Sippy came in, weaving slowly, a plastic tray in hand. He wore tattered leather shoes with ragged laces. His leathery skin was grey with unshaven bristles, his eyes swimming in a soup of yellow and red. The first thing he said was, ‘Sorry sir.’
I said, ‘Who called, motherfucker?’
Sippy said, ‘I picked up the phone and the man said, Bloody chutiya! So I said to him, You are a chutiya, your father’s a chutiya, and your son’s a chutiya! He said, Your sahib’s dead, and so should you be! Now give me his mobile number! I said, Why? You want to phone him in heaven?’
The tea already had a skin on it. I peeled it off with the tip of my forefinger and stuck it to the side of the tray.
Sippy said, ‘Sirji, should I get you another one?’
I looked at him.
He said, ‘Sorry sirji.’
The mobile had been trembling all the while, making its way across the table. Sippy looked at it intently for some time, then said, ‘Sirji, phone.’
I looked at him, stopping mid-bite into my bun-omelette.
He said, ‘Sorry sirji.’
The land line trilled. Kept trilling. When I finally picked it up, Sippy asked, ‘Do you want me to pick it up?’
I said, in Hindi, ‘Hello, Sub-inspector Shinde speaking from Kiskiskilee police station.’
Mother screeched into the phone, ‘How bad is it? How bad is it? Why is no one picking your mobile phone? Why must you talk such nonsense even at this time?’
I said, ‘Madam, it is a criminal offence to speak to the Indian police like this.’
Mother screamed, ‘You fool, turn on the TV! Turn on the TV immediately!’
I picked up the remote, swivelled in my chair and detonated the TV. With a soft pop a chorus line of singers exploded into the room, throwing their legs and breasts about. I said, ‘Mother, it’s from Kismet—the hero is about to enter the don’s den.’
Sippy giggled. ‘Kiskiskilee police station. Kis kis ki lee!’
I looked at him.
He said, ‘Sorry sirji.’
I flipped channels. An amazing smorgasbord of mythological costumes, American cafes, ornate quiz shows, thrashing crocodiles, goggled cricketers, striding golfers, bare-chested godmen, film stars talking, film stars dancing, film stars acting, all kinds of old and new films flitted past in several languages before I hit a news channel. There was a still of me, with my mouth open. Perhaps from some press conference, caught mid-sentence. The words ‘Breaking News!’ emblazoned in red ran across my chest. I read the ticker below: Attempt on journalist foiled. Five hitmen arrested.
I flipped some more. Another news channel. A different picture—from before I had shaved off my moustache. Again, Breaking News! The ticker said: Scribe survives murder attempt. Delhi police foils bid. I turned up the volume. In a grave voice the pretty girl said that I had been saved in the nick of time. The police had been acting on intelligence tip-offs. Sophisticated weapons such as AK-47s and automatic pistols had been recovered. No information had been released yet on the motives, but inside sources hinted these were contract killers.
Now Sippy said, ‘Sirji, that is you?’
I put the receiver to my ear. ‘Mother, they are saying I survived.’
Mother screeched, ‘It is the glory of Shiva! It is the mercy of god! It is the power of my prayers!’
I said, ‘Mother, they are saying it is the power of Delhi police.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then she screeched, ‘My son! My sonnnn!’
I threw the receiver over to Sippy. He put it to his ear and said, ‘Hello good morning, Eagle Media Company speaking.’
Dancing on my hanky the mobile had reached the far end of the table again. I leaned across and picked it up. An unknown number glowed angrily. I pressed it to life. A girl’s urgent voice said, ‘Please hold the line—I am putting you through live to the studio.’
The studio voice that came on belonged to a young girl too, but it sounded grave and important. The voice said they had me on the line—live—before anyone else in the country. Fast and furious.
The studio girl said, ‘Thank you for coming on our channel exclusively! How are you feeling now?’
I said, ‘Okay.’
‘Are you badly shaken by the events?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been receiving any threats lately?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any idea who the killers are?’
