Singh, his control restored, returned empty-handed and sat down facing her with a serene expression. Meera looked at him in utter dismay as her hopes came crashing down. She thought, Oh my god, he has nothing! He was bluffing, for all the conjecture! The betrayal felt even more terrible as he had raised her hopes sky high.
For the first time ever, instead of being a mute victim to a source’s whims and fancies, Meera exploded, ‘What is it, Singh sahib? Do you think you can just jerk me around any way you want? You always decide. You drop me, then cry to me. Where is the evidence? Please stop playing these insane games.’
Hearing her scream, Singh felt immeasurably better. She was like other journalists after all, it was only about the story—nothing else mattered to these people. They were addicts, craving the next fix, and he had only broken down in front of an addict who was of no particular import and did not matter in his conventional role-playing universe.
Smiling at her insolently, Singh said, ‘Have you quite finished? May I be allowed to speak?’
Meera, spent after her fury and desperate to leave, nodded. The roles had certainly been reversed; a short while ago, Singh was a quivering mess and now she occupied the role which she seemed predestined to play in her own view—that of a hot mess.
‘I can see you are certainly invested in the story,’ said Singh with an ironic emphasis on the words ‘invested’ and ‘story’. ‘If you want to do it, you will have to take the risk. You can quote me on record saying everything I just told you. That should be enough for a normal, credible paper. But perhaps Bhagwan does not trust you, he may think you are unhinged. Then it’s up to you to convince him and take on the whole establishment. No Padma Vibushans, no more plum assignments for your father,’ said Singh, lingering longingly on the assignments. ‘I have heard he has had an outstanding career, but he must be sad his own daughter will ensure that he does not become a secretary.
‘Meera, you journalists don’t belong to anyone in the final analysis. They will ensure that my report is presented straight to the dustbin not to the court, but you have to be prepared for you and your family to join me in garbage heap.’
Meera was struck dumb by this unexpected assault. She wanted to protest vehemently, but had to reluctantly accept the truth of Singh’s words.
Meeting his eyes, Meera said, ‘You enjoyed saying that, didn’t you? I guess a policeman has to zero in on the ugliness of the world. A drain inspector’s view of the world, Singh sahib. I will ask my editor and, contrary to what you may like to believe, we are not only about our relatives and our caste. I think my father loves me enough to accept anything for my sake and will still be proud that I did the right thing.’
She stood up. There was nothing more left to say.
Singh now felt awful—he had attacked this girl to vent his frustration and she was still prepared to do her job.
He said quietly, ‘Meera, don’t go. I am sorry; I lost it. I seem to be making a complete ass of myself and I promise you it won’t happen again.’ He added ruefully, ‘I think the media attack on me over the past few weeks culminated in my foul attack on you, the only one who is blameless and has stood by me.’
Meera was still curious—a near-fatal weakness, which she regularly cursed but which held her in thrall—so she asked, ‘What is this evidence?’
‘I have it,’ Singh said. ‘But let’s start with you putting me on record. That should certainly prompt the court to take a strong view of this. Especially after Dawood’s disgrace. The courts are getting more and more activist as the government leaks credibility. Maybe after my statement, as a whistle-blower who has suffered, it will prompt someone to file a PIL (public interest litigation). If the courts take notice, I will present my evidence.’
Meera smiled as she thought how everybody appeared to be an activist these days.
Singh, feeling obscurely outraged at the expression on her face, immediately asked, ‘Why are you laughing? You don’t think I have sacrificed everything for this case?’
‘Oh please, Singh sahib, don’t get me wrong. I know you have paid a huge price but because we deal with words every day, they seem to have lost all their meaning. When we say something, it seems empty. Nothing means anything.’
Singh was pacified. ‘I understand. I have also felt this void. We have used these words so often that we have stripped them of heft and meaning.’
Meera shrugged sadly, stood up and held out her hand saying, ‘I will speak to Bhagwan and keep you posted. You think about that clinching evidence and if you want to give it to me, it will support my point to the paper.’
