The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  When Amir Akhtar had been a regular at the police headquarters, the press office had felt different. There were fewer newspapers then and the single government-aided news channel rarely bothered to send reporters. Competition between newspapers had been gentler, even gentlemanly, in those days. Amir, even now, refused to put women on the crime beat; the rest of the beats had plenty.

  Amir knew that he’d covered crime for longer than he should have. Most of his peer group had moved on but he had always been averse to change. Once, during a late-night shift, he had ignored a tip-off about a ‘fight between two gangs in Old Delhi’, preferring, instead, a chat in the smoke-filled darkroom with a photographer. The fight had turned out to be a full-blown communal riot that raged on for weeks. He could not answer his editor when asked how a reporter with his experience could have disregarded the information coming from a communally sensitive area. Amir realized that there was a thin line between knowing a beat so well that you understood every nuance, and getting so comfortable that you became cynical towards news. He’d requested a move to cover education.

  ‘Which crook are you off to meet today?’ Vikram was back at his side.

  ‘Uday Kumar.’ Amir knew lying was pointless. Little happened in this building that passed Vikram by. ‘Haven’t seen him in ages. Thought we should do lunch. In fact,’ he said, making to leave, ‘I should be on my way.’

  ‘Uday is becoming a favourite of your paper. What’s going on?’ Vikram asked with a smile.

  ‘Isn’t Uday everyone’s favourite?’ Amir retorted lightly, waving goodbye and stepping out.

  In the corridor he met Mayank, hurrying towards him. ‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Mayank, good afternoon. We meet again.’ Amir shook his hand warmly. ‘We’re both headed to the same office, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Before the editorial meeting that morning, Amir had introduced Matera and Mayank to each other, leaving only when he had been sure his ward was comfortable. He had appreciated the immediate kindness the young policeman had shown to Matera, sensing the man’s vulnerability. He had offered him a cup of tea, sat with him and asked friendly questions. These were courtesies he rarely found in the ruffians in uniform today.

  Amir had few illusions about men in power, especially civil servants whom he rated lower than politicians. ‘At least politicians have to go back to the electorate,’ the journalist argued. ‘They have to seek a mandate. The bureaucrats have to pass one bloody exam and that’s it – they can lord over our lives forever.’ This one’s a rare gem among the assorted assholes, Amir thought as he climbed the staircase with Mayank.

  ‘So, Mayank, what has Matera told you?’ Uday came straight to the point as soon as they were seated.

  ‘Salim Khan seems keen to put a mole into a security agency in Delhi, sir. The name of the agency is …’ Mayank referred to his files ‘ … A to Z Security Solutions.’

  ‘I know its owner – Mukund Deswal,’ Uday offered. ‘He’s part of central Delhi’s land mafia. The security business is all cash; the perfect place for that bastard’s black money. I can lean on him to give Salim’s man the job. No problem.’

  Amir objected. ‘That might not be the best way to go. Salim entertains a lot of people at his dens. You know the variety – politicians, businessmen, even a couple of your colleagues. Your man Deswal and Salim might already know each other. If you intervene and Salim gets to know, this lead is over. Better to let Matera inform us.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Uday conceded quickly.

  ‘I’ve done some research on this security agency, sir,’ Mayank said, his head still bent over his notes. ‘Right now, they are the most successful in north India. In Delhi alone they have almost twenty thousand clients. This includes not only personal family-based security, but also some of the top industrial units.’

  ‘Ah, Deswal has become big in recent times,’ Uday smirked. ‘You know, Amir, security is the business to get into. Big money, they say. Can’t fucking fail. Everyone is afraid for their lives or for their cash. Maybe I should retire now and open an agency.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Amir retorted, suddenly impatient, ‘if you can’t let somebody finish what he is saying.’