‘No.’
‘Have you felt any sense of danger in the last few weeks?’
‘No.’
‘The police are saying they are contract killers. Do you believe them?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Do you think the government has any hand in all this?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Is your family worried? Scared?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Are you scared? Worried?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you plan to do now?’
Eat the egg pulled out of the hen’s ass.
‘I haven’t thought of it yet.’
‘Did you have no inkling at all?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do when you got to know?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Who informed you?’
‘Sub-inspector Shinde of Kiskiskilee police station.’
‘Who?’
‘Sub-inspector Shinde of Kiskiskilee police station.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end. Much too long for live television to stomach. Then the voice said, even more urgently, ‘Thank you for coming exclusively on our channel and giving us the first exclusive insights into your murder!’ Then, before I could kill it, the line went dead.
Sippy had put the receiver back on the cradle. He said, ‘That was your mother, sirji. She shouted at me for spoiling your life. She thought I was some friend of yours. I told her I am Sippy from the office, electrician-cum-chowkidar. She said I don’t care whether you are a sippy or a hippy, just leave my son alone before you have him killed. She said she’s coming over just now and if she found me here she would pull all my hair out.’
The land line was trilling without a pause and my mobile was beating out an unending string of known and unknown numbers. I got up, popped the TV shut with the remote, slipped the vibrating phone into the pocket of my trousers and told Sippy to lock up the office. I took the stairs down two at a time.
When I came out the front door onto the veranda of the shopping complex where our office was, I saw my wife getting out of her small yellow car. She was in light blue jeans and a white tee shirt, her short straight hair pulled back into a tiny tail. Her eyes were hidden behind the fake silver-rimmed Guccis I had bought her from Singapore. She saw me and stopped, in the midst of turning the key in the car door.
Uncertainly, she said, ‘Is everything okay?’
I said, ‘Do I look dead?’
She said, ‘You weren’t picking your phone. And everybody was calling the house, and everybody said you weren’t picking your phone.’
I said, ‘I was busy.’
She said, ‘I got very worried. The TV channels were saying all kinds of things. I thought I’d come and check if you were okay.’
‘So what do you think now?’
She said, ‘Don’t be angry. I was really worried. I barely brushed my teeth—I just rushed here.’
I said, ‘Well, go back and brush them now.’
By now I had reached my car and opened the door. She was still standing by hers, turning the key. Behind us, Sippy was hanging on to the steel shutter of the office, his stick-like arms and legs flailing, struggling to pull it down in slow noisy jerks.
She said, ‘Are you coming home?’
I said, ‘Eventually.’
She said, ‘Where are you going now?’
I said, ‘Why? You want to inform the TV channels?’
I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could read her face. She didn�
�t move. Sippy was on his knees now, trying to push home the rusty latch at the bottom of the shutter and lock it. I got into my car, slammed the door and pulled out of the parking lot. In my rearview mirror I could see her getting into her car, and Sippy swimming steadily on the veranda floor.
She opened the door at the first chime of her singsong bell, glistening with some lotion she had hurriedly slopped on. I brushed my cheek against hers in a half-hug and went straight into her bedroom, cool with the rattling air-conditioner, and lay on her bed. The only light in the room came from a weak yellow table lamp. The window was blocked with heavy blue drapes, tucked around to frame the plastic-grille air-conditioner. The brand name stuck on the cream-coloured grille said ‘Napoleon’, which meant it had been knocked together in some backyard shop in the city. Napoleon air-conditioners, high-heeled leather boot key chains—this country was in imaginative heat.
She said, ‘You want some tea?’
