Daddy's Girl

by Swati Chaturvedi

  ‘Whose story is it?’ asked Bhagwan sharply.

  ‘Meera, boss. She just came in with it and she has the document.’

  ‘That girl is crazy. Are you sure it’s authentic?’

  ‘Yes, I told her to file the report carefully but was planning to re-do it anyway. Should we hold the story till you see it?’ asked Dev carefully, suddenly feeling very deflated.

  ‘It won’t hold. It’s perishable. No, use it. But you write the story. Very safe. Just on the allegations and tell her to try and get a comment from the Nalwas,’ decided Bhagwan.

  Before he hung up, Dev quickly asked, ‘How do you want to play the story? I was thinking all centres National Express exclusive.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Bhagwan and hung up.

  Sighing with relief, Dev thought that he could now finally get down to work. He called Meera and instructed, ‘Get a reaction from the Nalwas.’

  Meera wailed, ‘They won’t talk to me about this. You know that.’

  ‘Boss, try toh karo. So you can write that the paper tried contacting them but they declined to comment.’

  Meera knew better than to argue. She asked timidly, ‘I have sent you the story. We are using it na, Dev?’

  Exultantly Dev told her, ‘Meera, as they say in my part of the world, nothing can stop it now. Now go home and keep your phone on.’

  Meera let out a whoop of happiness and Dev banged the phone down, his ears ringing. What a nut! he thought ruefully, rubbing his ear but still grinning.

  19

  Meera was filled with so much excitement that even sleep couldn’t win its daily battle against her. The bed seemed to be made up of virulently prickly cacti as she tossed and turned. She kept making up imaginary headlines for her stories as she stole glances at the time on her phone. She finally gave up the struggle at 5 a.m. and went out to the lawn. Dawn had just broken, the sky was starting to turn pink and the chorus of the birds pealed around the garden. Meera was utterly indifferent to the scene unfolding around her and was anxiously scanning the road outside in vain, longing for the akhbarwala, the newspaper guy, to come.

  She paced up and down oblivious to everything but the sound of the gate opening. Her father, who had got up to let Gunny out, and her Dadi observed her silently from inside the house. Finally, the sixteen-year-old boy, who delivered the fattest stack of newspapers in Chanakyapuri to this address and who was used to being accosted by Meera, arrived, only to be nearly knocked down from his bicycle as Meera grabbed the National Express from him and scanned it anxiously.

  Oh, the sweet relief! An eight-column, above the fold flier with the interrogation report in a box. Meera wanted to hug Dev! The headline was dramatic and bold, ‘The police suspect the Nalwas—a Mauser pistol with silencer was used in the murder.’ The bliss and then the anti-climax as tiredness swept through her and the adrenaline that had been fuelling her leaked out in a giant wave of relief. Meera silently handed the paper over to her father and went back to bed.

  This time, sleep was instantaneous.

  When she walked into office later, she was greeted with a hostile silence in the Special Investigative Bureau till Raman, with his eyes averted, offered weakly, ‘Good story!’

  Meetu and Anjali pounced on her. ‘When did you file the report?’

  Meera blushed and said, ‘Late.’

  ‘It’s pretty speculative. I wonder how Bhagwan allowed it.’ said Meetu with her usual pompous air.

  ‘Oh really, you think so?’ Meera responded, not bothering to hide her disgust at Meetu’s jealousy. Bloody fat, bald cow, she thought to herself.

  Meetu’s face had turned an ugly shade of red and she said humourlessly, ‘Ah well, it always pays to sell your stories.’

  Meera dimpled at her and responded, ‘Who would know better than you, Meetu? We have all learnt at the feet of the master!’

  Raman let out a snort of laughter, which he tried to conceal as a coughing fit.

  Meetu said spitefully, ‘Watch it, Meera. Don’t get too happy. It does not last long in this paper.’ She stomped out of the room.

  This time Meera couldn’t help herself from saying aloud, ‘Bloody cow!’

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Anjali rush out to report this to Meetu, trying to stir up more trouble.

  Feeling utterly drained by the toxic jealousy of her colleagues, Meera wandered out into the corridor and saw Bhagwan. Before she could duck, he was before her—materializing in front of her in his own godly, mysterious way. Meera smiled at him anxiously and Bhagwan said, ‘Meera, see me in my office.’

