by Vikas Swarup
The encounter with Anees Mirza’s goons has brought that long-lost memory rushing back to me, generating those same emotions. I am still heaving with fury when I bump into Karan on the ground floor.
‘I saw two rather unsavoury types asking directions to your flat,’ he says. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘It’s not,’ I reply and tell him about the illegal workshop.
‘How dare they threaten you! How dare they!’ Karan snaps, his face contorting with rage. ‘If they even so much as set foot inside the colony again, you let me know. I’ll fix those bastards.’
‘I am not so worried about myself. But what if they start harassing Neha?’
‘Look, I’ll get you a panic button tomorrow.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a small electronic device that, when pressed, sends a soundless signal to alert someone else about an emergency situation. In this case, the signal will come to me and I’ll come instantly to the rescue, like Superman.’
The more I listen to him, the more I thank Durga Ma for giving me such a wonderful neighbour. There is nothing more reassuring than a friend who just simply refuses to be rattled, who can always be relied upon, who is always there when you need him.
‘Is there something special in your diet that makes you so brave?’ I rib him.
‘Yeah, right,’ he grins. ‘The trick is to consume plenty of liquid courage.’
‘And what drink is that?’
‘Just another name for alcohol!’
* * *
A week passes, and there are no further visits from the goon squad. Gradually the incident begins to fade from my mind, taking with it all my restless nights. In any event, with Karan’s panic button inside my purse, I feel much safer.
Thursday, 3 February, is stocktaking day and, as usual, it extends well beyond closing time. I am able to leave the store only at 10.15 p.m. The moment I disembark at Rithala metro station, a young street hawker gets after me. ‘I have the perfect thing that you need,’ he says, displaying a kitchen knife with a wooden handle bearing the logo of a company called KK Thermoware. I take a good look at him. Dressed in torn trousers and a filthy, tattered sweater several sizes too big for him, he doesn’t look a tad over ten. He has the sickly, anaemic look of a fever patient. On top of that he has a runny nose, repeatedly wiping snot on his sleeve. But this does not prevent him from breaking into a ditty in Hindi extolling the virtues of his knife:
It can cut and carve and slice and dice,
The stainless steel blade is really nice.
For a husband who wants to please his wife,
There’s nothing more perfect than a KK Knife!
‘Look, you don’t seem too well,’ I tell him. ‘Why don’t you go home now?’
‘I can’t go home till I sell all my knives. I’ve just one left now. Buy it. It’s only a hundred rupees.’
‘I don’t need a knife. I’ve got plenty at home,’ I say as I head into Rammurti Passi Marg.
He continues to pester me. ‘Okay, just for you, I’ll reduce the price. Only fifty rupees.’
‘No.’
‘How about twenty?’
‘Still not interested.’
‘Okay, last price. Ten rupees.’
‘I told you I don’t want a knife.’
‘Didi, I haven’t eaten since afternoon. I’ll sell it to you for just five rupees. You won’t find a better bargain in all of Delhi. Please buy it now at least.’
His pleading face is impossible to resist. I take the knife from him and offer him a ten-rupee note. ‘Keep the change. And now go and get some rest.’
He almost snatches the note from my hand, and scampers away into the gloom.
I insert the knife inside my purse and quicken my steps as I approach the Swarn Jayanti Park, better known as the Japanese Park, a huge green lung with manicured gardens, boating lakes, floating fountains and jogging trails. While it is a haven for fitness enthusiasts and families during the day, it is a rather unsafe area at night. Last year a woman was murdered near Gate Number 1, and a noted criminal was shot dead inside the park in a police encounter earlier this year.
I have just crossed the park’s Gate Number 2 when all of a sudden three young men jump down from the boundary wall. With their half-open shirts and long hair, they look like those unruly, unemployed youths who can be found all over the country, loitering at chai shops, hassling girls, whistling raucously from the front stalls of cinema halls. In Nainital we used to have a term for them – ‘chavanni chhap’, worth a quarter of a rupee only. But the damage they are capable of inflicting on people and property is considerably more. What makes me even more apprehensive is the fact that the stretch I am walking through is dimly lit and deserted. There are no other pedestrians in sight. My hand immediately dips into the handbag in a conditioned reflex, fingers curling around the panic button. I am pretty sure Karan is out of its range, but I press it nevertheless.
