The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  Monika’s self-effacing humour put him at ease, especially her fresh-off-the-boat America stories. She had gone to the US on a scholarship in the fall of 1997 for a master’s in software development. ‘I had the unfortunate experience of landing in Houston. My uncle lives there with his wife. On my second day there he had to go to office, so to keep me entertained he dropped me off at one of those gigantic malls. I spent a whole day there gazing at the stores: Saks Fifth Avenue, Gap, Tommy Hilfiger. I got hungry and there were so many food places, but I couldn’t go in. I was terrified of their accent and embarrassed at mine.’ Monika gestured at the interiors of the shiny cafe they were sitting in now. ‘In the 1990s, there was nothing like this. The only coffee we got was that foamy milky coffee made in huge machines with steam coming out of them. We called it expresso coffee. Do you know the type I mean?’

  Amit nodded. It was his favourite, actually.

  ‘So there I was in this massive mall, tired and jet-lagged, and in front of me loomed Starbucks. I stood outside for twenty minutes before daring to go in. A girl at the counter asked me what I wanted. There were a hundred varieties of coffee and they all sounded Greek to me.’

  Amit burst out laughing, unable to visualize this confident woman struggling to order a coffee.

  ‘I was terrified. Anyway, so I saw the magic word “espresso” with an S. I know that, I thought, and asked for it. When it came, I was shocked by the black liquid at the bottom of the cup. The girl saw my confused look and asked, “Were you expecting something else?” Timidly I said, “Some milk and sugar, I guess.” She took the cup away from me and brought me a larger one. “Here you go. Next time it will be Café Latte for you.”’ Monika mimicked the American drawl remarkably well. ‘I didn’t even know how the fuck to spell that,’ she said, making a face.

  Amit shook his head. ‘If that could happen to you, I am not even going to make it off the plane.’

  ‘Oh no, you’ll be fine,’ Monika assured him. ‘America is not new to you.’

  ‘I haven’t been there before.’

  ‘I mean that you know America. What you get there, you get here now. You see the same movies, go to the same malls, the same food, the same clothes. When I went, it was all very different.’

  They left the cafe an hour later. Amit wanted to go to a club, but Monika pleaded a rain check. ‘I’m very tired, Amit, and have work tomorrow. Perhaps next week? I really had fun though.’

  On his way home, Amit thought of the hundred things he had meant to tell her and now, after the evening was over, a hundred more came to mind. She was so different from what he’d thought. She was lovely. He prayed that she would want to meet him again.

  A

  mir looked up irritably at Shankar Lal, the head receptionistcum-dogsbody of the Press Club. Lal was a bit too servile for Amir’s liking and interrupting him, when his rook was being threatened from the right and a bishop lay immobile, was foolhardy. ‘What is it, Shankar?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘Sir-ji, your reporter Abhishek sir is here. He wants to meet you. Shall I let him in on your number?’

  Amir was surprised; he was not expecting Abhishek here tonight. ‘He wants to meet me?’

  Lal nodded.

  Amir thought for a while before saying, ‘Okay, ask him to wait in the bar. I’ll come after the game. See that he gets a drink.’

  Amir apologized to his partner Ganesh, who seemed oblivious to the interruption. There was something unnerving about playing chess with Ganesh Ranganathan when he was drunk. The man’s eyes never wavered from the board, as though scared that a pawn might accidentally wander off.

  Amir and Ganesh were of the same age and for many years had worked together as reporters at The Morning Herald. Six months back Ganesh had decided that he did not have it in him any more, and quit. He needed to devote more time to his family, he said, and proceeded to spend all of it at the club. Both men knew each other well, so much so that the first sixteen moves of their game never varied. ‘

  ‘I’ve been reading this boy’s reports … Abhishek Dutta. Is he good?’ Ganesh asked, his eyes still fixed on one square.

  ‘Yes. Very.’ Amir was trying to concentrate, but Abhishek’s unannounced arrival had disturbed him. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be with his college friends at the university.

