The Price You Pay

by Somnath Batabyal

  Babloo looked at him wryly. ‘Bad luck … kismet. And then think about this – why not you? Which kingdom are you the fucking king of ? Now, and for the last time, you will not speak a word till I say so. Next time you do, I will shoot you in the knee caps.’

  It appeared by some sleight of hand and was sitting on Babloo’s left palm: a shiny black metallic object, menacing and smooth. And then it was gone. Abhishek wondered if it was also a subtle way of telling him to behave. He, of course, had no plans to do anything rash. There was nothing subtle about the shotgun that Imran was carrying.

  M

  ayank sensed the change in the man sitting beside him in the car. The bravado that his boss usually wore like a protective coat had vanished, and he looked crumpled and defeated.

  Uday was on the phone to the home minister. ‘Absolutely, sir … I’ll take care of it, sir … Please don’t worry, sir.’

  Putting the phone down and staring out of the window, the DCP said, ‘All top bosses are in agreement. No force to be used … I’m just the fucking nanny bringing the baby in.’

  He paused, shaking his head, then continued, ‘What the fuck is this about? What’s going on in that motherfucker’s head?’

  Mayank, wondering the same thing, silently scrolled down his phone screen, reading the latest updates. He had tried to get a live streaming of News Today, but the signal was weak in the moving car.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Checking, sir. The page is taking some time to load.’

  Uday shook his head. ‘Updates from a television channel on a damn mobile phone to do my work. I don’t know anything any more.’

  The radio crackled constantly. Police contingents had been deployed all around Mehrauli. Road blocks were being set up.

  ‘Turn it down,’ Uday told the radio operator and sat back to look at Mayank. ‘Can’t you give me something?’ he asked impatiently. ‘You’ve been glued to that News Today nonsense for the last half-hour. Just let’s go over what we have.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  According to the channel and its reporter Abhishek Dutta, who seemed to have exclusive access to Babloo Shankar, the kidnap victim was being held in a Mehrauli farmhouse. The police had surrounded the building, though no attempt was being made to force entry. Babloo, through Dutta’s phone updates to the channel, had announced his intention to hand the victim over to the police. He had one condition: that DCP Uday Kumar conduct the negotiations along with the chief reporter of the Express, Amir Akhtar. Dutta also said that News Today would be a witness to the process and would bring it live to its viewers.

  Uday nodded. ‘He just wants to humiliate me. He’s settling old scores. Who would think that he would go this far and after so long? You know that he’s in a wheelchair because of me, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mayank said, ‘but what’s the connection with Amir Akhtar?’

  ‘I imagine you’ll find out very soon, Mayank. Till then, let’s discuss what options we have.’

  ‘Very few, it seems, sir,’ the ACP replied. ‘The use of force has been ruled out. Abhishek and his cameraman are already sitting with Babloo in the farmhouse. So there is no way to pull off a surprise encounter. Also, it seems to me that he has brilliantly caught on to the public mood by saying he is an anti-corruption crusader and wants to clean up the system. Something happens to him now, everyone will say it was politically motivated. I expect that’s what the government is thinking too.’

  Uday smiled. ‘Brilliant, isn’t he? I’ve been outsmarted again.’

  A

  bhishek turned to the man in the wheelchair. ‘We are ready to go on air when you want, sir. We have a direct link to the OB van.’

  Babloo nodded and asked Imran to take a look outside the window.

  ‘Bhai, it’s like a carnival outside. Police, public, press – they’re all there.’

  ‘Abhishek-ji,’ Babloo said, looking at his watch, ‘it’s ten p.m. Time to give our prime-time viewers some masala. We have kept them waiting.’

  Moments later, News Today began its broadcast of a confessional statement from Brigadier Mahajan. It was a six-minute recording in which the kidnapped man accepted that he and his company had swindled Indian taxpayers out of millions of dollars from the Commonwealth Games budget. He mentioned names of politicians, bureaucrats and contractors who were on the take. The home minister, who had just ordered the police to ensure no harm be done to Babloo, was among the damned.

  Abhishek glanced at his notes nervously as he stood by for his cue.

  ‘Coming to you in fifteen seconds, Abhishek,’ he heard through his earpiece. ‘Four … three … two …’

  ‘Abhishek, you are now with Babloo Shankar and Brigadier Devinder Mahajan. Can you tell us the situation?’ Samir Saxena sounded over the moon.

  ‘Samir, that is correct. We have been granted exclusive access to the kidnapping situation and to Babloo Shankar. He has asked me to let our viewers know that he demands no ransom; that this was his way of forcing the corrupt to be brought to book. He has a few demands for the safety of his associates and he will make these to DCP Uday Kumar of the Crime Branch. He has also asked for the presence of veteran journalist Amir Akhtar. I believe both are on their way.’

  In the forty minutes that he had spent with the kidnapper, this request for his former boss had caught Abhishek by surprise. Babloo was cryptic. ‘There is much history between us, Abhishek-ji. I hear you worked for Amir?’

