The Story of My Assassins

by Tarun J. Tejpal

  Inside the once opulent building built during the Raj to serve as the Delhi outpost of the royal house of Patiala, the state’s glory was equally in tatters. The sweeping staircases, the marble floors, the teak balustrades, the carved windows, the fluted ceilings, all were in distress. Everything was soiled, dirty, peeling. Every corner had a chiaroscuro of blood-red paan stains. Despite their grand scale, the corridors were dark and musty and poorly lit, with the illumination from the windows and ventilators truncated by dirt and furniture. The windows were further obscured by human bodies—sitting, standing, trying to wedge their way through. Many of these were clearly peasants, their faces unshaven and gaunt, their thick blankets and bodies giving off the rank odour of animals and sweat. I had to put out my hands and literally push people aside to make way for us. My shadows did the same, their elbows jutting out. At one point, just when I was beginning to enjoy shoving the idiots around, Sara poked me in my ass, warning me angrily to take it easy. When I went to take a leak in the makeshift urinal under the staircase, I had to pay a rupee for the privilege and survive such a stench of fresh piss as could have deterred the stoutest litigant.

  The fear of the law clearly unloosed the bladder.

  In this hellhole, we were led by my penguin into a high-ceilinged room that was no less nondescript and soiled. It was bursting with a silent clamour, as routine mayhem tried to rein itself in, in deference to the setting. The milling bodies moved around the ugly wooden cupboards littered all over, in random array, filled to oozing with dusty files. These were all tied in strings of different colours, and had dirty ears of paper peeping out. Each time an attendant opened a cupboard the files began to topple out, and had to be desperately held in check with one hand even as the right one was located and extracted. As at the dera on the night of the metamorphosis, there was only one point of calm in this melee: the elevated platform at the end of the room where, behind a wide wooden desk, sat a clerky-looking man in black-rimmed spectacles.

  The guruji of this equally surreal realm.

  Unlike my guruji, this one needed help with his appearance. He was young, with a weak pasty face and a collapsed jaw. He didn’t look like he could adjudicate a spat between his own children. Someone should have given him a curly white wig and fastened a false beard to his chin. A couple of real clerks sat around him taking notes, one punching away into a grimy cream-coloured computer, and a wastrel at his side rudely shouted out case numbers and names as another, even lower down the food chain, near the door, immediately took up the call. On the three rows of ramshackle wooden chairs in front of the pasty boy sat an assortment of penguins and litigants.

  Arguments were being made and heard in conspiratorial consultations. Not orated, not declaimed, not stated. A number and name would be barked out and one clutch of penguins—trailed by their glassy-eyed clients—would wriggle through the throng and present themselves right under the high chair. Some sort of urgent whispering would ensue to and fro, left and right, strung out on a chorus of milords and yoronours. Then, absurdly quickly, a consensus would be arrived at—simply, the next date of hearing—and yoronour, guruji of the high chair, would say something to the computer man on his right, close the file, pick it and fling it at the other clerk. Instantly the wastrel—busy all the while cutting side deals with penguins who sidled up to him; speaking to them through the corner of his mouth with his eyes on the high chair—instantly the wastrel would bark a name and a number, junior wastrel would echo it, and the throng would begin to undulate, pushing forward the next clutch of players. It was barely noon, but going by the shouted number, yoronour was cleaning up society lickety-split and had already delivered justice in twenty-eight cases.

  Curiously, all the penguins seemed to be friends, even if their clients were trying to kill each other. Before they showed up under the chair of yoronour, they appeared to be jointly working out their opposing strategies. My penguin, Sethiji, was fat and middle-aged, with the jocular, can-do manner of a middleman. He was some distant relative of Jai’s, and in his smooth ability to work people, a sort of cruder, more down-market version of him. In our passage through the sweeping staircases and jammed corridors everyone seemed to know him. When I had emerged from the pissoir, barely breathing, he was upset that I had paid, asserting that the attendant should have known who I was with. He wanted to go right back in to retrieve the rupee.