  Mayank’s usually indomitable boss looked chastened. There was an equation between these two men that the young officer failed to grasp. ‘Given the sheer number of clients at A to Z,’ he continued, looking from one to the other, ‘this information still leaves us with an impossibly high number of potential victims. What we need to watch for closely is the particular posting Salim’s man goes for. If we can discover this, and if it is indeed Babloo’s doing, we have a very strong lead.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Amir, nodding at Mayank. ‘What do you think, Uday?’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll still need inside information. Mayank, are you proposing we find someone at the agency?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I might have just the person. I’ll confirm it in a day or two.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ Uday said. ‘So here we are now: I am almost sure Archana is in town and that seems corroborated by what Matera told you the other day, Amir. But my sources can’t confirm Babloo’s whereabouts. I’ve requested the airports to watch out for a man in a wheelchair. Unless he has suddenly managed to walk, Babloo hasn’t entered the country through the usual route. We know he’s been in Singapore till recently. So the land route option is not feasible, unless he flies to Nepal or Bangladesh and comes in from there.’

  ‘And what if he does?’ Amir asked.

  ‘Nothing that we can do,’ Uday replied. ‘Too many corridors. Also, Babloo has very good local operators there.’

  The meeting ended soon with responsibilities set: Amir would keep in close contact with Matera, Mayank would build on his contacts at A to Z Security, while Uday would quiz his sources for clues on Babloo. Even as they tried to give each other tasks and set deadlines, all three men knew that what they were doing was waiting for Babloo Shankar to make the next move.

  ‘W

  e must ask ourselves what kind of society we are policing, mustn’t we?’ Commissioner Pratap said to Abhishek, who nodded between mouthfuls of chicken biryani.

  ‘Let me tell you what happened the other day, which really made me wonder if I am the right person to head this force.’ Pratap helped himself to some soup. ‘Gruesome incident in Mayur Vihar. You stay there, don’t you? This man, posing as a courier, rings the doorbell of a third-floor apartment. It’s mid-afternoon. The husband has left for work, the maid has come and gone. Mother is giving her nine-month-old daughter a bath. She opens the door to a man who shoves her inside. He has a knife with him. He ties the woman to a chair, then takes his time going through the cupboards, the safe. He takes the jewellery, takes the cash, and after about half an hour he is ready to leave. Suddenly the infant starts to cry and he notices her. She’s still in the tub. Maybe the water’s got cold. She’s wearing these thin gold earrings. He tries to rip them off her ears. The baby screams and the man drowns her in the tub of water. Right there, in front of her mother. For a pair of earrings, he takes a life.’ Pratap paused and looked at his lunch companion, who had stopped eating. ‘Now tell me, how do I police this society? What kind of a man is this? I police human beings. Is he human? If we are to police animals, do I have to become an animal too?’

  Abhishek reached for his notepad.

  ‘No, no. This is not for a story. I am asking your opinion. Tell me what you think.’

  Abhishek answered slowly. ‘I don’t know, sir. I wish I did. In the last one month, I have seen more things than in my entire life. I have no opinion. Right now, I think I am just observing.’

  ‘Yes,’ the commissioner said kindly. ‘It must have been quite a month for you. I’m glad that you say you are observing. When you start having opinions, you can write editorials.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, editors and senior police officers are much the same. We have opinions. We don’t go out on the streets any more. It’s you
guys – reporters, the younger policemen, my constables – who are our eyes and ears. We need your curiosity.’

  Abhishek was enjoying the lunch but did not forget work. He asked the commissioner to explain the rise in kidnappings in Delhi.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the influx of migrants,’ Pratap said after a thoughtful pause. ‘People come here from all over the country in search of a better life. In the villages, in the small towns, everyone knew each other. They had an identity, right? You were the tailor’s son; somebody was the cobbler, barber … whatever. Here, who knows you? No one. There’s a feeling of having been set loose. People can do anything. And they do. They kidnap, kill, rape.’

  ‘Are you saying rising migration to the cities is a problem?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying that,’ the cop replied quickly. ‘The home minister would kill me if I said that, given his plans for a fifty per cent urban India. I know that’s the worldwide trend, but here it will wreak havoc, Abhishek. The entire social fabric of this country is being changed. Suddenly some people have got very rich. Others want it too and will stop at nothing to get it.’ He paused. ‘Look, I can’t give you a quote on this. Ask Uday. He has all the quotes in the world.’