My apprehension turns out to be justified, as the three youths begin dogging my footsteps. I increase my pace and they do the same. In just a few long, determined strides they are abreast of me, flanking me on all sides. ‘Jaaneman, why are you in such a hurry? Have a look at us as well,’ the ruffian directly behind me says, tapping my shoulder. He seems to be the leader of the pack, with sharp malignant eyes and a thin, wispy moustache.
I respond by whipping out the can of pepper spray and whirling around on my heels. ‘You take one more step and I’ll make all of you blind,’ I hiss, pepper spray poised at eye level.
The startled ruffian recoils a step, but his partner to my immediate right lashes out with his fists in a lightning-quick move. I feel a whiplash on my forearm and the can pops out of my hands like a wet bar of soap.
‘Ha!’ The ruffian leader roars with laughter. ‘If you are carrying any other weapons, we would like to see them. Come on, hand over your purse.’
The wolfish expressions on their faces tell me they want more than just my purse. It is the first time in my life I feel physically, mortally threatened. My breathing becomes shallow. A cold knot of fear coils nauseatingly in the pit of my stomach. That is when I remember the knife I have just purchased.
The handbag held in my left hand is already open. I can see the knife, its steel blade glinting dully under the yellow street light. In a flash I pull it out with my right hand, while simultaneously discarding the purse on the footpath.
‘Stay back!’ I shriek, whirling around in a full circle, shredding the air with my knife. ‘I’ll cut the bastard who tries to come near me.’
Worryingly, the thugs show no sign of being intimidated. They do step back a few feet, but continue to regard me with an amused contempt.
‘I said leave me alone, or I will cut down each one of you,’ I threaten again, tightening my grip on the knife’s handle.
‘You think you can scare us with your little knife?’ the leader taunts me. ‘Then you should see this.’ He takes out a silver gun from the back of his trousers and aims it in my face.
‘Drop the knife,’ the baddy on my right snarls.
There’s something very deflating about being confronted with a loaded gun. I comply. The knife clatters to the ground with the clinking sound of coins rattling in a pocket. The youth on my right picks it up gingerly from its tip, like a forensic investigator handling a murder weapon at a crime scene. ‘It’s really sharp,’ he observes, before dropping it into my handbag.
‘Let’s go inside the park, baby,’ the ruffian leader smirks. I refuse to budge. I know the moment I step inside the dark park, something very bad will happen to me.
I squint at the faces of my tormentors, trying to discern features, scars, tattoos, any identifying characteristics that I would be able to pass along to the police when they ask, before it dawns on me that I may never be able to go to the police. They will kill me after they rape me. As this sickening realisation sinks in, I am overcome with an almost unbearable sense of sadness. What will happen to Neha and Ma after I am gone? How will
they manage all alone?
The thug leans over and shoves the gun in my face, imprinting a bindi on my forehead. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Are you deaf?’
‘Please, please let me go.’ I make a noise that sounds like a whimper, my heart almost stopping.
‘How can we let you go? You are so beautiful,’ he says, the harsh tone fading away. He looks at his two cohorts. ‘What do you say? It’s time to enjoy.’ They all laugh. It is their gloating that makes me nauseous, fills me with pure, undiluted hatred. A policeman has slapped me, another has pushed my head inside a toilet bowl, and now these three ruffians are planning to gang-rape me. What am I? An animal to be kicked around? A plaything to be abused? Just because I happen to be a woman? Something snaps inside me at that very instant, like a rubber band that has been stretched too far. I don’t care if I get shot and diced but I will not take this lying down. Pulsing with that same primal rage with which I confronted the Spice Girls, I lash out with my right leg, kicking the leader as hard as I can in his groin. He drops to the ground like a felled tree, doubling up in pain. The memory of that afternoon in the deserted classroom floods my brain and I begin raining blows on the other two, hitting, kicking, clawing, scratching. There is a white-hot fire burning inside me, consuming me. I hate these bastards, I hate them more than anything in the world. Heat is rising in my cheeks and my heart is pounding like a drum. Red fills my vision, blinding me completely. Everything in me wants to strangle, to gouge, to just kill, kill, kill.