  ‘Sure, when?’ she asked.

  ‘Now,’ said Bhagwan and Meera followed him to his cabin. ‘This story better be correct or we could both lose our jobs.’

  Meera was relieved and thought it was the usual Bhagwan bluster. She dimpled with pure joy and said, ‘It’s true and it’s a great story!’

  Bhagwan scowled at her. He liked his reporters humble and grateful, not cocky. ‘Let’s hope so, but you know, Meera, there are no new stories. I had done a similar story—the big breakthrough in the Billa–Ranga case. Were you even born then?’

  ‘No,’ chirruped Meera and was at a complete loss about what to say next. She stood on her toes and recalled bitterly that Bhagwan had acted in a similar fashion when she had got the Gupta Committee report on a political assassination, which he had held back after she filed the story. After other papers carried stories saying that the National Express had suppressed the story, Bhagwan was then was forced to print it reluctantly and wanted Meera to be grateful. Meera, of course, was mutinous and seriously considered switching jobs then. But she had quoted Ghalib to calm herself and thought, Who will leave the disgusting corridors of the National Express? She had tried to make herself laugh when it actually hurt quite badly.

  Still not satisfied with her reaction, Bhagwan asked coldly, ‘But where is the proof? These cops are flying kites. It’s typical and you poor, novice reporters succumb to it.’

  Meera answered, this time in a measured tone, ‘The proof is overwhelming but the couple can’t implicate each other. And because it’s a rich, well-connected lawyer family, the police are scared.’

  Bhagwan sneered, ‘Scared, overwhelming . . . All trial balloons! Work harder. I am off to see the HM. Let’s see what he says.’ With that he walked out of the room.

  Screw Bhagwan. She was going to get drunk and celebrate, she decided. She dialled Jai’s number. But Jai was in no mood to meet her after their tiff. He deflated her further by coldly saying he was busy training for a polo match he was playing and couldn’t possibly drink. Then he added virtuously, ‘You should hit the bar less and the gym more, Meera. It will help you get toned.’

  Meera ground her teeth, Oh the cheek of the dickhead. Not only did he not want to meet her, the fuckwit implied she was fat. This was it! She decided to head home, forgoing the idea of drinking alone. In her car, on the radio, she heard the RJ say it was R.D. Burman’s birthday. Meera perked up and the beautiful music playing was her only solace. Singing along loudly, she imagined being a different kind of girl— not so OCD about work and really being in love. Was it possible to feel that way about someone, the way the lyrics portrayed the idea of love, she wondered. In her life, so far, she had only seen the contrary.

  But the music worked its magic on her and Meera thought wistfully, Geniuses such as Ghalib and R.D. would be remembered forever, while I was so excited about a newspaper story, which could be binned tomorrow.

  She missed her drink.

  Reaching home, Meera lay down after guzzling down her coffee, blanking out the world, and started reading a mystery thriller. Her family called reading her drug and to Meera it was as necessary as coffee, and had the same effect on her brain–blood barrier—effortlessly transcending it and making her feel good.

  Vaidehiji peeped in and found her sprawled on her bed in an ungainly heap. She was compelled to say, ‘Again. Your hair is so tangled, at least comb it.’ Meera ignored her and s
ank deeper into the bed.

  ‘We are going out for dinner to the Sharmas’ house. Do you want to join us?’

  ‘No thanks, Ma, not interested,’ said Meera hastily.

  ‘Of course! Why would normal people or things interest you?’ Her mother sounded a bit irritated. ‘Fine. Stay here alone.’

  Meera looked up, ‘It’s nothing like that, Ma, and you know it. Please tell Papa to order my dinner; he knows how to plan it.’ She was occasionally appalled at how effortlessly she regressed into being a difficult teenager where her mother was concerned. This day was definitely not going the way she had planned it; after the joy in the morning, it had gone rapidly downhill. And there was now the prospect of dinner alone.

  She went into Dadi’s room and wordlessly hugged her, feeling better almost immediately. Unlike her difficult mother, her Dadi was pure affection and Meera could do no wrong in her eyes. Just then Meera’s phone buzzed. She looked down and grimaced. It was the ex-editor of the National Express who could bore the pants off anyone.

  ‘Are you still working on the Nalwa story?’ he questioned without preamble.

  Meera, taken aback, said, ‘You must have seen my story in the morning.’