  Amir had granted him the day off to meet friends, provided he still did the routine checks and would work the following Sunday. A kidnapping and a malicious plant in one week would stagger even the most hardened hack. But before letting him go, Amir had interrogated the boy. ‘Stop this source confidentiality crap. You think I don’t know where you get your stories? You think I believe you just happened to pass by the Pakistan High Commission at four a.m. without any help from a certain Mayank Sharma?’

  Amir knew he had made an unfair move, but it had got the desired result. Abhishek told him about the so-called chance meeting with DCP Rohit Bansal in Vikram Singh’s office.

  ‘I’ll do my best to defend you, Abhishek. Look, it’s a valid story and we all know it, including Mihir-da and the proprietors. But the situation is tricky. Let’s see what happens. No point worrying about it right now.’

  After Abhishek left, Amir had called the police PRO. ‘Singh sahab, why are you after our reporters?’

  ‘Arre, Amir,’ Vikram had replied, ‘what are you saying? What has happened?’

  ‘Let’s not play games. I’ll make sure Abhishek gets your message. But no more of this, okay?’ Amir heard the subdued chuckle.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Amir, but I agree as always. It was good to see you the other day. Come again soon.’

  Then it was damage control. Amir had called the police commissioner and arranged an immediate meeting with Romesh Thapar. It went well, he was told. No cases would be registered, at least for the moment.

  ‘Three moves and it’s over,’ Ganesh said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Amir brooded for a quarter of an hour more before giving up. ‘Fuck. Okay, I am off. How about Saturday?’

  Ganesh nodded, his eyes still on the board.

  It was nearly closing time at the club when Amir finally joined Abhishek. ‘Sit, sit. What are you having? Rum?’

  Abhishek nodded.

  ‘Good, let’s order a few quickly. Where is Shankar when he’s needed? Damn, once again I haven’t eaten anything. I need food.’

  Despite the kitchen having closed, Shankar managed to provide Amir with some mutton korma and naan.

  ‘Was everything okay at the office?’ Abhishek asked.

  ‘Yes, for now,’ Amir slurred between mouthfuls. ‘But were you not supposed to be meeting friends at the university?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I met a former classmate who is doing a PhD. Stays on campus. He told me something that I think would make for a great story.’

  ‘Fuck, man, you are back to discuss a story now? Couldn’t it have waited till morning?’

  ‘Sir, it’s a very good story. I think you might like to hear it.’

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  ‘My friend, sir, recently got his driver’s licence. He just paid a bribe to the touts at the licensing agency on Rajpur Road and then, within an hour, he got a licence. So I am thinking, I should do what we did for the visa story. Go get a licence made and detail how the process works. What do you think?’

  Amir’s reaction was disappointing. ‘What’s the story here? We all know, everyone knows, that you can pay money and get a licence. You can get anything for money – ration cards, gas cylinders, out-of-turn petrol pump allocations. God knows the many miracles of this city. So where’s the story?’

  ‘Well, maybe I can show how it’s done.’ Abhishek’s confidence was deflating rapidly.

  ‘That will only encourage more people and benefit the touts. Nothing else.’

  Lal took his time cleaning the table and Amir took the hint. ‘Oh, okay, bill.’ He looked at his crestfallen reporter, and said, ‘Come, let’s have tea. I nee
d to sober up.’

  Just outside the Press Club, beyond the parking lot, was a row of brightly lit dhabas that remained open till early in the morning, despite pressure from the police. When respectable establishments closed their doors in deference to licensing laws, much of the city’s respected stopped here before heading homewards, gluttony satisfied and chai-craving quenched. Amir’s affection for these late-night luxuries went further than most, and he lobbied actively for their survival. There was no shop owner on this stretch, not even among the scores of helpers, waiters, cleaners and cooks, who did not know Amir sahab and crave his patronage. He enjoyed their attention almost as much as their bread pakore.

  ‘Sir, to mine today. You promised the last time.’ A young boy sprinted up to them and grabbed Amir’s hand.

  ‘Ai, Chhotu, how are you?’ Amir smiled. ‘Come, we’ll sit here,’ he told Abhishek. ‘Chhotu, chai.’

  The boy ran off to get the tea.