My unexpected counterattack works for a while, but the force of numbers is against me. Before I can land a knockout blow, the ruffian leader is already returning to action. Through the corner of my eye I can see him lifting his head. He raises the butt of his gun and swings it at me. Pain ripples across my stomach and I stumble and fall down. Another thug kicks me in the back.
Within minutes they have dragged me into the underbrush of the Japanese Park. Pinning me to the ground, the leader proceeds to take out a shiny metallic switchblade from his worn-out trousers. It flicks open to reveal a thin, ugly-looking knife with a ten-inch blade. ‘If you want to scare someone then don’t use a kitchen knife. Use a Rampuri chaku, like mine.’ He grins and slides the knife over my body; eventually, it comes to rest against my neck. His fetid breath is hot against my skin.
I struggle against my captor, trying to free myself, when he puts a finger against his lips. ‘Be quiet.’ His voice slithers and climbs into my ear. ‘Or I’ll have to kill you.’
With no emotion in his dead eyes, he rakes my cheek with the tip of the knife, the steel blade digging into my flesh. One little push and it will break the skin, disfiguring me permanently. I feel my entire body heating up, as though I were on fire. It rages through my bloodstream, making me tremble with the insane anticipation of death. I just want it to end, and I pray to God to let me die quickly, preferably with the revolver. Just one little bullet through the brain. I don’t want him to cut me up piece by piece, to slash, slash and slash with his knife till I am a whimpering mass of blood and bones, a pathetic heap of twitching muscles and jerking limbs. I don’t think I will be able to bear so much pain.
‘Leave her!’ A voice suddenly rings out in the darkness. It is a booming baritone that resonates like thunder across the park. The ruffians look around and then at each other, completely nonplussed. The leader removes the knife and crouches like a dog, trying to suss out the intruder.
‘This is the police,’ the voice booms again, reminiscent of the instructions relayed through loudspeakers during a police raid. It instantly galvanises my captors into flight. They scatter and run like headless chickens into the Japanese Park, disappearing into the darkness.
Jut then, a figure emerges from the gloom of the park. I was expecting a police inspector, but it turns out to be Karan. I’ve never felt more relief in my life than at that climactic moment.
He runs to me and helps me get on my feet. I cling tightly to him, my body still shuddering with fear. He whispers my name and I whisper back to him. I hug him closer, feeling his warmth, my breasts grinding into his chest. Locked in that position, I feel a strange new flower blooming in my heart, filling me with a sensual rush. Almost involuntarily, I start kissing him. It starts with his chin, moves to his cheek and eventually to his lips. I am desperate, and grateful, and muddled, only dimly aware of what I am doing, yet greedily filling the emptiness of my life with his smell, his taste, his life breath.
Karan stiffens, and I can sense an almost imperceptible flinch – one that makes my heart run cold. He gently untangles himself from me and shines a penlight in my face, checking to see there are no bruises. ‘Do you need to see a doctor?’ he asks, his practical concern restoring some sanity to the situation.
‘No … no,’ I reply, my breathing still ragged. ‘I’m fine. Just check if my handbag is around.’
He scours the nearby area, only to confirm what I already feared. The ruffians have made off with my Nine West. ‘Was there a lot of money in it?’
‘Not really. The most expensive item was my cell phone.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you a brand new one from Indus.’
‘How … how did you find me?’
‘It was the signal from the panic button. You were not in the house so I knew you must be returning from work. I raced as fast as I could towards the station. But then I heard voices near the Japanese Park and decided to investigate.’
