by Leena Nandan
Ajay could have said a lot more to Umadhar, most of it unprintable, but what was the point? He was just a minion. The master puppeteers were others. But he had resolved now not to be jerked around by invisible hands. He mulled over his future course of action. First, he had to throw everyone off the scent. Without breaking step, he carried on to the parking area, mounted the motorcycle and drove at a sedate speed to the head office.
Chaos prevailed there, as expected. No one knew precisely who or what he was but the word pension registered on the sixth attempt and he was directed to a room of the size and look of a prison cell.
The office looked abandoned, forsaken. The table was piled high with papers, the dust on them an inch thick. The telephone with an antiquated dialling system looked quite sorry for itself. A threelegged chair leant drunkenly against the wall as if for support and the rusted file cabinet lurched away from it as if to join issue with the chair.
‘That’s what we all become, my friend—useless, rusted, forgotten,’ he murmured when a gentle apologetic cough behind him made him wheel around.
‘Don’t let the place bring you down, boy. You have miles to go and this is just a resting place to conserve your energy.’ The speaker was a ramrod-straight silver-haired gentleman with deep lines on his face, and eyes that twinkled.
‘Who are you, sir?’ asked Ajay, surprised that anyone could look so calm in a place that had the cheerful air of a cemetery.
‘I’m Parashar, an ancient mariner. I’ve been waiting for my pension papers to get finalised. Youngsters have energy and don’t want it sapped by desk work, which is the right spirit. Take your time and if these papers get you down, come by for some tea and some chit-chat. I run the canteen down the road so you are welcome to hop across every now and then.’
Ajay felt ashamed of himself in the face of Parashar’s neversay-die spirit. He resolved to be more positive in his approach. The first objective was to take charge of his new responsibilities—he owed it to the pensioners. He set about cleaning the place and placed three books below the broken fourth leg of the chair to give it balance. The books, in any case, were mildewed with age, so they’d no doubt feel better at being put to some use. The papers, which had seemed so formidable at first glance, were actually not in too bad a shape. Someone had made an attempt to place them in chronological order, so he could start with the oldest one at the top, which was quite a fair way to go about it.
He worked and thought, pondering over the issue. As he dusted the table and sorted out the papers in his usual systematic style, he recapitulated all the discussions on the murder case and mentally read between the lines to zoom in on any discordant note. He hummed softly to himself even as his hands moved methodically around the table.
He would keep a watchful eye on the case and analyse all the moves by the players.
It was the ultimate game of chess.
FOURTEEN
6 February
Vikram arrived early at Cool Cat. He felt a pang on seeing the familiar vivid orange counters, the youngsters hanging around alone, in groups and in totally engrossed twosomes. The aroma of coffee, the sound of voices—a tinkle of laughter here, an argument there—brought back memories of happier days and with them, a sense of deep loss. He could not turn back the clock but how he wished he could overcome the longing and utter desolation that gripped him whenever he realised that Leila was lost to him forever.
They had met in college. He was the most popular guy on campus, tall and ruggedly good-looking, captain of the college cricket team and brilliant in studies. She was slender, with lovely long hair and eyes you could drown in. She had taken philosophy, art and literature, and was shy to the point of being considered a snob. Vikram, with mathematics, psychology and economics, was the undisputed hero of most students. His deep voice and cold logic made him an ace debater; he was equally skilled at winning hearts.
Their very first encounter was a disastrous one. It was the final match of an inter-college cricket tournament, and Vikram’s team was determined to win the trophy that had eluded them for years. He was the opening batsman and after a slow start, was all set to hit a six, when suddenly someone screamed from the spectator stand. Inadvertently, his head swivelled in the direction from where the sound had come, and he was bowled out—for a duck. He stormed over to the girl—her name was Leila, he learnt later—and shouted at her for a full ten minutes. Her face pink with embarrassment, almost stuttering in her rush to get the words out, she had tried to explain that a rat had run over her foot. But he was in no mood to relent and continued with his tirade. The other students booed her angrily, because the home team seemed doomed. Blinking back tears of mortification, she had fled. Vikram, with that unique ice-cold detachment which made him a winner, recovered his concentration and went on to do excellent fielding. His team proceeded to win the match handsomely; the prestigious trophy was theirs. When all the excitement had died down, and Vikram had reverted to his cool, rational self, he felt ashamed at his outburst. He looked high and low for Leila, whose subjects and schedule were completely different from his, and finally located her after a week.