  In the high-ceilinged room, the clerks half raised their hands to salaam him, while the wastrel gave a full salute. He said, with a happy smile, ‘I pay them to do this each time there’s a new client. It boosts the confidence of the client. I am telling you this because you are family.’

  The happy smile never left Sethiji’s face, and he shook a hand after every sentence. Hustling, everywhere in Delhi, is a desperately tactile affair: slapping flesh, pressing flesh, rubbing flesh. In disgust I put my hands in my pockets, and so he began to grab one of the shadows. He called Sara ‘bhabhiji’, assuming she was my wife, and bowed to her courteously every few minutes, making her glower. In the room, he had a chair cleared for her but she declined to sit.

  Sethiji’s belly was so spectacular he needed suspenders to keep his pants up. The black coat and trousers were worn to a shine, the white shirt’s collar was frayed, the leather shoes battered. He said, ‘Lady Justice, you know, is blindfold. Only weight on her balance matters. More weight better chances.’ His thumbs were hooked into his suspenders; they came out fleetingly after every sentence to reach for someone.

  He had three very young penguins with him, a son and two nephews, who circled him watchfully, awaiting orders. Sethiji was a true king penguin, a master of his game. He never spoke loudly or rudely, just whispered his instructions with that bemused smile; a look of comic wonderment. The boys—in sharp black attire, with gym muscles, shining skin and gelled hair—darted off to comply. At one point he shepherded us out to a cordoned-off corner of the corridor and his boys served up hot tea, cold lassi, and crisp samosas. The shadows attacked everything; I downed the lassi; Sara said, ‘What a bloody racketeer!’; Sethiji said, with his smile, ‘You can survive the law, but you cannot survive hunger,’ and reached for the hand of a shadow.

  The corner had a huge window—built for princely eyes—but it was grimy and closed. It looked out over lush green trees, and Sara stood there gazing out, an arty charcoal sketch, her unequal body a sudden invitation. I knew she was simmering, raging at all the kind of stuff she liked to rage at. This place was a rager’s paradise. By bringing her here I had already given her fuel for weeks of ranting. And we were not done yet. Poverty, justice, class, democracy. Some spectacular nailing on the wall was in the offing.

  Sethiji was, of course, stoking the embers continually. At one point his mobile rang. Leaving his left thumb in the striped elastic, he pulled out his clunky phone with his right hand and placed it two inches from his ear. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, slowly with his wide bemused smile. ‘No madam, I need no loan. Not for home, or marriage, or car, or carriage. I would marry again, but my wife eats two spoons of Chyawanprash every day and does not look like she’ll die for another hundred years. Education? Madam, it is better to burn the money than spend it on my sons’ studies. Their principal says, Sethiji take them home and you will better serve the cause of education. Madam, that’s why I am thinking I will make them both lawyers. Only the rejected can understand the pain of the dejected! My car, madam, is a Maruti, a red one. Do you really think I should buy another? And just stop the medical treatment of my father? He’s dying of cancer you know. Of the bowels. You know, the bowels? Of course you do, everyone knows the bowels! But he’s old, no problem if he dies now. Maybe I can take him to the cremation ground in the new big car. That would please him! No, no madam, don’t go yet! Wait I have something to tell you too! Is there anyone in your family who has been raped or murdered or has committed suicide? Madam, my law firm specializes in handling cases of rape and murder. No, no madam, you cannot just go now—you called me, you must listen to me
now. Okay, okay, not your family, any of your friends who have been raped or murdered? No? No. Very lucky you are, madam! But in future if anyone you know is raped or murdered you know whom to call! You have the number—you just called it! Advocate Sethi and Sons—one son actually and two nephews—specialists in rape and murder. Hello? Hello! Madam! Madam? You called me, madam, you must listen to me!’

  With the phone still inches away from his ear, he swivelled around slowly and gave us all his smile of bemused wonderment. Son and nephews were grinning, and so were the shadows. I was too, but I had turned away from Sara. She was thunderous. I could sense the fury radiating from her clenched body. For a moment I was anxious she’d say something needlessly unpleasant to the fat lawyer and I’d be forced to step in; and it would lead to weeks of simmering rancour between us. He was just a fat man making light of his sad life. There was no need to throw The Female Eunuch and the Constitution at him.