Singh, his eyes brimming over, shook his head, ‘Okay, I will sleep on it. And, remember, I am a cranky, old man. I did not mean half the things I said.’
But you sure did, thought Meera. She was left with the feeling that the Nalwa murder case had also killed her relationship with her prized source.
Her shoulders knotted with familiar tension and a migraine making her dizzy, Meera made her way to the office forlornly.
She felt doomed, as if fate had decided to keep laying traps for her. Predictably, Bhagwan was not in office, having left for some portentous, vague meeting to decide India’s fate.
Swallowing two painkillers, which made her stomach burn, she settled down to wait for him in his ante-room.
Six hours later, she was dizzy with hunger and her migraine made her want to slice the left part of her head off with a blunt knife. Yet, there was no sign of Bhagwan. Despite her bloody-minded determination to wait, Meera sensed he was not coming back to the office tonight. She had already called his cell phone six times, which, if you were a lowly reporter, you were just not allowed to do.
Well, clearly, he knows I am desperate to speak to him and he does not even bother acknowledging that I tried to get in touch with him, thought Meera savagely. Talking to Dev would be useless since this call could only be taken by Bhagwan. It’s one thing to want something in life, it’s another to desperately need it, thought Meera, the realization starting to sink in.
She felt a desperate rage against Singh. She believed he was withholding information and did not trust her enough to share it with her. It was as if he had judged her and dismissed her as being inadequate.
Two seconds later Bhagwan walked in and Meera saw his face fall as he found her sitting in the ante-room. So much for my editor’s warm welcome, she thought venomously.
She stood up and tried a smile, which died en route to her lips. She saw Bhagwan’s disinterest and said point-blank, ‘I have been calling you and waiting for nearly six hours.’
Bhagwan was dismissive, not even bothering to proffer an excuse for ignoring her phone calls. ‘Yes, I have been busy. Tell me fast; I have to take my family out for dinner.’
Meera felt her heart sink down to her ballet flats and she hurriedly tried to collate what Singh said and present it to Bhagwan.
He heard her out disinterestedly, while fiddling with his two cell phones, and then pounced on her suddenly, ‘What did your fellow say? His investigation would be presented to the garbage bin? He is right and I have no interest in putting rubbish on my front page. The word of a discredited, transferred official will never be in the National Express as long as I am in charge. Now, if he has some real evidence, tangible proof, ask the fucker to give it you. He can’t be a whistle-blower if he has no teeth.’ Bhagwan started laughing at his own wit.
Meera failed to see the humour in the situation but gamely played along and said, ‘I thought you would see it like that. Fine, I will go and squeeze him some more for information.’
Churlish to the last bone in his body, Bhagwan said, ‘C’mon, he’s barely put his toe in the water. Ask him to immerse himself in it completely. And now go! My wife will divorce me; she complains I am always late.’
Not on account of the paper though! thought Meera with fresh venom. Her feet leaden, she trudged out of his office wearily.
Later, she realized that she had known all along what Bhagwan�
�s reaction would be. The ass has never pretended that he had any interest in supporting my stories, she thought, her bitterness corroding her inside.
What next? She knew Singh must understand that he had to quit playing his bureaucratic games and give her all the evidence he had. Would he believe that I had tried my best with Bhagwan and failed? After his diatribe, she thought she had been wrong in her judgement that he liked and trusted her. But she was quickly losing her strength. Light-headed with hunger, the last meal she had eaten was breakfast, she called Singh up. ‘I need to see you now. And I am coming over,’ she said abruptly and hung up.
She reached Singh’s house for the second time that day and he looked exceedingly unwelcome. She bit down her request of wanting something to eat, even plain bread would do.
Singh was shocked by Meera’s appearance. He had never seen her look so exhausted and on the edge before. She looked bedraggled and her eyes were ringed with huge dark circles.
Reluctantly, and feeling somewhat responsible for her state, he ushered her inside.
Without preamble Meera said, ‘I spoke to Bhagwan and—’
‘You could have waited till tomorrow. You look sick,’ Singh interrupted.