Her beauty, which had escaped his notice the first day, had an inner radiance. She seemed aloof and initially, wouldn’t even speak to him. He persisted, though he didn’t know why; his closest friends including Tushar hinted that it was a complete waste of time, because she appeared unwilling to let bygones be bygones. Vikram was about to give up, when he saw her in the college garden early one morning, painting on a canvas. Her wrist, so fragile and delicate, had a hidden tensile strength. Her brush flew over the canvas with sure strokes, as it brought to life a laburnum tree with its golden blossoms. The day promised to be a scorcher, but she seemed impervious to the heat. A few tendrils of hair clung to her damp forehead, and beads of sweat trickled down that long neck. He watched her for hours, transfixed. When she completed the painting and turned around, her smile of contentment faltered when she saw him. The painting seemed to be luminous with her aura and Vikram abruptly said, ‘I love you’, shocking himself more than her.
They met every day after that. He found that with all her grace and poise, there was an endearing simplicity in her. She discovered that his successful exterior masked a caring person who believed strongly in values and ethics. They complemented each other and though it sounded clichéd, felt that they were soul-mates. Before graduation, he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes. They were met with a flurry of congratulations; his selection into the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) and hers for a UGC scholarship reinforced the perception that this was one golden couple.
Training over, he plunged into active service. The flame of love did not dim, but now there was another dimension—distance. Leila’s Dad had joined as research scientist and there were all kinds of regulations on communication. Also Dr Maken’s behaviour had undergone a change. Never very expansive towards Vikram, there seemed to be a distinct reticence in his manner now. He was cold and distant on the few occasions that they met and once when Vikram ran into him in the coffee bar in the company of an attractive lady, he looked positively angry. He made a curt introduction, omitting to mention that Vikram was Leila’s fiancé, and as for the lady, he thought it fit only to say that she was a junior colleague. That had made her look challengingly at him, but he abruptly moved off. On Vikram’s next visit to Leila’s home, no mention was made of their chance meeting. Mrs Maken, always a pleasant if subdued lady, had been unusually withdrawn. Vikram had come away with a definite sense of unease.
And then the trouble started. He had been deputed to the elite task force and with his remarkable focus and analytical thinking, had instantly made a name for himself as a master strategist. Often, Leila and he could not talk for weeks together and when they did, she was always worried, fearful. Then that fateful encounter had taken place. They had surrounded a band of Naxalites, armed to the teeth, and he had followed the classical approach of ordering them to drop their weapons. As always, he le
d his force. A sniper fired at him and he managed to duck just in time, simultaneously returning the fire and getting the guy. The sniper had been the guerilla leader and the rest immediately surrendered when he went down. The next day’s newspapers were full of a successful operation led by an extremely brave officer who escaped getting killed only because of his ice-cold nerves.
But for Vikram, all hell had broken loose. Leila was furious and beyond reasoning. She wanted only one promise—that he would exit the special ops straightaway. He tried to explain that the country needed men of honour and valour.
Leila telephoned him one night when he had returned to his room, weary to the bone. ‘You will have to take a headquarters posting for my sake,’ she said. ‘I can’t cope with this anxiety and tension anymore.’
Vikram replied, ‘Will you love the man I am certain to become—one who is afraid to be a leader?’
‘I don’t care for your semantics,’ she cried. ‘Tell me once and for all if you have any regard for my feelings, otherwise we can close this chapter for good.’
