for his father.”
Mr. Maurya considered this. “My leg is bad, so I can only walk a short while with Ajay.”
I was encouraged. I again paused for a moment and said, “We are going to lose the election.”
Mr. Maurya put the napkins in the bag and knotted it.
“If we are frank, it appears that way.”
“What will Congress think of you for having worked with the BJP?”
“Sometimes you make mistakes.” His allowing me to question him was promising. “The BJP will take Delhi municipality but will lose the Parliament seat. Congress will be angry for a while, but in time it won’t be so bad.”
“I want to protect myself.” Mr. Maurya watched me. “My daughter just became a widow. I need to take care of her and my granddaughter.” He remained silent. “You have friends in Congress who could help me,” I said.
Mr. Maurya sighed and moved the bag to one end of his desk. “Friendship is just a word, Mr. Karan.”
“I can pay Congress if they promise not to have me jailed or bring corruption charges against me.” I did not want promises to be made to me. People either need to have a history together or need to be equals before promises between them count. My hope was that promises would be made to Mr. Maurya.
He could give Congress an enormous donation and claim that he had convinced me to betray Mr. Gupta in exchange for amnesty. Mr. Gupta’s money would give Mr. Maurya more clout than the same amount donated from his own pocket.
“My business is local. I can’t anger the BJP.”
“The BJP knows Mr. Gupta is going to lose. Him against Rajesh Khanna. All they wanted was to put up some candidate against Rajesh Khanna. I’ll pay the BJP, too. They’ll be happy to get whatever money they can from his campaign and let Mr. Gupta go.” Mr. Maurya sat back in his chair. “Friendship is just a word. Nobody expects your heart, Mr. Maurya.” He did not say anything. “You’ve done a good job for Mr. Gupta. Now he is losing. That doesn’t mean you haven’t done a good job or that you should drown with him.”
“How much money can I give Congress?”
“Seven lakhs.”
“A nice amount.” After a moment Mr. Maurya said, “I can help.”
I reached into the plastic bag I had brought with me and pulled out one of the two bundles of bankbooks I had prepared. “Withdraw the money quickly.”
Mr. Maurya took the bundle, put it in a drawer, and said, “We have to go separately to the funeral.”
I thought Anita would be impressed by how well I was managing Mr. Gupta’s betrayal.
Thirty or forty women in white saris were seated on Mr. Gupta’s courtyard floor. There were about a dozen men, also in white. A tent roof had been put up for shade. Some of the people looked too poor to be Mr. Gupta’s relatives and must have been servants recruited to make the mourning grander. The doors to one of the rooms that bordered the courtyard were open and I could see a gray steel coffin on the floor. The coffin was surrounded by more men and women in white. I did not know many Christians, so this was only the second or third coffin I had ever seen. It was half a meter deep and narrower on one end than the other. It appeared to be such an example of technology that it felt inappropriate. Some of the gathering were crying, but most were quiet and attentive. Servants in white were edging through the veranda pouring water from steel pitchers into glasses. Outside the house poor children stood barefoot and watched, in case food or used clothes might be distributed.
As I waited to see if a servant would direct me, I saw Anita leading Pavan into the room with the coffin. Anita had an arm around Pavan and they were taking small steps together. The crowd parted to let them get to the narrow part of the coffin. Anita eased Pavan down. When one of Ajay’s brothers-in-law had called earlier and told me the time of the fun
eral procession, Anita had been specifically invited.
Mr. Maurya appeared, did not acknowledge me, and went and sat against a courtyard wall.
I entered the room with the coffin. There was no smell. Pavan was sitting hunched down into her knees. Anita saw me and came over. “The doctor gave her an injection,” she whispered. “A calf has tried getting into the house the last few days and Pavan began saying it was Ajay reborn. We told her that the calf was at least six months old, but Pavan became crazy.”
“What happened to the calf?”
“One of her father’s friends has a farm and they’ve taken it there in case it actually is Ajay.”
Mr. Gupta, Ajay’s father-in-law, and the two brothers-in-law appeared. Again the crowd parted to let them get beside the coffin. They were all dressed in white kurta pajamas. They stood near the coffin not talking. Anita’s face grew still and concentrated. “Ajay must have fought. Who can let his throat be cut?”