  ‘The police did a good job on you with that plant today.’ Amir’s grizzled face broke into a youthful grin.

  ‘Yes, can you please tell me what happened there?’

  ‘They were trying to tell you who the boss is. Put you in your place, I guess. In a way, it’s a good thing. You’ve forced them to take notice of you.’

  ‘You mean that Rohit Bansal gave me the story just to land me in trouble?’

  ‘Not necessarily him; higher-ups most probably. But don’t let that bother you. Just be very fucking careful and cross-check stories in the future.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘Well, I guess you could have checked with the company that was producing the transformers.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the story then immediately be blocked? I mean, if the company …’

  ‘To be honest, it was a damn good story to run and most reporters would have done exactly what you did. I certainly would have. So I am not blaming you.’

  Abhishek considered this for a while. ‘That just can’t be it. I should understand how to avoid plants like this, no?’

  ‘Look, all investigative agencies – and the police are just one of them – have always used journalists to plant stories. We know that. But if the story is good – and yours was – we go ahead. No one gives a story for free.’

  ‘You mean every story is a plant?’

  ‘Most exclusives are. Let me give you an example. Do you remember the ISRO spy scandal? 1994? No, of course you don’t. Case in Kerala involving a Maldivian woman, Indian scientists, senior policemen. After the case breaks, I get this call from an officer from the Intelligence Bureau. He takes me out for lunch and gives me a thick dossier that totally indicts a very senior police official. A cracker of a story, I thought. Then I get another call. This guy is from Research and Analysis Wing.’

  Amir paused to signal for a bottle of mineral water. ‘You know RAW, right? International espionage; cousins of the fucking FBI and the KGB. So he too takes me out for lunch and gives me another fat dossier on the case. This one totally exonerates the policeman. I go back to both of them, hand them their bogus papers and tell them to find someone bloody else to plant their bullshit on. Turned out, the whole thing had been a set-up by the Indian intelligence agencies from the start.’

  Amir drank thirstily from the bottle. ‘The thing to remember is that you are dealing with lives. One story can finish off an innocent person. A man I knew, a mid-level bureaucrat; someone planted a corruption case against him in one of the papers. He committed suicide. Later, the sons of bitches retracted their case. But the story had been done – the man was dead.’

  Abhishek had been meaning to ask Amir something. ‘You remember I had lunch with the commissioner the other day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We were discussing things like morality and accountability, and he told me about this man who was shot dead in the Press Club a couple of years back. He said there were more than two hundred members present, yet no one came forward as a witness. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I was there too, if you are asking. I was the club president, and in my office at the time of the shooting. That is what I told the police.’ Amir waved at Chhotu for the bill. ‘Enough for one night. Come, let’s go.’

  As they walked towards Amir’s car, he asked Abhishek, ‘So, how’s it going between you and our lady?’

  ‘Which lady, sir?’

  ‘Maya Srivastava, you fucker. I hear you’re watching movies together.’

  ‘Oh, that. Rahul and his wife were there too.’

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t stay for dinner, did they?’

  Abhishek smiled. ‘Rahul has got a big mouth.’

  ‘Don’t try and second-guess my sources, young man,’ his boss replied. ‘But never mind that. What’s going on?’

  Abhishek was amused by Amir’s curiosity. ‘Well, I like her. She is very idealistic and strong.’

  ‘Ha, has she been giving you her crap? Don’t get taken in by everything she says. You know her family, right? The epitome of establishment. She is no left-wing liberal.’

  ‘I have no idea about her background,’ Abhishek said. The conversation would be about her only when the wine was on him, he remembered.

  ‘Then you should find out. You are a reporter, no?’ Amir raised his eyebrows at him. ‘By the way, I’ve been thinking of your story idea. I think there is a way to make this story huge. But we have to be inventive.’

  R

  ajni Bhatia, transport commissioner of Delhi, was enjoying a lie-in. Half awake in bed, she relished the thought of not having to see her tiresome PA and that absolute disaster of a minister for two whole weeks. From under the duvet, she could hear Bruno’s bark and her husband Chandan’s muted conversation with the gardener. Gently assured that all was well with the world, she went back to sleep.