  ‘No, I do not read the National Express. Not since I stopped being its editor,’ Meera was surprised he was actually dead earnest and said this without a trace of irony.

  ‘Ever since Bhagwan replaced me, the paper has only gone down. It is now pure trash. You know it lacks credibility,’ he said.

  Meera didn’t bother to respond. Instead she said, ‘I thought you were calling me about my story.’

  ‘Well, I always like to help a young colleague,’ he said pompously. ‘I have a message. Anthony bhai wants to meet you. He may have seen your story. Tomorrow at 8 p.m., his residence.’

  Meera was astonished. Anthony bhai was the all-powerful aide to the Top Gun. While Meera knew him, she had always known that he had steered clear of her. Her guess was that she was not as amenable as the other reporters and could be dangerous to deal with. She wanted to ask him all the questions buzzing in her head but, fearing a long discourse on how he was so generous to colleagues, she didn’t.

  The next evening, intrigued and a little apprehensive, Meera reached the haloed precincts of the bungalow and was ushered into a waiting room located in an outhouse, which was hideous testimony to an utter lack of aesthetics.

  The sagging sofa was set opposite a wall filled with pictures of the erstwhile political family he had come to worship. Anthony bhai had been impartial with all the photographs. They were of equal size and the only other decoration on the wall was a poster of St Sebastian Church, in a singularly garish, sickly, sugary pink plastic frame. Considering the whispers of Anthony bhai’s fabled wealth, it was clear that he had ensured that the casual visitor certainly would not add to the gossip. As she was looking around the room, a polite aide popped his head inside and said unctuously, ‘Anthony bhai is on his way.’

  Two minutes later, Anthony bhai appeared before her— a portly man running into fat, dark with a pockmarked face. He had eyes like a hawk or a serial killer. She smiled uneasily as Anthony bhai sat down and called on the intercom, asking for special khakra for her, while beaming at her. He had a strange way of steepling his fingers while wringing his hands. It reminded her of Lady Macbeth and Meera thought that maybe Vishal Bhardwaj, in his next film, could have a male Gujarati Macbeth-like politician.

  Anthony bhai, blissfully unaware of Meera’s wild flights of fancy, said benignly, ‘Meeraji, how many years have I known you? Yet, you have never asked me for anything. Ask, should I speak to Bhagwan? Tell me what you want?’

  Meera turned a bright shade of red and said, ‘Nothing, Anthony bhai. But if you really want to help me, please get me an interview with your boss. Only you can. And what is the point of doing all these managed interviews with courtiers such as Thakurji and Dheer? The world knows they are staged.’

  Anthony’s eyes gleamed. ‘You have a point,’ he said. ‘Yeh Thakurji kahan ka janwar hai?’

  ‘But I thought he was your man?’ asked Meera, trying to smell dissent in the rank of the durbaris, the coterie of the Top Gun.

  Anthony bhai flared up dramatically. ‘Utter rubbish! You eat the khakra. He says this to malign me. Yeh sab taunts hai mere liye. He hits people with his paunch and I have to listen to his taunts,’ he said, convulsing with laughter at his own wit.

  Malign you! The man who has the worst reputation in India? That’s rich, thought Meera irreverently.

  ‘But, since you asked, I will try with the boss. Let’s see, I cannot promise anything,’ said Anthony bhai with a stab at humility, which was quite overdone as he made himself comfortable by sitting cross-legged on the sofa.

  Thank god he’s wearing khadi pyjamas, thought Meera with a mental shudder. Imagine the view I would have had to endure if he was wearing a dhoti.

  Meera said, ‘Then what, No. 2? That would be a very big thing for me, Anthony bhai.’

  ‘No, no. I have nothing to do with his office. They do things strangely over there,’ he sneered. ‘But, tell me, I heard that a cop was telling you lots of stories about the Nalwa case. That man, Singh, I have heard is unreliable so I wanted to help you by telling you—’ As if on cue, his intercom rang. Raising his eyes dramatically to the ceiling at the innumerable calls on his time, he screamed, ‘Yes’, into the phone.

  Then lowering his voice, he said conspiratorially, ‘Haan haan, tell Boss I am on my way.’

  ‘Sorry, Meera. We will meet again. What do I do? Happens all the time.’