  She peeled away from the window and stalked off, back into the high-ceilinged room.

  Sethiji said with his bemused smile, ‘Bhabhiji’s not feeling well? Or is she upset with our phuddugiri?’ I smiled and he said, ‘I don’t blame her. We are just such crude scum of the earth. Not fit to be in the presence of any woman! Leave alone a high-class one. The problem is we know nothing about women. Only two women have I known in my life. First there was my mother, who beat me and loved me. Then there is my wife, whom I beat and I love. Men like me don’t know what to do with a woman if we can’t love her or beat her. We are full phuddus from an outdated factory. I keep telling these young boys, don’t end up like us. Don’t just keep combing your hair, also clean your tongues. When you meet a woman and open your mouth, flowers should fall out, not drool!’

  The three boys grinned as he gave them each a clip on the ears. ‘But they are determined to be full phuddus! Not their fault. Just third-rate genes.’

  The next time we went in I saw them right away.

  Sara, leaning against a wooden cupboard, was looking at them intently. They were standing at the far corner under the platform, five of them, in a row, at an angle, facing yoronour. Flanking them were two policemen in uniform, holding on to the wrists of the ones next to them. Behind them stood five more policemen with clunky Enfield rifles—the infamous threenoughtthrees—slung on their shoulders. This was hardware from the Second World War, standard issue for the Indian police in most states, seconded by the Indian army, and so heavy and unwieldy that it was reckoned a fleeing man could run clean out of Delhi before it could be taken off the shoulder, loaded and fired. The 303’s only virtues were its range and power—so if your aim was true, you’d get your man even if he’d crossed over the border into the next state.

  In that swirling room, the five of them stood out because they were handcuffed, and loosely roped together. One—just one—on the extreme right, had his ankles shackled in iron. The shoes under the iron were trendy red Nikes. His body was fleshy, filling out the blue jeans and mauve shirt, and where the policeman held him the arm was thick and full of muscle. He looked young, not thirty perhaps, and was unusually fair. He had the moustaches of a brigand, the ends twisted to a rapier’s tip, standing clean away from his cheeks. Every few minutes he reached for them—taking along handcuffs, policeman’s hand, everything—and gave them a slow hard twirl. He stood legs apart, on powerful sprinter’s thighs, his big shoulders squared. Nothing in his eyes or stance suggested fear or contrition. When he spotted me, he displayed a flicker of recognition before unblinking contempt filled his eyes once more.

  The others were fairly nondescript. Short, thin, almost weedy, unlikely to stand out in any crowd. One of them was dark as burnt coal; and one very fair, with north-eastern, Nepali features—Sippy would have referred to him as a Chingfunglee. They didn’t look like they could kill a gutter rat between the four of them. The fair brigand, on the other hand, looked as if he could kill all four before breakfast and then be ready for a day’s work. Even with the rope stringing them together the four pressed close to each other and clear of the boy. Their eyes were averted and they were talking to each other in hushed voices. The young brigand paid them no attention, and after showing me his contempt turned away to stare at yoronour conducting his business in conspiratorial whispers. The policeman holding his arm was big built too, by far the biggest in the detachment of six.

  I could sense that in that swirling mad room, every eye had slowly come to rest on him. I saw even yoronour in all his pasty majesty sneak a look or two.

  Sethiji said, ‘They say he is the future king of western UP. His name is Hathoda Tyagi. Before he was nineteen he’d killed his first five men by caving their skulls in with a hammer. Full brain curry. Now, of course, he shoots people—through their ears, in their mouths, up their assholes. Today he kills you, tomorrow your enemy. Like Sethiji gets up and comes to Patiala House courts every morning, he goes out every day and dispatches a few sorry souls to Yamraj directly. He works only for the big mafia dons now. When they want a big job done, they send for Hathoda Tyagi. You should be proud. Not just Sethiji, even the mafia thinks you are a big man!’