I went up to Mr. Gupta, but he did not appear to recognize me.
“Come,” Ajay’s father-in-law said, and one by one, with Mr. Gupta last, they stooped to pick up the coffin handles along its sides. They lifted it to their shoulders, which made me think that the coffin could not be as heavy as it looked.
As soon as the body was lifted, the women both inside the room and in the courtyard began wailing. Then, together, instantly, they stood. When the men took their first steps, the women mustered in front of them. Some of the women shook their hands while crying as if their fingertips were burnt. Others pressed their temples between their hands. The men attempted to move again, but the women would not budge. Mr. Gupta’s and Ajay’s father-in-law’s faces were blank, but the brothers-in-law looked afraid. A few of the men in the room began moving the women out of the way. The noise was so great that I could hear only a few words of what these men were saying.
In the courtyard the coffin again became completely surrounded by women. They did not budge as they shouted, “What shall we do now?” or “Save us, God!” or “Why are you leaving us?” Mrs. Gupta appeared to be pushing Mr. Gupta so that he would drop the coffin. After a moment of standing in this frenzy, the coffin retreated.
A few minutes later it was again carried into the courtyard. Some men tried opening a path through the women, but the women kept filling whatever gaps were forced. Again the bearers began retreating. As they did, Mr. Gupta’s wife shouted at Mr. Gupta, “You’re a man. Push us out of the way.” Mr. Gupta sobbed and stood still. A man grabbed Mrs. Gupta and shoved her stumbling out of the coffin’s path. Others began doing the same to the rest of the women.
The weeping became enormous and inconsolable. I moved into a corner.
The coffin was finally carried out of the house, with its bearers quickly chanting, “God’s name is Truth.” About twenty-five men followed, also repeating this. It was so hot and bright that everyone was squinting. I was one of the last to join the march. Mr. Maurya was not far from me.
The house we left behind was wailing. Pavan had begun beating her head with her fists. Mrs. Gupta stood behind Pavan, with her arms wrapped around Pavan’s stomach. Anita was sobbing.
The farther we got from the house, the quicker we walked. The poor boys trotted along, watching us silently. People came onto the balconies of their houses to look. Mr. Maurya accompanied the procession for a block and then got into a car. There were three groups. Directly behind Ajay’s bearers were family and friends. Behind this was a smaller bunch of BJP men. Last was the largest group, neighbors and business acquaintances.
Mr. Tuli was among the BJP men. He had such a quick walk that his white hair seemed an affectation. Mr. Tuli was high up enough in the BJP that he could commit the party to a decision. I moved over to him and after saying “Namaste” did not wait for him to return the greeting. “Ajay brought it on himself,” I said. “He must have been taking money and making promises, and maybe the people who gave him the money realized he couldn’t keep his promises.” I think some irrational part of me just wanted to finish the betrayal and so had set me jabbering.
Mr. Tuli kept repeating, “God’s name is Truth,” but he looked at me.
I was leaning over slightly, like a pimp whispering, “Girl. Girl.” “In India,” I said, “it doesn’t matter if you were powerful once, or famous once. That’s why there are these once-rich businessmen, like the Biscuit King, who get murdered in police custody. You have friends only as long as you are powerful.” We had slowed down as I spoke, and now people were bumping into us. We sped up.
“It depends on the kind of friends you make,” Mr. Tuli said.
I wondered if he was indicating willingness to offer friendship. “I believe in the BJP.” Fear gave my voice more fervency than I had intended.
“Of course you do.” We were looking into each other’s eyes as we moved at almost a trot.
“I am a poor man who’s had to raise three children on a peon’s pay. Three daughters. Would you condemn a man for stealing to feed his family or marry his daughter?”
“You have two daughters, not three.”
“But my son is stupid and so is dependent like a daughter.” Mr. Tuli did not say anything to this. “God’s name is Truth,” I cried.
“I can’t help you.”