  Meera stood up, her audience was clearly at an end and she wondered what he told his staff. How did they know precisely when to call; was there a secret button he pressed? She had been warned and she did not give a flying fuck. She also knew that she would never get the coveted interview with Top Gun. Both Anthony bhai and his boss mistrusted and disliked her.

  ‘No problem, Anthony bhai. See you soon!’ she smiled.

  ‘Bilkul, mein khud phone karunga. Remember, okay?’ he said politely as he ushered her out.

  Driving back, Meera was still puzzled. What did they expect? Did they think I would hear him out and would obligingly stop writing about the Nalwas? Meera smiled to herself. I ain’t the kind who bends over. What idiots!

  Then she began concentrating on the traffic jam ahead of her because India’s premier hirsute yoga guru was inaugurating a dhaba, and the obliging traffic police whose chief was his devoted bhakt, had diverted and held up the traffic.

  ‘Bloody hell! The only things that work in India are babas and dhabas!’ she swore loudly.

  20

  Arun Singh stared thoughtfully at Apoorva Kumar Sinha who was trying to convince him that Meera was now becoming a ‘dangerous jihadi’ who had got the DCP in trouble, and here he lowered his voice to emphasize the two major penalty charge sheets.

  Singh, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement, said, ‘That chit of a girl! Accha, the way I heard it, she had gone like a trooper to get his reaction to a story she was doing on his first major penalty charge sheet. Since he is a prize moron, permanently drunk and that was the first time he had heard of it, he let loose against the chor CP on the wireless. This was then heard by every cop, including the beat constables.’

  Sinha said impatiently, ‘Yeah, that is true. But she provoked him and then all of Delhi heard how he and the CP were in cahoots, and had done the deal together. How do you trust a girl like that?’

  Singh said mildly, ‘But wasn’t he drunk in the middle of the afternoon in office?’

  Sinha waved it away as a minor irritant in the normal travails of life in the government. ‘The DCP has always had the problem of getting bored in office but he told me that this Meera challenged him. You know how these girls behave, they make us feel small. Must’ve done the same with him.’

  Singh smiled and thought, This is a miracle day! The unprecedented Apoorva Kumar Sinha is actually looking out for me! And soon pigs w
ill be flying outside police headquarters windows.

  Aloud he observed, ‘You really don’t like her, do you? What did she do to you?’

  Sinha burst out like a pricked balloon, expelling bile instead of gas, while all his chins waggled in exasperated unison, ‘She is so irreverent. Acts so smart! These young kids think they own the world. You see, she will get in into trouble with the Nalwa case. There are limits but that bitch is ruthless about her story, like a fucking jihadi. She gouges you for information.’

  Singh looked at him expressionlessly and thought, SOB, she has wounded you twice over. Exposed your professional incompetence and rejected you when you made your fumbling, sad advances.

  He told Sinha, ‘Thanks, yaar. It’s good you warned me. Meera keeps calling me. I will be very careful now.’

  Sinha, for the first time in the meeting, looked gratified and putting on a confiding air and said, ‘Bhai, what are batchmates for? I know you are mad. You just want to head the crime branch and not become the CP like me, so there is no fight between us at the moment. But this bastard CP needs to be fixed. I have also heard his daughter is on the motu fixer channel’s board. You know the one, the successor to Ram Gopal Singh who claims he controls access to Bollywood, cricket and the media?’

  ‘Oh, Thakurji? The one who makes crores in every auction? I didn’t know that the CP’s daughter was on his channel’s board. So he has CP bhai in his pocket,’ said Singh, imitating Thakurji’s irritating nasal drawl and his habit of calling everybody ‘bade bhai’ or ‘bhai sahib.’

  Sinha’s eyes glittered as befits a man delivering the juiciest morsel of gossip for the day and said, ‘Haan yaar woh saala gutter chaap! That bloody low class fellow is now friends with the first daughter and the son-in-law. He showed me her texts, yaar. Flaunts them the way a whore flaunts clients. Antony bhai says about him, ‘Saala Thakur mota sab ko paunch marta hai!”’

  Then Sinha leaned forward and said confidingly, ‘You know the IB has a dossier on Thakurji, which has his CV from his earlier days when he applied to be a driver to the Top Gun. Honestly, I am not exaggerating. The bastard had written in place of “I will always be punctual”, “I will puncture you” and that’s pretty much what he is doing to the party!’