  Initially shocked by how much Babloo knew about him – his work, parents, schooling – Abhishek soon realized the meticulous groundwork that had gone into this operation. Apart from chain-smoking, Babloo showed no signs of anxiety. The outcome seemed foregone.

  Abhishek was careful not to offend. He was aware by now that he had been called in for a purpose: to convey the kidnapper’s message and prevent a shoot-out. This was no time for heroics. Tomorrow he could say anything he wanted; today he was sticking to Babloo’s script.

  Uday and Amir entered the room together, escorted by Imran.

  ‘Uday-ji, we meet for the second time! But this time round, I have the gun.’

  Abhishek saw that the object of conversation was now clearly displayed. Two chairs had been placed in front of Babloo and he indicated to the new arrivals to sit. Behind the thick glasses, his eyes danced with mirth.

  Uday looked at the Brigadier.

  ‘Don’t worry. He is fine, Uday-ji. Let us finish our business first.’

  ‘I do not conduct business with criminals, Shankar,’ the policeman replied, scrambling to salvage some authority.

  Babloo laughed, a low growl of a laugh. ‘But we all know that you do, sahab. Do you want me to say it all on national television?’ He gestured towards the camera, which for now was switched off.

  ‘Okay, let’s all act like grown-ups,’ Amir intervened. ‘We have a situation and let’s resolve it as smoothly as we can.’

  Babloo’s eyes settled on the newsman. The smile that had been playing across his jowly face disappeared. ‘Have you grown up, Amir Akhtar?’ he asked slowly.

  For the first time Abhishek understood the menace that this man might be capable of.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like fifteen years – you’re looking well. Like someone who sleeps peacefully at night. Not what you would expect of a man with blood on his hands.’ The room was suddenly still. ‘Seems like you need reminding that a girl died because of you.’

  ‘You killed her. I did not.’ Amir’s voice, quiet, seemed shorn of its usual confidence.

  ‘And who will prove what happened?’ Babloo signalled to Imran for a glass of water. ‘Uday-ji fired several bullets that day. One is in my spine. Have you accounted for the rest? Because of you heroes, I had to spend fifteen years in exile. You gambled with that girl’s life for a story, Amir sahab. Wasn’t she your friend’s daughter?’

  Abhishek listened, astounded. Amir’s eyes remained lowered. So here was the link.

  Babloo paused to drink. ‘But enough about t
he past. Today you will orchestrate my return.’

  He laid down his demands. Archana Pandey would get safe passage to Singapore. She was at the airport and would board a Singapore Airlines flight which was due to leave in an hour. As soon as she landed in Singapore and left the airport without being stopped, Babloo would give himself up, along with Imran. The whole thing, he said smiling, should not take more than four to five hours. Till then, they were his guests.

  ‘Uday-ji, your government won’t mind the deal. They have given up terrorists before. Here they’re getting one.’

  He’s toying with them, Abhishek thought, and wondered if he could somehow switch on the camera.

  Babloo waved at him to join the group. ‘Abhishek-ji, I expect you have met Amir Akhtar and Uday Kumar – venerated, lofty men, these. But now you must update the world, no? No more cameras though. Phone updates from now on. Okay?’

  Abhishek nodded.

  ‘You can only talk of my demand that my friend goes free. Nothing of where she is going or what she will do. Now call your office.’

  Samir came on the line immediately.

  Abhishek briefly explained the situation.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  A meaningless question given the circumstances. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s go on air.’

  The policeman asked for some privacy to make a call to the home minister.

  Babloo laughed. ‘You can face the other way and know that Imran is watching you.’

  Uday dialled the home minister’s personal number. The minister was clearly surprised by how minimal Babloo’s demands were and they were acceded to without fuss, just as the kidnapper had predicted.

  ‘What is this about, Shankar?’ Uday asked after a while, reclaiming his chair. ‘Why did you come back? To be arrested?’

  ‘I am a patriot, Kumar sahab – love for my country.’ Babloo grinned.

  ‘Well, you’ll die in an Indian jail.’

  ‘You think so? At the most, five years for attempted kidnapping. I cooperated, didn’t I? And public opinion, what about that? I’ve got this looter of the national treasury to confess. You and your entire state machinery couldn’t do that. And look, not a scratch on him. Who will stop me from contesting the next general elections? The parties will scramble to give me a ticket. In my home town, you think I can lose?’

  Abhishek stared at Babloo in amazement and then at Amir and Uday. Both men appeared stunned at the sheer audacity, and plausibility, of what they were hearing.

  Abhishek couldn’t hold back any longer. He desperately needed permission to leave the room to pee. Babloo looked momentarily annoyed, then he wheeled around and followed Abhishek down the corridor. ‘No, leave the door open,’ he said.

  Abhishek splashed water on his face repeatedly and took his time. Babloo seemed relaxed and nonchalant, but his eyes never left the reporter.

