‘Are you married?’ Abhishek asked.
‘Not yet. But looking.’ Seeing Abhishek’s quizzical look, Mayank added, ‘I mean I am seeing girls. Like, you know, arranged stuff.’
‘Really? Found anyone?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ Mayank said, thinking of Ritika Tytler, whom he’d met the day before. She did seem nice and he had told his mother he wasn’t averse to another meeting. If Ritika wanted to, of course.
Mayank Sharma had jotted down his priorities – what he was looking for in a woman – in bullet points, as advised by the marriage counsellor. On first impression, Ritika seemed to measure up rather well. She was educated (point one), she came from a respectable family (point two), she was definitely beautiful (point four). Now he had to find out whether she could manage point three: could she adjust to his surroundings? There were other things to consider too: her desire to have an occupation, children, her likes, dislikes … but those could come later.
‘Hungry?’ Mayank asked Abhishek. ‘If you are, we are going to the right place.’
H
er outfit for the evening was the first thing she needed to consider: provocative, but not slutty. She chose a long black silk dress with thin shoulder straps and a silver choker to set it off. The ostentatious diamond engagement ring completed the picture. Very little make-up; just a few strokes of mascara. Simple, elegant, not too unapproachable – Archana had looked at the mirror and was proud of what she saw.
She and Imran went to the nightclub together. Inside, Archana immediately spotted the boy. He appeared younger than his years, almost someone the bouncer should have ejected. She ordered two shots of Glenmorangie, enough to let her slip into the role, and then kept to a Margarita for the rest of the evening. Stepping onto the dance floor, she made sure that the boy saw her. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, nothing to let him assume that she had noticed him. Then she spent the next hour devoting her attention to Imran as they gyrated to the music. Not once did she glance back at the boy who was sitting with a group of his friends, unable to take his eyes off her.
Archana was flirting with him, Imran thought, indeed somewhat aggressively. But he knew the act. She ground her hips against him on the dance floor, letting his groin feel her curvaceous behind. When he did not know how to respond, she grabbed his hands and crossed them around her body, pulling him closer. Her hips moved to the repetitive beat, her soft buttocks making his cock ache. Whenever she turned to face him he enjoyed the plunging neckline of her dress, which revealed a glimpse of those ample breasts that had kept him awake at nights on the hotel room sofa. Despite her candid presence these past weeks, Imran had never dreamt of making a move on her. You do not sleep with Babloo Shankar’s woman.
Suddenly Archana asked him to go to the car, saying she would join him in a minute, and strode away. Though taken aback and disappointed, he knew better than to argue and headed towards the basement. He was just beginning to drop off, the effects of alcohol taking over, when she opened the door at his side. He started. ‘Do you want to drive?’ he asked.
Archana smiled, pushed the seat back, and put her leg across him. He tried to utter something, but her right hand covered his mouth. With her left, she unzipped his trousers. He became hard in a moment and she deftly pulled out his penis. Her hand now circled his throat as she expertly lowered herself onto him. He realized – the corner of his lips later twitched at the memory – that she was wearing no panties. Had she gone to remove them when she sent him to the car?
As Archana thrust onto him, at first gently and then in rapid motions, she put her mouth close to his ear, whispering, ‘Don’t come.’ She did though, moments later, in a violent frenzy, pushing his face between her breasts.
She moved off just as suddenly and climbed onto the passenger seat. Smoothing her dress, she lit a cigarette and waited for him to zip up. ‘Shall we go?’ she asked, not unkindly.
Imran drove out of the basement, and immediately Archana had other things on her mind. Tonight was crucial. The first contact had been made and though she was not absolutely sure, she felt it had worked. She opened the car window and let the chill of the night air hit her uncovered shoulders. ‘How far?’ she asked Imran.
‘Twenty more minutes.’
Archana rummaged in her bag for the mouth freshener spray. She reapplied her lipstick; the first coat now visible on Imran’s shirt collar.