I nodded, and began to take off my clothes. The back of the study-table chair had a large flowery towel drying on it. I picked up a corner and sniffed: it was musty. I slid it off, kicked it into a corner, and draped my jeans, shirt and boxers there instead. When she came back with two mugs of tea I was sitting propped up on her side of the double-bed—crumpled and warm from the night—one leg pulled back to conceal what was happening to me. I had pushed her reading pile of papers—NGO reports, magazines, books on development economics, and an anthology of Hunter Thompson’s I had given her that she was making heavy weather of—I had pushed the whole heap to the far corner of the unused bed and thrown a pillow over it to still the fluttering. She gave me my mug and sat down on the edge of the bed, not touching me. In the lamplight I could see the fine down on her upper lip. The sun had roasted her slim arms a darker shade of chocolate. When she lifted her mug to take a sip, the cross-hatch in her armpit was dense.
She said, ‘How come you’ve been let out on a Sunday morning?’
I said nothing, looking her in the eye, demanding to change the register of the moment.
She said, ‘What? The same old same old? Well, sorry, it’s Sunday, this crèche is closed.’
I put my hand deep into her thighs and she held it tight, her flesh full and smooth. I waited, feeling the heat radiate. Then I saw the moment catch in her eye and come over her. Her muscles relaxed a fraction, letting me in. She was ready. I danced my fingertips slowly, setting up an overture. She gave a start, then grew still, not a muscle moving, holding on to her tea mug, challenging me with her eyes. Time to play. I responded with the length of a finger. She pulled in a short breath and her eyes dilated, but she didn’t move. I pulled my hand out and touched her upper lip with the tips of my shining fingers. She looked back at me, unmoving, in full activist mode. Desire rocketed in me. I straightened my leg and, putting my hand on the side of her head, pushed her down. She fought, stiffening her neck. I pushed harder.
I said, ‘Look what you’ve done to me.’
She said, ‘Anyone can do that to you.’
Her head was halfway down now, but she was still holding on to her tea. I put my left hand on the side of her head, and reached out with my right. I said, ‘Give it to me, you whore!’
She looked at me, challenging, demanding.
I said, ‘Saali randi!’
She took a long draught of the tea and released her grip on the mug. By the time I set the mug down on the bedside table, I was swimming in a tea-warm mouth. I slumped back, my hand moving slowly in her frizzy hair. Then I began to abuse her, relentlessly, in Hindi, in English, recalling words and phrases I had learnt in school, street words, cheap porno phrases, stringing them out absurdly like overheated boys do. And with each crude volley—especially the Hindi—she became beautifully uncontrollable, giving and taking, giving and taking, in the simplest and most complicated transaction of all.
Later, while Napoleon Bonaparte cooled the sweat off us and we drank some more tea, dipping chalk-dry Marie biscuits in it, I looked dispassionately at her naked body as she lay opposite me at the foot of the bed. She had two beautiful halves that belonged to different bodies. Above the waist, from her fine nose to her frail shoulders, to her breasts made for pleasure not lactation, she was narrow and fragile. Below she was full, with the hips and thighs of a woman made for bearing children. Not for the photograph, as she was above, but for real-life excitements. Two trademark moles stamped her body as being a single unit: a gaudy beauty on her right collarbone, and its mysterious twin marking the start of the dense hairline at the top of her right thigh. She had found a solution to her two unmatched halves, dressing in long flared peasant skirts and close-fitting sleeveless cotton blouses: concealing the excess, flaunting the fragility.
Now, head propped on her left palm, she was talking. It was what she did best. She was talking politics, sociology, anthropology, history, economics, ecology, all in a magnificent jumble that exhausted and fascinated me. She was dismembering the new liberal economics that was opening up India to the world, cursing the scourge of globalization, abusing patriarchal politics, demanding lower-caste mobilization, declaring the death of the idea of India at the hands of a surging Hindu right. In five years, by 2005, this would be a fascist state. She and I, and those like us, would be in hiding. Everything—every freedom—we took for granted would be gone. It would be worse than the colonial past, because this time we would have done it to ourselves. I think she saw the smile in my eyes for she broke into a rage. She jumped up, rummaged through her bookshelves and brought out an Oxford anthology of English poetry.