‘You arrived just in time. What might have happened if—’
‘Don’t even think about it any more. Let’s go straight to the police. Those bastards must be caught.’
‘No.’ I shake my head vehemently. ‘I don’t have the strength to face an interrogation. And I know the police will never find those thugs. Just take me home, okay?’
‘If that is what you want.’ He shrugs.
‘Do me another favour,’ I say. ‘Don’t mention a word about this to Ma and Neha.’
* * *
‘They are bound to be Anees Mirza’s men,’ says Lauren, when I tell her about the incident the next day.
‘But we have no proof.’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. I find it despicable, the way Mirza has been allowed to roam free all this while.’
‘Any progress on our complaint?’
‘Nope,’ she says. ‘I think Keemti Lal took us for a royal ride. He’s done precious little to investigate that workshop. Those poor children are still suffering. I’ve tried to meet the SDM several times but I keep getting fobbed off. I tried going to the police but they tell me to go to the SDM’s office. I just don’t know what to do.’ There is a depth of despondency in her voice.
‘I know what to do. We’ll go again to the SDM’s office. One last time.’
* * *
The next morning I accompany Lauren to the SDM’s office on my way to the showroom. The place is extremely crowded and we are told the SDM won’t be able to see us. ‘Sahib is very busy. No chance today,’ the office peon informs us.
I am equally unbending. ‘You tell your boss that we are not leaving till he sees us. Even if it means we have to camp here for a week.’
The bluster works. An hour later we are summoned into the SDM’s presence. He appears to be a vague man, an impression reinforced by his bland, almost featureless face, and peculiar habit of leaving his sentences dangling, as though he expects the listener to finish them for him.
‘Yes, that complaint of yours…’ he begins before lapsing into silence.
‘Well, did you check out that factory?’ Lauren demands. ‘I even gave documentary evidence.’
‘These things take a lot of time, a lot of time. It is not possible to…’
‘How long are we expected to wait?’
‘It is a process, you have to understand. We cannot just…’
‘But those children are suffering every day.’
‘They are not suffering. They are earning a living. Just as you are. Just as I am. Should we stop them from…?’
>
‘Employment of children in hazardous industries is prohibited, isn’t it?’
‘What is hazardous? The air we are breathing in this city is also hazardous. Does this mean…?’
‘So should we just leave those children at the mercy of Anees Mirza?’
‘Anees Mirza is not a bad man per se. He is…’
It is like having a one-way conversation with a brick wall. Lauren is seething as we step out of the bureaucrat’s office. ‘I’ve done my math. Keemti Lal took a small bribe from me. This man has taken a much bigger bribe from Anees Mirza.’
It is hard not to agree with her. The stench of corruption hangs over the place like a pall. There are deals being cut on every table. I glimpse Keemti Lal sitting on his corner desk, engrossed in conversation with an elderly gentleman, doubtless extracting yet another bribe. I studiously avoid eye contact with him. That is when my gaze falls on a poster stuck to the bulletin board outside the office. It is about the Right to Information Act.
‘Hey.’ I nudge Lauren. ‘There’s one option open to us. Let’s use the RTI.’
‘How will that help?’
‘Under the Right to Information Act, a public authority is required to provide information on any matter requested by the applicant within thirty days or less,’ I read out from the poster. ‘So let’s file an RTI application with the SDM asking to know what happened to our complaint. At least it will put some pressure on him.’
Lauren is sceptical. ‘I doubt the SDM can be galvanised into action by a paper application.’
‘Look, there’s no harm in trying. And it costs just twenty-five rupees.’
I pick up an RTI form from the counter and fill out the application, asking for a status report on our complaint and adding, for good measure, how Anees Mirza had tried to intimidate me by sending his goons. Then I bid goodbye to Lauren and catch the metro to Connaught Place.
* * *
Today is Neelam’s last day in the office. She is getting married next week. And immediately after that she leaves for Sweden. She seems more excited about her first foreign trip than her first wedding.
‘What about you, Sapna?’ she asks me. ‘When are you planning to get married?’