The ultimatum put his back up and he refused point-blank to talk further on the subject. She slammed the phone down. Vikram, sure that she would see reason when her anger abated, turned his attention to the task at hand. There were reports to be filed and a new strategy to be finalised for the next crucial phase in the antiinsurgency operations. They did not talk for a month.
Vikram was certain Leila’s parents, especially her mother, would remonstrate with her for being unreasonable. He planned to give her a surprise on her birthday a month later. Out of nowhere, her wedding card arrived. She was marrying some Suneil Bansal within ten days. He was shocked and furious, but against the advice of mutual friends, made no attempt to contact her. He threw himself into a fever of activity. Till he finally learnt that she had indeed got married. Her husband was a wealthy senior executive, some private sector hotshot. Beyond that he neither knew nor cared. Soon after their break-up, he had received a minor injury in a field operation and, ironically was assigned a boring desk job till he recovered his legendary reflexes. One thought that always tortured him was that if this had happened earlier, Leila would not have gone away.
Looking unseeingly at the profusion of flowers on the pavement outside the restaurant, he wondered whether he would ever get over her. A light footstep sounded and he turned to see Leila. As he stood up, he was struck by her pallor. She was in a cream-coloured saree and looked pale, almost ghostly. It must be her father’s death, he thought. She certainly could not be pining for him!
She said without preamble, ‘Vicky, I think something is terribly wrong.’
‘Your Dad’s death was very sudden,’ he said.
‘You know that’s not what I mean. His entire behaviour was out of character and no one is willing to tell me anything. Why did he try to leave the campus before schedule? Why did he not contact the guard if something had alarmed him and what was the intention behind taking away the report?’
‘Wasn’t the cause of death a heart attack?’ he asked, careful not to respond to anything else she’d said.
‘Yes, but he’d just got a complete check-up done—you know what a stickler Dad was for details.’ This, with a hint of irony.
‘I’m sure that looking at his stature, the investigation into the medical as well as security aspects must have been pretty thorough. What’s your mother’s response?’
There was a flicker of pain on her face. ‘Mother has lost interest in everything but her spiritual sessions.’
‘And Suneil—what does he say?’ he asked, his voice tight.
She crossed her arms protectively and replied, ‘Neil didn’t really know Dad all that well.’
‘I’m sure knowing you is a delight in itself,’ he said cuttingly, ‘but why are you telling me all this and not him?’
She said in a cold voice, ‘You can find out about Dad’s death better than he can. I have no secrets from Neil except that when he suddenly asked me whom I had telephoned, I lost my nerve and told him I’d spoken to the tailor. But if he checks the phone records, he’ll know I lied.’
‘And will discover—maybe also become—yet another disenchanted admirer, my dear! It’s time he realised you have legions of them, having let down people all your life.’
He was furious now and decided to leave. He pivoted on his heel and then realised that he had quite forgotten about having called Tushar and Benoy, both of whom stood right behind him, with identical innocent expressions as if they had heard nothing.
They both sat down without any invitation and looked at him fixedly.
‘Leila, this is Tushar—an old friend, and his colleague Benoy. They both are in the Security Wing of Future Insights where your Dad was working,’ Vikram said tonelessly.
‘And where he met his death,’ she said with bitterness.
Tushar was at his genial best. ‘Why don’t we have a chat over a cup of coffee? Coffee is very good for unlocking old memories.’
Vikram tried to kick him under the table. ‘What has been the progress so far? Any leads, any suspicions?’
‘First and foremost, the heart attack was brought on by acute tension and stress, which were aggravated by the strenuous climb over the side gate,’ said Benoy.
Tushar opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.
Leila was shocked. ‘But why did no one tell me that he left by the side gate? Why are these facts being hidden?’
‘Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ said Benoy. ‘Have you or your mother found any paper, any file, at home?’
She thought about it for a minute. ‘No, I don’t recall seeing anything, nor do I think has Mother. She’d have telephoned me—she still stays in their old house, you know, because she didn’t want to shift in with us.’