  Pratap poured himself a glass of water and then sat back on the sofa. ‘The other day you met that man who butchered his daughter. Uff, horrific. Why do you think he did it in Delhi and not in his home town? One word: anonymity.’

  The commissioner suddenly looked tired, and for a moment Abhishek felt he had been offered a rare glimpse inside the mind of one of Delhi’s most powerful men.

  Over coffee, Pratap told him, ‘I’ve followed your reports with much appreciation. You’ve done very good and impartial work, and you have rightfully taken the police to task. As I’ve offered before, we should work together. I’ve given you my personal number. You can come to me for anything you feel like. I mean it.’

  Abhishek was ecstatic. ‘Sir, I couldn’t have done anything without your help. I appreciate it and will respond in any way I can.’

  By the time he took his leave, the morning’s scolding had faded to nothing. Abhishek felt on top of the world. A month ago, he was just another college graduate looking for a job. Now he took part in thrilling police operations, wrote front-page news stories and lunched with Delhi’s topmost policeman. Had Abhishek been given to emotional displays, he would have punched the air. Instead, he kept walking, head down, hands in his jacket pockets.

  His host was also satisfied with how the lunch meeting had gone. It had been calculated to do one thing: make the young journalist toe the line, and the commissioner was fairly sure that Abhishek had been bought. In his many years of service, he had never met a journalist who could not be wooed by power. They might scoff at money – in any case, blatant bribery wasn’t his style – but power was always an effective, and cleaner seducer. A little homework on Abhishek had revealed his small-town middle-class upbringing. In years to come, Pratap knew, the gifts offered would have to be upped. But for now, words of praise and understanding from the establishment were enough.

  There was one other matter. Pratap rang his staff officer. ‘Have you heard from Vikram on the Abhishek Dutta issue? Is something being done?’ A little destabilization would be useful.

  13

  A

  bhishek, buried under four blankets, was waiting to hear the thud against his front door. The December weather was mercilessly cold and the single window of his one-room quarters, bloated during the monsoon to a size slightly bigger than the frame, wouldn’t shut properly. The blow heater he had bought with his first pay cheque had given up after three days of relentless work. On most mornings Abhishek took his time, steeling himself before his toes would make their first tentative flirtation with the world beyond the covers. But today would be different. Today he had a headline scoop.

  The moment he heard the thump of the papers falling in the corridor, he rushed outside. With a triumphant glance at the front pages, he jumped back into bed with the newspaper, intending to savour every word.

  He read it luxuriously, delighting at the accompanying archive shot of the blazing Uphaar cinema. This would cause a stir, he smiled, before finally turning back to his P.D. James murder mystery. He had been reading The Lighthouse for over a month now and was keen to get it over with. During his school and college years, Abhishek could get Adam Dalgliesh to wrap up most investigations in a day or two but these days he was dragging his feet. The detective had just taken ill with a deadly virus when Abhishek’s phone rang.

  ‘Good morning. This is Nayyar here.’

  He couldn’t immediately place the name. Ah yes, the editor’s PA. They had been introduced briefly once and though Abhishek passed the man’s cubicle every day, there had never been any further interaction.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Nayyar,’ he said, puzzled by the call.

  ‘Can you come to the office immediately? The editor wants to meet you.’

  ‘Why, what has happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Mr Ghosh says it’s very urgent.’

  ‘Okay. I will get there as soon as possible.’

  Abhishek’s scooter refused to budge and no amount of furious kick-starting would make it relent. He tried to stem the rising panic as he woke up a reluctant and cold-numbed auto driver.

  The morning rush was grinding into motion. Plunging through the thick fog that still enveloped the city, the population made its resigned way along repeated routes towards known chores. As his auto rattled and wove its precarious way towards the offices of the Express, Abhishek tried to imagine what might have provoked this early morning summons. Could Uday Kumar have complained about the interview with the kidnapped boy? Had he missed something major?