M
atera was enjoying his evening. He rarely had free time these days, what with family duties and his responsibilities at the satta den. But tonight Salim Bhai had invited the staff of all his betting centres for a party, and Matera and his two associates were in charge. Rum, whisky and vodka flowed freely. There was changezi chicken from the shop next to Golcha cinema and mutton barra kebabs from Karim’s. Two floodlights harshly illuminated a large room on the second floor of a decrepit old building in Kucha Chalan, where some forty tables and three hundred chairs stood pushed against the paan juice–spattered walls. Salim Bhai had warned Matera: They must be back in place by 9 a.m. the next day. Business must not suffer.
Loud music blared from the hired stereo system and the more enthusiastic revellers were pulling filmi moves to a popular Hindi song: ‘Beedi jalai le jigar se piya …’
Matera lip-synced silently, sprawled flat across a charpai. Yes, a great night. He had outdone himself and even Salim Bhai had appreciated his efforts.
‘Ai Matera, get up, you bastard!’ Someone was pulling his arm.
He opened his eyes and smiled at Bunty Master. ‘Na, yaar,’ he slurred.
‘Ai, come and dance, you lazy fuck,’ another voice suggested.
‘OK, OK,’ he groaned, smiling. ‘Give me two minutes.’
Matera staggered to the loo. He leaned against the wall and struggled to unbutton his trousers. Somebody had opened the window and the breeze on his face felt pleasant. He finished peeing but stood awhile, enjoying the fresh air. Then, forcing his eyes open, he peered outside. It was a cloudless night and, despite the late hour, the sky was illuminated. His gaze shifted to the street below where a blue Lexus was parked. Salim Bhai was talking to someone through the car window. Matera watched, trying to remember why this was significant.
‘A
fter my training I was posted to central Delhi, at the Darya Ganj police station,’ Mayank carried on with his personalized tour for Abhishek.
‘My posting surprised many. This is a communally sensitive area and there is a minor mafia operating in betting and prostitution. But the commissioner called me to his office and told me he was taking a personal interest in my career and I shouldn’t let him down. Uday sir, he said, had recommended me.’ Mayank paused and smiled. ‘I was chased out in six months.’
‘Why?’ Abhishek asked, amazed.
‘Long story. Can you pass the water please?’
They were eating mutton biryani inside the jeep, parked near Jama Masjid. Mayank had refused to sit on the benches placed on the street. Abhishek noted, not without some concern, that just before entering the area his companion had taken a pistol from the dashboard and tucked it into the back of his trousers.
‘I was posted under Vishnu Gupta, the deputy commissioner of this area,’ Mayank continued. ‘After working with Uday sir, this man was a revelation. He was the stereotype of the bad policeman – absolutely, resolutely corrupt. But more than that, he was also offended by anyone else in the force getting work done. Investigations were continually scuttled. I could not trust my own people. The moment I would start planning a raid, word would leak out and I would come back empty-handed. It was extremely awkward.’
Mayank had started to gather intelligence on the satta mafia in the area. ‘There was one major guy, Salim Khan. He ran his operations out of an old building in Kucha Chalan, quite close to here. I was planning a raid on the place and one morning went on an impromptu recce with my radio operator, Surinder. I was in civvies; did not even carry a gun. It was foolish.’
Abhishek had stopp
ed eating.
‘Don’t like the food?’
‘No-no; I like it. Go on,’ he urged.
‘It was badly planned. The moment I went near the building, the spotters started screaming, “ACP is here, ACP is here!” On the spur of the moment, I told Surinder, “Let’s go in.” We just ran into the building. Boss, there was pandemonium. People were running helter-skelter. We couldn’t run after everyone. So Surinder and I just started bolting the doors from outside. Whoever managed to run out, we let them go. My plan was to lock as many inside as I possibly could. People started jumping out of a first-floor window. So I stood there, just below it. All I had as a weapon – you won’t believe this – was a broom with a long handle that I’d found there. Every time someone looked out, I poked him. Thinking back now, it was farcical. But somehow it worked. All those guys were thinking that if the area assistant commissioner was there, he must have come with a force. That saved us. I couldn’t carry that on for very long, of course, and had to send Surinder to get reinforcements. I couldn’t get a signal on my radio and mobile phone so Surinder had to run all the way to the police station for back-up. Finally the local SHO arrived with some men. We arrested one hundred and sixty-three people that day.’