‘I’m sure you and Mr Bansal’—a trace of sarcasm here—‘are taking adequate care of her. Though to be honest with you, she seems too caught up in those religious discourses to notice anything else.’
‘But how do you know about that? Why are you snooping on us?’ she asked, with a flush of anger.
‘Only to get into the matter thoroughly,’ he answered coolly, which was neither here nor there. ‘What is your husband’s view on the subject?’ he continued. ‘Does he have any idea about why your father behaved as he did?’
‘We were married too recently for him to understand Dad all that well,’ she answered stiffly.
‘Yes, and Dr Maken’s sudden death must have ended the honeymoon abruptly,’ he stated blandly. There was a tinge of colour in her face but she didn’t react. ‘I find it interesting that you say Neil didn’t know his father-in-law much, considering that he and his friend (emphasis on ‘friend’) Dr Natasha Grewal met Dr Maken frequently in town.’
Vikram was surprised that Benoy referred to Suneil as Neil. Had he missed something? Before he could pursue that line of thought, Leila indicated that the conversation was over.
She pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. ‘Are you trying to help the investigation into Dad’s death or am I wrong? You seem to be making insinuations in every statement.’
‘Don’t worry, ma’am; we’ll get to the bottom of it. Enjoy the coffee and the company, Vikram,’ and with a casual wave, Benoy left, followed by Tushar, who was trying to remonstrate and obviously not succeeding.
Leila sagged in her chair, all the fight having gone out of her. ‘Vikram, your colleagues have shed no light on Dad’s death. They came with questions and no answers. I’m still at a loss to understand the whole thing. And the real issue is that I’m terribly afraid of Neil,’ she said in a faltering voice.
Vikram had had enough of being an agony aunt. ‘Oh, come on…’he said.
‘You didn’t see the look in his eyes that day when you had come over.’
‘Give him a break, Leila. It’s just that he’s possessive about you.’
‘And with reason,’ said a voice. They swung around to see Neil nonchalantly le
aning against the table behind them. Both stood up and Vikram was sure he looked as guilty as Leila, though why, he could not fathom.
‘Shall we go home, darling?’ said Neil and without waiting for an answer steered Leila away. He looked back at Vikram and there was no mistaking the murderous rage in his eyes.
FIFTEEN
6 February
Tina woke up early, feeling better than she had in a long time. She wandered out, wondering at the silence. Rozy, otherwise so disorganised, had woken Chintu up, hustled him away to school without either of them making a sound, and returned quietly. As Tina walked into the living room, the sunlight streaming in made it look welcoming. Or was it the blanket across the divan and the aroma of tea wafting in from the kitchen that created the sense of warmth? As she showered and changed into a loose T-shirt and her comfortable long skirt, Tina realised how lonely she’d been feeling during the months that her parents had been away.
Rozy came in with two cups of tea and made a mock bow as she handed one to Tina. ‘Your highness, I promise eternal slavery for a word of praise.’
It tasted like hot sweet water. ‘Mmmm…heavenly,’ said Tina without batting an eyelid.
They sat down and Tina switched on the radio to catch the morning songs. She loved hearing music as she went about getting ready for office. Rozy hummed along.
‘What time do you leave for work?’ asked Rozy.
‘Flexitime—today I need to be there by eleven and I’ll be back by eight-thirty. I had brought the schedule for next week but I forget where I put it down.’
‘I’m not surprised at your forgetfulness—Jeet always calls you a bird-brain. You’re a throwback on aunty,’ said Rozy. ‘Do you remember the time we hunted all over your house for her glasses and she had them on her forehead all the while?’
‘You haven’t heard the best one. We had a yoga teacher who used to come every evening to take her through the exercises. On the first day, after the session was over he requested for permission to leave. She smiled encouragingly; he kept waiting and so did she. Finally he said apologetically that if she gave back his pair of slippers instead of wearing them, he might perhaps proceed for departure.’