  Mihir Ghosh was restlessly pacing the floor of his office when Abhishek was shown in. ‘Sit,’ he told the nervous-looking boy. ‘Now, who gave you the story?’

  ‘Which one, sir?’ Abhishek asked.

  ‘Today’s front page,’ Mihir snapped.

  Abhishek hesitated, and then said, ‘A source, sir.’

  ‘Which source? In the police?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded.

  ‘Well, your source is trying to get you thrown out of your job and me out of mine.’

  There was a knock on the door and Amir walked in. He nodded at Abhishek and took a chair. ‘What’s going on, Mihirda?’ he asked. Abhishek could sense from his tone that his boss was on his side.

  ‘You know what’s going on. Your reporter has been made a fool of, and I am up shit creek without a paddle.’

  Amir smiled at the image. ‘Well, we all cleared the story, including you. If he has been a fool, he has an excuse – he’s just one month into the profession. What about us?’

  In the moment of quiet that ensued, Abhishek ventured, ‘May I ask what has happened?’

  ‘The company that is producing those faulty transformers belongs to the Thapars, the family that owns this paper,’ Amir told him. ‘Effectively, we’ve used the front page of the newspaper to screw its owners.’

  There was a brief silence and then, to Abhishek’s astonishment, the two senior newsmen began to laugh. Mihir was bent over his desk, shaking with mirth. Amir turned to Abhishek: ‘You do realize that you’ve been had? And you’ve fucked us over too. Now get out and wait for me in my cabin.’

  ‘I

  am sorry. I really shouldn’t have asked.’ Amit was horrified. He could not believe his own audacity.

  ‘No … that’s fine,’ Monika said quietly, her eyes still on him. ‘I have asked myself the same question several times. You must be very perceptive if you caught on. It’s something I don’t speak of to anyone.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘I’ve been with him for two years now and both our parents wanted it, I guess. He is a successful banker, has roots in the same community as mine. So it just made sense. I know, to you lovelorn youngsters that might sound like a compromise, a cop-out, but …’ Her voice trailed off, and Amit could almost reach out and
touch her sadness.

  They had been sitting at the Café Coffee Day outlet for more than an hour, and were on their second round of cappuccinos. Monika had come late, just at the moment when Amit had decided she wasn’t going to show up.

  He’d seen her through the glass façade of the cafe, waiting on the other side of the road for a lull in the traffic. Amit felt a gushing sense of relief, followed by panic. How should he appear? Nonchalant? As if he hadn’t seen her crossing the street, busy as he was on his mobile? Should he get up to kiss her? Or just keep sitting and extend a hand when she reached him?

  Monika had waved cheerily as she entered, and Amit had jumped up from his chair, nearly knocking over his cup. She’d smiled and kissed him on the cheek, tossing her bag beside her as she sat. ‘Ooofff, what a day! Sorry I’m late, but terrible bloody time at office. I need a coffee. You well? You’re looking good.’

  Now he was feeling calmer and confident.

  ‘Why did you come back to India? You wouldn’t have had to marry in the US, no? You could have just lived with him as you were before,’ Amit probed gently.

  ‘My parents are here in Chandigarh and I have been away for … what …’ she thought a while, ‘thirteen years. They’re getting old. From Delhi, I can go and visit them on weekends. But to answer your question: Do I love him? I don’t know. It works for both of us. But convenience,’ Monika said, almost to herself, ‘must not be mistaken for love.’

  Since yesterday morning, when he’d first got her text, Amit had been preparing his stories – facts with dabs of fiction that would make his mostly unremarkable life seem interesting. He was desperate to sound interesting, look interesting. But the evening found him floating effortlessly in the magic world of Monika’s words. He was surprised at how easily she confided in him and to discover that under the strong, almost unapproachable exterior, there was a vulnerable core.