‘Unbelievable. Congratulations,’ Abhishek gushed.
‘Yes,’ Mayank said happily. ‘You know what the commissioner did? He called my boss and said, “For two years you have been jerking off. A boy comes and arrests everyone under your bloody nose. You should be ashamed.”’
‘Is that why you were kicked out?’
‘Well, the real drama started after the arrests. What happened taught me things the academy never bothers with. We took these one hundred and sixty-three to court. But the metropolitan magistrate let them go with a fine of five hundred rupees each. Can you believe that?’
‘You are kidding,’ Abhishek was indignant.
‘Wait, it doesn’t end here. A month later, Salim filed a case against me in the court of the same magistrate. He said that I’d been taking monthly pay-offs from the manager of his so-called garment factory. They’d deferred payments for one month and that’s supposedly why I cooked up the case.’ Mayank paused. ‘But we should move on now. Let’s pay. I will tell you the rest of the story on the way.’
As they drove away from Jama Masjid towards their final destination, Delhi’s diplomatic enclave, Chanakyapuri, Mayank promised Abhishek a final surprise.
‘So what happened next?’ Abhishek asked, impatient to hear the rest of the story.
‘Uday sir saved me,’ Mayank replied. ‘It could have got very nasty. After the case was registered, the magistrate called to fix a meeting at a five-star hotel. I was immediately suspicious, but I went. He told me that the SHO who’d registered the arrests that morning was on Salim’s payroll and had doctored the case report in a way that could easily implicate me. He asked what he should do. I asked him what could be done. He suggested that I drop the case and Salim would drop his. I refused and went straight to Uday Kumar, telling him everything. Uday sir called that bloody SHO. I was there. He said to the man, “Next time Salim steps out of his area, arrest him and place a gun on him. Register a case under the Arms Act. There will be no bail. We will sort him out in the lock-up.” The SHO got the message and he must have told Salim. Two days later, Salim withdrew the allegations.’ Mayank smiled. ‘End of story.’
‘But you were still transferred?’
‘Ah, yes. My boss, Vishnu Gupta, and his associates used their connections in the home ministry. The commissioner said I should be proud that the home ministry was asking for my removal – I must be doing something right. He ensured that I got this posting. The Crime Branch is the best if you want to learn investigations.’
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Chanakyapuri. Mayank parked the jeep and walked Abhishek towards the Pakistan High Commission. ‘What we’re about to see is quite brutal. Don’t say anything. I will explain later.’
7
‘C
orruption and the Commonwealth Games saga continues.
In a fresh development, officers of the Central Bureau of Investigation last night raided the residences of two senior officials in the sports ministry. The prime minister stated that the guilty shall not be spared. In other developments, the city police …’
Amir woke up as the television news, set as an alarm, invaded the silence. He stayed for a minute, face buried into the pillow, half listening to the unnecessarily excited news anchor before rolling over, stretching his hands above his head and arching his back. Prior to the days of cable TV, it had been the thud of the newspapers falling on the balcony that woke him. Now, his life patterns were dictated by new technologies. He got up quickly, flung the covers off and in two long strides reached the window overlooking his first-floor balcony. The newspapers had not yet arrived.
‘It gets later every day,’ he thought irritably. ‘People watch news before getting to the office, and no one harangues their newspaper vendors any more.’ He made a mental note to call his, before heading towards the kitchen to make coffee.
Amir was particularly eager to read the lead story from the reporting unit. It should be a good start to the week, he felt. He had seen the proofs the previous night, but you never got the feel of a front page from a miniature PDF version. For that, you needed to smooth the rough edges of a newspaper, unfold it, flatten it, glance at the headlines and then go to your story. Run through it briskly the first time, then read every other news item on the page. Read it a second time, slowly, and evaluate it against the other reports. Later, after you have gone through all the other newspapers that are part of your morning routine, go back to your story. That was how, for three decades now, Amir had been savouring his scoops.