  ‘Was it Amir who asked Uday to come after you?’ Abhishek couldn’t resist asking the question any longer.

  ‘Yes. The girl’s father was an industrialist. We had agreed on the payment. The money meant nothing to him. But your boss wanted a great story; a story that would make his career. The idiot went to Uday and look at what happened.’ Babloo pointed towards his legs.

  ‘What happened to the girl?’

  Babloo shrugged and indicated that they should get back.

  In the room, Amir and Uday were speaking to each other in hushed tones. Brigadier Mahajan had not moved his eyes from the floor. Abhishek looked at his cameraman, who seemed to be enjoying the evening and flashed him a grin. Imran moved back to his position at the window from where he would occasionally peer outside and inform his boss of any developments. Choppers intermittently circled the house. Imran produced a carton of cigarettes and Babloo offered Amir a packet.

  Abhishek sat across the floor from his former boss and stared at the man he had so admired. Since the day he had broken the story of Babloo Shankar’s return, Amir had refused to have any contact with him, ignoring his calls and messages. Despite the headiness and the attention, Abhishek had felt a sense of terrible guilt. And for what, he thought now. A legitimate story which any reporter would have done.

  It was more than three hours before Babloo received confirmation of Archana’s safe arrival at Singapore. He signalled to Imran. ‘Okay, Uday-ji, you can arrest me now. But I will give you my gun outside, in the presence of the world. You can take this asshole too,’ he said, gesturing towards Brig. Mahajan.

  Uday began to untie him. ‘Come,’ he said, helping the man as he struggled to his feet.

  Just before they reached the main door, Uday turned back to look at Babloo. ‘Tell me, Babloo Shankar, why are you back?’ he asked, in a not unfriendly voice. ‘You haven’t told me the real reason, have you?’

  Babloo smiled. ‘Uday-ji, I have great respect for you and your powers of deduction. Now, arrest me and claim your glory. We are even.’

  This must be what fame feels like, Abhishek thought as they made their exit into the garden, now alive with flashing cameras and eager television crew hurling questions at the emerging group.

  The police tried to bundle Babloo into a waiting van, but the press resisted fiercely. They had stood outside and watched someone else’s reports for too long to let the mastermind of the evening disappear. Scuffles broke out with the police, cameras were smashed, but a determined press would have a statement. Babloo Shankar was more than obliging.

  When the police finally managed to move him and Brigadier Mahajan, the press turned to Abhishek: ‘Boss, what happened? What did you see? Tell us, were you scared?’

  No, he had not been scared, but just before leaving, Babloo had given him a few words of advice. ‘You are an intelligent boy, Abhishek-ji. So be careful. We know where your parents stay, where your father works.’

  Abhishek refused to offer any comments. ‘Can’t say anything till I talk to the office,’ he said, beaming at his colleagues. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

  They smiled back at him. Yes, they did. He was their newest celebrity.

  ‘You’ll have to come to the police station,’ Mayank said gently, his hand on Abhishek’s shoulder. Abhishek turned around and nodded, happy to be led.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  F

  irst drafts are notorious killjoys; a few select friends were subjected to such torture.

  Greg and Joanna Falkoff ’s immensely detailed notes rivalled the manuscript’s word count. Debashish Mukerji read various versions and made painstaking edits. Arkaja Singh, James Boyd, Lena Michaels, Madan Oberoi, Matti Pohjonen, Srinath Raghavan, Rosamund Hutchison, Jonathon Page, Rikhia Guha, Nada Jung and Paul Webley gave their valuable time and comments. My agent, Jessica Woolard, worked tirelessly through each draft. I am very grateful to all of you.

  This book was written primarily in two locations, Heidelberg, Germany, and Mandrem Beach, Goa. Katharina Weiler was a perfect housemate, leaving me to work through the day and lighting up the summer evenings with red wine, food and friendship. The boys at Dunes shack built an office space on the beach and ensured endless cups of black coffee, extra strong.

  I am grateful to my editors at HarperCollins, especially Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri.

  This book would not have been possible without my publisher and dear friend, V.K. Karthika. To Georgina Pope, who bore the brunt of being with a first-time novelist and his ghosts, the debts are immeasurable.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Somnath Batabyal worked for a decade in journalism, covering crime and criminality, hobnobbing with politicians and policemen, before entering the quieter world of Western academia. His first book, Making News in India: Star News and Star Ananda, was published in 2011. He has also edited a volume, Indian Mass Media and the Politics of Change (2010). Somnath now lives in London where he teaches at the School of Oriental and African Studies. The Price You Pay is his first novel.

  First published in India in 2013 by

  HarperCollins Publishers India

&
nbsp; Copyright © Somnath Batabyal 2013

  ISBN: 978-93-5029-425-3

  Epub Edition © Apr 2013 ISBN: 9789350296264

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  Somnath Batabyal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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