I knew the disgust in his voice could not last. “Mr. Gupta has lost the election. I have given Congress the money we stole from them. Less than we stole. I will give you the rest of Mr. Gupta’s money if you promise no one in the BJP will hurt me or my family.” Mr. Tuli grimaced. “I’ve been loyal till now. I am only in trouble because I believed in the BJP. You don’t want Mr. Gupta representing you. He’s dirty all over. I am giving you his money. You can withdraw your support of him, and people will think the BJP is honorable not to back a corrupt candidate. If you don’t help me, I’ll have to trust in Congress.”
“You believe in nothing.”
We walked to the B-block bus stop without talking. The silence began making me nervous. Mr. Tuli could choose not to deal with me simply because he did not like me. After all, the money I was offering the BJP was not going into his pocket.
Near the bus stop an ambulance was standing under a neem tree. Several cars, jeeps, and vans were parked beside it. There was a water cart surrounded by funeral goers. The ambulance back was opened and Ajay’s coffin was slid onto the floor. The bearers and Mr. Gupta climbed in and sat on the benches which ran along the sides of the ambulance.
“How much money?” Mr. Tuli asked. We were standing next to a white Ambassador sedan. People were within two or three feet of us and I imagined they could hear.
“Five lakhs.” Being asked about money increased my confidence.
“Have you no shame or pride?” he asked, looking at me.
“I am afraid.” Mr. Tuli’s clean white hair, his broad, sturdy shoulders irritated me. “Will you promise me?” He did not say anything. “What use is it hating me now? The election is lost.”
“Are you coming to the crematorium?”
“No.” When this did not lead to an answer, I hissed, “Mr. Gupta steals from children. He should be hijacking school buses and stealing lunch money.” Mr. Tuli emitted a startled giggle. “Do you want to give him the BJP’s support?” Car and van doors were shutting. “Promise me no corruption charges. No beatings.”
Mr. Tuli and I looked at each other for a minute. “Yes.”
I was so relieved I thought for a moment that I had not heard correctly. I gave Mr. Tuli the bank deposit books.
Other than telling Anita what had happened, I had nothing to do that evening. I went onto the roof and stood watching the sky tilt from blue into red. It was the first time in a month and a half that I did not think I should be accomplishing something. There was a breeze. The day’s traffic noises were easing. I thought of my improving health and all the years ahead of me. I had expected to feel guilt, but did not.
We had dinner, lentils and rice, on the roof. I was cheerful. “We’re eating in the dark becaus
e your mother doesn’t want us to see what’s in the food,” I said to Asha. Anita had been with Pavan most of the day and kept staring at things, the ground, a plate, and blinking slowly.
We watched the Hindi and English news on television. Anita had to be told about my betrayal because Ajay’s funeral ceremonies were continuing the next day and she was supposed to attend. By then the BJP would probably have informed Mr. Gupta the party was withdrawing his nomination and he would have learned what I had done. Anita and Pavan’s new friendship made me afraid that she would be angry at me instead of glad I had protected us. The television was turned off. I did not tell her what I had done. Anita and Asha went upstairs to their cots.
In the morning we ate breakfast. Asha went to school. Anita dressed for the next part of the funeral.
I was sitting on my cot in my underwear and undershirt. I also had socks on because I kept thinking maybe Mr. Gupta had not learned and I should go. “Why aren’t you dressed?” Anita asked from the common room.
“I gave the money to the BJP and Congress.” There was no need to identify what money. Anita entered my room and stood before me. Her lips were sunk at the ends. “Seven lakhs to Mr. Maurya for Congress and five to Mr. Tuli, who works for the BJP and is reliable.” Anita kept looking at me. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Anita turned and left. A little later I heard the living-room fan whirl.
Neither Anita nor I went to Mr. Gupta’s.
That evening Mr. Gupta called. I was in my room, and Anita and Asha were on the roof getting laundry. Only after sitting on the sofa did I pick up the phone. I had been planning for this.
The ordinary introductory hellos let me understand that Mr. Gupta was not sure what I had done. “The BJP is not going to sponsor me,” he said.
I waited and then said, “I know.”
“You know?” Mr. Gupta sounded surprised.