Waving him aside, Meera continued, ‘Please let me finish. It’s no good. I tried my best but Bhagwan will not play till you give us the evidence.’ And without trying to soften the blow, she said brutally, ‘He says the paper will not put the garbage of a discredited, transferred official with an axe to grind on our page one.’
Singh flushed with anger. ‘Fuck him!’
Meera looked him in the eye. ‘I had told you, Singh sahib. How can we play when we stake everything and you nothing? It’s not equal. You are protecting yourself and Bhagwan has to protect the paper. We can’t become a laughing stock, can we?’
Singh looked like he was about to burst, when Meera said tonelessly, ‘Nobody protected Ambika. Till I got involved in this, I always believed that your parents’ love is limitless. Now I know better. It’s only about protecting yourself. I thought nothing made or broke parents’ hearts more than their children. Now I see that is all bullshit. This case has sullied my mind.’
‘Stop it, Meera. What nonsense! All parents are not alike,’ screamed Singh.
Meera just looked at him with wounded eyes and was quiet.
Singh started to massage his paunch gently, which seemed like a reflex reaction to Meera today. Then he said, ‘You really tried? Okay, don’t answer that. Can you go home now and eat? I can’t offer you food because there is only chicken in the house. Not even bread and I know from my experience with my daughter—that she looks like death when she does not eat.’
Meera was in no mood to relent. ‘Singh sahib, forget about my hunger. I waited to see Bhagwan for six hours and I can do more if need be. You just tell me, will you give me the evidence or not?’
And there it was. Meera was constitutionally unable to be anything but direct and blunt.
‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’ Singh demanded. ‘Look, let me think about it overnight. I don’t want to make any promises.’
Meera stood up. Well, I have done my best, she thought as she made her way home.
Suddenly the text alert on her phone beeped. She felt fresh hope flood her. Maybe, just maybe, Singh had changed his mind!
Her hopes crashed when she saw it was from Jai. ‘You are in my inappropriate thoughts.’
Poor loser, thought Meera disinterestedly.
He was never in her thoughts and she deleted the text.
27
Singh used one hand to hold the chicken leg, which he was gnawing on, while the other continued to softly stroke his paunch. Normally not given to any contemplation, he had always dismissed it as a waste of time, he felt today that his soul had a gawping hole in it. This feeling had become familiar to him while investigating the Nalwa case. He closed his eyes and went back as he always did to the evidence.
He was questioning Anju, Mr Nalwa’s current squeeze and was staring with horrified fascination at her—a case of botox gone haywire. An unrelated thought popped into Singh’s head, ‘She has Bajrangbali lips.’ Her mouth set permanently in a gigantic swollen pout, Anju was being shockingly forthcoming about the sex parties she hosted.
Suddenly, she got up, took Singh’s hand and placed it over her left breast. Singh felt the shock run to his taut nerve ends. He snatched his hand away. Anju asked mockingly, ‘Something happened?’ and winked at him.
Singh looked at her silently as his paunch quivered.
Singh slapped her hard. Anju reeled with shock as Singh told her with icy loathing, ‘I will book you for soliciting and prostitution if you don’t do exactly as I say.’
Anju, still in shock, nodded dumbly.
‘Now, tell me when your next “party” is.’ asked Singh sharply. ‘I want you to bug the place and wear a wire. Wearing it might be difficult.’ He looked at her contemptuously. ‘But it’s a tiny bug that you can conceal in a locket or a large earring.’
She nodded, having lost her energy all of a sudden.
‘Now, focus on what I want you to do. You say Mrs Nalwa hates you and you also say that Mr Nalwa has told you she’s committed a crime. We need to hear about that. The interrogation hasn’t revealed anything. I need you to help us. Now, I know that she has a terrible temper and since her daughter’s death she has been out of sorts. I can see her grief, but I can also see that she . . . they . . . are hiding something. I want you to find out what. I want you to make her lose her temper and then see what she says.’