  ‘Rajni, get up please. Quickly.’

  She heard the urgency in her husband’s voice and knew that her holiday was over. He was standing next to the bed, a newspaper in his hand. ‘What is it?’ Rajni asked.

  e placed the paper in front of her along with her reading glasses, and then retreated to the window.

  GET A DRIVING LICENCE IN THE VICE-PRESIDENT’S NAME

  ‘Good lord, what is this?’ Rajni shrieked, scanning the paper and struggling to sit up. Her mobile rang. It was the chief minister’s residence. ‘Oh great,’ she muttered, and let it ring.

  Covering the entire top half of the newspaper’s front page were copies of two driving licences. The mugshot on both belonged to the same person – the reporter. One licence was in the name of the vice-president, M. Narayan Murthy; the other, Delhi’s lieutenant governor S.N. Krishna.

  The implications of the forgeries dawned on the transport commissioner as she read the report. The journalist had visited two licensing centres – Rajpur Road and Ashok Vihar – and procured a permanent driving licence through touts at each. There had been no identity checks. The authorities had accepted the official address of the state dignitaries without question.

  At Rajpur Road, despite asking for a two-wheeler licence, the reporter had been asked to drive a car, there being no twowheelers available. When he said that he did not know how, he was asked to get into a vehicle with another man already at the wheel. Sitting in the passenger seat, one hand on the steering wheel, he was taken on a few laps of an empty field. Somewhere, he was told, there was an instructor watching who had just passed his driving test. Once he got out of the car, another hopeful applicant got in.

  At the second licence centre, there was not even the pretence of a test, the report stated. From behind his desk, an official waved three fingers at the journalist and asked, ‘How many?’ The man seemed satisfied with the reporter’s answer and cleared the file.

  Within a few hours at each place, the reporter had obtained two genuine driving licences with fake names and addresses. That these details were of the vice-president and lieutenant governor of Delhi meant that heads would now roll.

  ‘He even managed to use their offi
cial addresses,’ Rajni’s husband remarked as she finished the article. ‘How could that happen?’

  ‘Oh, stop being so fucking sanctimonious. Run a government department like mine and you’ll know. Well,’ she said, throwing off the covers, ‘that was a short holiday.’

  She put on her dressing gown and, picking up the newspaper and mobile, headed for the bathroom. At the door, she turned and said to her husband, ‘Sorry, Chandan, but the shit is just about to hit the fan. The phones will start to ring. Don’t even bother answering … and switch on the television, will you, darling, to see what the news channels are saying.’

  ‘H

  ow is it not a valid news story?’ Mihir Ghosh asked Divya Bhonsle, more surprised than sarcastic.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t say anything new, does it? It’s the same old “corruption in public office” shit. I mean, so bloody what? We all know that. Old wine in new bottle.’ Amir’s deputy was being ridiculously mean.

  Abhishek looked at Amir, who winked. He smiled back. ‘Go ahead, Divya,’ he thought, ‘make yourself look small.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Mihir coolly. ‘But please show me a news story that says anything new? The sports pages have the same sports stories; the features pages, the same gossip about the same film stars; the national pages; the city pages – the same stories. Just because a story on corruption has been done before …’ The phone on the editor’s desk rang loudly, cutting him off. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘Hello. Oh hi, Frances.’ He listened for a while. ‘Yes, that’s okay. Why don’t you call him in … say twenty minutes? I’ll let him know. Thanks very much.’

  Turning towards the reporting unit gathered for their morning meeting, Mihir announced, ‘That was Frances Baker of the New York Times. Wants to have a chat with you, Abhishek, about today’s story. Speak to her but do be sure to say that despite the corruption, it is Indian democracy that allows the press to do such exposés. Don’t let her make this an anti-India rant. So, Divya, I’ve had at least ten news channels calling me for interviews. There will be inquiries, suspensions and dismissals. The government is in a tizzy. Tomorrow there will be follow-ups in every national newspaper. To answer your question – yes, I think it’s a valid news story.’