‘Listen to this!’ she barked, opening a flagged page:
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along …
She read the poem aloud with a hard anger, with the voice and rhythms of a protestor, not a lover of poetry. She finished and looked at me balefully. ‘You know what Wystan Hugh Auden is saying?’
I shook my head.
She said, ‘Wystan’s telling us that fascism is creeping up all around us, and we don’t even know! He’s telling us that we suffer from the Illusion of Normalcy. He’s telling us that the worst horrors take place around us while we go happily about our everyday lives. Just because the newspapers keep coming, the televisions keep humming, the planes keep taking off, the trains keep running—just because our daily crap goes on doesn’t mean all is well. My dear phallo-foolish friend, Icarus has plunged into the ocean and is drowning while we are chattering away merrily on the sailing ship!’
I watched mesmerized. She was walking up and down the room, her two different bodies moving differently. The pleasure legs in rolling motion; the photo arms waving angrily. In her, sexual satiety brought on not the customary torpor, but a great intellectual and moral anxiety. It was the stuff of research. I thought of the wild Hindi profanities she had been urging me to heap on her just minutes back.
‘You,’ she said, rounding on me. ‘You!’
I said, ‘What have I done now?’
‘Nothing! That’s just it. Nothing. You know who Wystan Hugh was writing for? For people like you—who are worse than people like them! They don’t have a voice so they can’t speak. You have one and you barely whisper. Surely you don’t think your little exposé and stories are all they are cut out to be? You know they are basically ego massages. And that preening, posing partner of yours! Him and you, and your little boys getting their rocks off! Being given a bloody cannon and using it to shoot peas!’
Boy. The postcoital social contract. I was drowsy and no longer interested. The crazy bitch needed a dose of the Vedanta to cleanse her head. Hindi abuse for the body; Hindu philosophy for the soul. Her problem was too little Hinduism, too much occidental crap. I was thinking about what the television channels were saying. I had been shot. By whom? My phone already showed more than forty missed calls, and the count
was going up by the minute. I closed my eyes and her words became a fading noise.
When I came to, minutes later, she was no longer talking, just pacing up and down, her photo arms folded across her breasts, looking at me with contempt. I washed myself at the sink, draping my smelly hanging flesh over the enamel rim, pumping soap from the Dettol dispenser, splashing water from the tap with a cupped palm. In the frameless mirror it looked like a third-rate postmodern painting.
She pushed open the bathroom door and hollered, ‘Stop pissing in my sink you stupid clunk!’
It was all so third-rate.
Back in the parking lot I turned on the engine and the air-conditioner, leaned my seat back as far as it would go and closed my eyes. In the end it was always exhausting. It took no time for every damn relationship to spill out of the functional. Suddenly even the prospect of home seemed like a relief. At least I wouldn’t have to talk, or listen to anything. And if things got insufferable I could shut myself in my tiny study and stew—and bugger you Wystan Hugh—and not see anything either.
The sun had obliterated every nuance from the world by now, and was pouring down white heat. No dazzle was permitted in this enclave of the nondescript, of boxy colourless buildings and endless Maruti cars. The trees in the parking lot looked as if they’d had all the green syringed out of them, leaving them coated with settled dust. Most of them seemed stunted, throttled by a tourniquet of concrete. Every now and then an excitable-irritable family—mother, father, couple of sated, snotty kids going to fat—tumbled out of dark holes in the boxy buildings flaunting their Sunday best, scrambled into a car, slammed doors, and left.
I had directed all the air vents at myself but was still patchy with sweat. The synthetic grip on the steering wheel was burning, barely touchable. The phone was a trapped insect and had not ceased buzzing for a moment. I began to swiftly parse my missed calls and messages. Everyone I knew had called or messaged. Even as I scrolled the calls the phone kept buzzing and letting new ones in. I was about to pull out of the parking lot when her name began to appear insistently on my phone. When it wouldn’t go away, I said, ‘Yes?’
The Story of My Assassins Page 2