  Sara said, ‘They are being framed.’

  I looked at her.

  She said, ‘Can’t you see they are being framed!’

  I said, ‘How can you tell?’

  She said, in a hard whisper, ‘Oh don’t give me those lofty peashooter ones! Even a blind man can tell they’ve just been set up! Look at those four poor guys—seems like they’ve been dragged off the road to settle someone else’s agenda. They wouldn’t know how to kill a chicken for dinner!’

  And what about him, I said with my eyes. He looks like he, in one joyous spree, could hammer in the brains of the entire courtroom. Mass brain curry. Served steaming fresh, at the altar of truth and justice.

  She said, in an even harder whisper, ‘Oh don’t always get taken in by looks mr peashooter! Just because he has some muscles doesn’t mean he goes around killing people!’

  Yoronour caught her hard tones and looked our way, frowning sharply. The clerks and wastrel instantly broke into shushing sounds. Sethiji, his smile still beatific, immediately said, ‘I am sorry milord.’ Then swivelled left and right and loudly admonished everyone, ‘Silence! Please learn to maintain silence in the courtroom.’ For a moment I thought Sara was going to say something, but before that could happen, Sethiji had caught my hand and put it on her photo arm and whispered, ‘Take Bhabhiji out, I’ll call you when our number comes.’

  We had barely exited the room—the shadows in hot pursuit—that she turned on me. Wriggling her arm free, she said, ‘You are not going to allow the bastards to use you to frame them! Can’t you see you are being used?’

  We were in the middle of the corridor, a river of people flowing around us. Using their elbows and hips, the shadows had fenced off a tiny island for us. I said, ‘I know nothing about this. Nothing! All I know is what that Hathi Ram has told me. And he claims he knows nothing. I’ve told you what they’ve told me or not told me. I know nothing more and am not interested in finding out either!’

  Many people had stopped by the cordon and were listening in. One young man with a gaunt face and handsome nostril hair had literally stuck his head into our space and cocked his right ear towards us. I said to him, ‘What are you listening to, tiger sandoz—the sermon of Bhagwan Ram?’ He looked at me foolishly with his mouth half open. One of the shadows caught him by his bird neck, twisted it around, and slowly pulling out the black pistol from his crotch, showed it to him. ‘Shall I put this in your ear, hero? Want to hear it? The bugle of Bhagwan Nine MM.’

  Moving like a striking snake, Sara grabbed the shadow’s wrist, and shouted, ‘Stop it! What do you think you are doing?’ The shadow immediately let go of the bird neck, his face filling up with bewilderment and shame. Bird neck, his mouth still half open and his eyes dazed, quickly backed off and melted into the crowd. All the other onlookers leapt into the surging river and flowed away.

  The shadow—a n
ew replacement, middle-aged, balding, but full of energy—stood there struggling with his sudden diminishment, working on a weak smile, his entire vocation called into question.

  I looked at Sara, and saw she realized she had gone too far. The shadows were clearly out of bounds. Ignoring them was one thing; active intervention in their work, another. They were on dispatch from the state, doing their duty, and any interference in it was basically unacceptable. Ostensibly the man lived to save your life; you could not piss on his so brazenly.

  Then I made the mistake of not letting remorse do its work. I forgot Guruji’s cardinal lesson that you can wound and destroy more effectively with silence than with words. I decided to pluck a quick feather for my cap. I said, coldly, with a sneer, ‘It’s time even you learnt where to draw the line.’ And before I had finished saying it I knew I had thrown away all advantage. Regret vanished from her face like a midsummer mirage. Her eyes hardened with contempt; she folded her photo arms across her chest like armour. ‘And where, mr peashooter, in your opinion should the great line lie? In sticking a gun into a poor bystander’s ear? In helping the state frame innocent men on charges of murder? Or in asking desperate women who call you up to sell some harmless things if they’d care to be raped? And how amusing you find all of it! So tell me, mr peashooter, where do you draw the line? Wherever your day’s selfishness finds it convenient?’