He might not have climbed the editorial ladder as quickly as others in his trade, but few could claim the satisfaction this journalist got from a good news story. A byline was its own reward and sometimes when a story was really, really good – as this one definitely was – it could lead to a question in parliament, perhaps even an inquiry commission. A kick up the establishment’s arse – the thought thrilled Amir.
This morning’s report carried an added excitement: the introduction of his newest recruit, Abhishek Dutta. When Amir had announced the story, he’d seen the jaws of the other reporters drop. Even the editor had been surprised. The response from the police and the government would be fun to watch.
Hearing the thud, Amir walked out to the balcony and picked up the newspaper bundle. From the pile, he took out the Express. ‘Policemen snore as crime rates soar.’ Three explicit photographs complemented the bad poetry of the headline. Amir liked the one with the policeman’s head on the steering wheel, a blanket wrapped around him. The story was dynamite, coming at a time when a series of rapes had forced the commissioner to put three thousand more policemen on night patrol.
Amir sat down on the easy chair in the balcony, enjoying the soft morning light on his face. He scanned the headlines of all the other newspapers. Easily the best story today, he thought to himself, delighted. He had been taken aback not only by the audacity of the story, but also by how quietly the young reporter had gone about his job. ‘One story proves nothing,’ he reminded himself. ‘But the signs are good. The boy has news sense.’ He decided to call Abhishek.
‘Good morning. Still sleeping?’
‘Hello, yes. Sorry sir, just getting up.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Amir said. ‘Just wanted to congratulate you on your first byline. It is a very good story. I will see you later at the office.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’
Amir looked onto the street below. Despite the thousand things that had changed over the years here, this remained: the reluctant early morning pilgrimage of students. ‘But they certainly dress better than we did,’ he thought, appraising a group. He headed for the shower.
By 8.30, Amir was ready to leave. His room, now a mess of strewn clothes, crumpled sheets and discarde
d newspapers, would be spotless by the time he returned. His mother and a maid, both of whom lived downstairs, indulged Amir’s love for cleanliness and singular inability to achieve it. But, besides taking care of domestic matters like washing clothes and catering to his sporadic demands for dinner, his mother had limited involvement in his life. Amir liked his space and she, now almost eighty, wanted the reassurance of hearing the soft padding of his feet above her ceiling late at night. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Even after Shobha left him, Amir had felt no urge to live anywhere else. Friends had advised a change of place; even his mother had tentatively suggested a move. But Amir refused. He liked the easy familiarity of the house he had grown up in: the large window of his room overlooking the garden; the rounded staircase with wooden banisters his father had designed after a trip to Europe; and the short, diagonal path that led from the driveway to the gate, lined with seasonal flowers. Most of all, he treasured the neighbourhood. In a city incessantly tearing down to build again, the university’s land laws offered protection against the cardboard modernity doled out in matchbox housings all over Delhi.
As he stepped onto the driveway, Amir met Ram Sharan. The vendor was waiting for him sheepishly, a mound of undelivered newspapers on his bicycle rack.
‘So you come to meet me only for money these days?’ Amir upbraided him. Both men were veterans of the news business and they treated each other with as much familiarity as age and class divisions allowed. ‘This late?’ Amir looked dramatically at his watch. ‘Your newspapers are becoming waste papers.’
Ram Sharan mumbled about printing delays, the laziness of truck drivers and early morning fog, all conniving to keep him from his mission.
‘Take the money from Ma,’ Amir said over his shoulder as he walked away. ‘We will talk about your son’s job next week.’
He drove his car out of the quiet neighbourhood, turned onto the already busy main road and passed the new metro station. The addition of the metro rail to the city’s crumbling public transport system was an initiative he fully supported in the newspaper. Yet, Amir was saddened by how the trees had suddenly vanished. All over Delhi familiar landmarks were disappearing, leaving him disorientated. Just beyond the station, with its functional concrete and white, there used to be a tiny tree-lined courtyard where students could while away their summer afternoons. This had given way to a large neon advertising board with changing loyalties.
The Price You Pay Page 7