Anju, her cheek smarting, nodded quietly. This was the first time in forty-four years that she did not know how to handle a man. She had begun to suspect that the Nalwas had done something terrible when she saw that Arjun was meeting her less and less. He didn’t want to talk to her much and got irritated easily. She understood the grief that he would have suffered, but had thought that over a period of time, he would be all right. This was their life, and she loved it and him. Then, one night when they were together, he refused to sleep over. He was reserved and did not even bother to please her. That’s when she goaded him beyond his usual excuses of, ‘I’m depressed’ or ‘I need to be home’ or ‘she needs me’.
‘I’m not going to let you go till you tell me what it is that you are hiding. I know it’s not grief. I can sense fear. Have you done something?’ she’d asked on instinct.
‘Shut up! Shut up! I have too many problems to have you add more. Don’t dig where you don’t know what’s happening. And, for the last time, I’m warning you. Do. Not. Mess. With. Us. Especially, not with Cuckoo. She’s not in the mood. Her medication isn’t working and when it doesn’t, she could be . . .’
‘What do you mean? Are you threatening me?’ Anju could feel dread rise up within her. ‘You didn’t do it, did you? Ambika?’
He did not respond. He turned his back on her, but she knew.
And when she saw him drift away from her, she knew she had to do something about it.
She’d then worked with Singh to understand how to set up the bugs. Singh did not have to make any fresh threats to get her to agree to his plan and was quite taken aback by her alacrity. She made sure that she had the bug inside the claws of her intricate, three-carat diamond pendant and enjoyed this fresh thrill.
Then she called Arjun up and apologized. ‘I’m sorry,’ she cooed into the phone. ‘I’m never going to question you ever again, but since you’ve left, I’ve been lonely.’
On the other side of the phone, she could feel Arjun softening and then grunting in approval. She knew he could never resist her white, bountiful breasts and her absolute preoccupation with sex, which matched his own. He gave in, as he had many times in the past, forgetting his promise to Cuckoo Nalwa.
It was like old times again, except that Anju was acutely aware that it wasn’t. Flushed after a passionate round of animal sex, she rolled over and reached for a cigarette, when Cuckoo stormed in and slapped her husband, who struggl
ed in vain to get off the bed.
Anju laughed mockingly and said, ‘Oh, you poor thing. Why don’t you stop trying? You know he can never keep away from me for too long. Why, now we might as well make it permanent. There is nothing left to stop him.’
Mrs Nalwa, goaded beyond endurance, said, ‘Listen, you whore. I will kill you and I will kill him before I let you have him.’
Anju laughed mockingly and said, ‘You are pathetic, you know that? Even Ambika hated you and the way you used her, and degraded yourself as his slave, just to keep him.’
Mr Nalwa intervened, ‘Anju, please stop it. You don’t know what you are saying.’
Anju saw a flash of fear in his eyes. Now she was compelled to know. What did this cow have on him that had turned this charismatic man into such a wreck?
‘I know what I’m saying,’ she said looking straight at Mrs Nalwa. ‘I know exactly what I’m saying. You know she is a monster, you have told me so many times. You even said she harmed Ambika And it broke your heart.’
Mrs Nalwa looked at her husband. Her gaze was so baleful that he actually shuddered and then she said slowly, ‘So you told her, you bastard! Even Ambika’s death was not sacred for you!’
Anju was now so scared at her transformation that she cowered behind Mr Nalwa, who said slowly, ‘What did you say? You called Ambika’s death sacred? You? Aren’t you the reason she’s not in our lives today?’
Mrs Nalwa slowly advanced to him and said, ‘Yes, I am. I had to stop her. I had to,’ she said, shaking her head.
Anju, trembling behind Mr Nalwa, thought she would never be the same again. She had seen the darkness in Mrs Nalwa’s eyes up close and she wanted to wear her clothes and get out of there as soon as she could. She looked at Mrs Nalwa, her mask-like face transformed in her rage, and for the first time in her life felt genuine sympathy for her lover. How did Arjun stand it? Living day in day out with his own private monster, who had crossed the most forbidden line?
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