27
IT WAS PAST 9 A.M. when he awoke. The room was cold; he would need another blanket at night. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, then called Abbas, who said he would come over from Diphu in the evening. Next he called Apok, Amenla’s brother, who lived in Dimapur. Apok said he would drop by in a while.
Arjun switched on the geyser and asked for sandwiches and tea over the phone. He came out of his room and walked to the open window at the end of the corridor and lit a cigarette. Down between the train tracks, rag-pickers moved about, and outside the brick-and-tin hovels a gambling session seemed to be in progress on a red plastic table, men and women drinking from beer cans. The buildings in the distance were grey and dusty under a featureless sky. He felt a sudden anxiety, something that seemed to be unconnected to the fact that he had to be careful from now on.
After a bath and the meagre breakfast he went down to the reception to get a newspaper. The tall man gave him a national newspaper, which was a day old, and a local one from that day. Arjun spoke to him for a while and found out that his name was Sushil, he was from Rajasthan and he had known ‘Abbas sir’ for a couple of years now. He went down the road to buy a packet of cigarettes from a paan shop beside a ‘Meitei Hindu Rice Hotel’. A group of female IRB constables passed by, their shapely figures in tight camouflaged uniforms, and large old SLRs slung over their shoulders. Again the feeling of anxiety returned, as if someone was keeping an eye on him. He turned and scanned the people on the road, the rundown buildings on the other side. No one seemed to be interested in him. So why this strong sense of danger?
Back in his room, he had just started to go through the newspapers when there was a knock on the door. He opened it to find a young Naga man in jeans and a white shirt, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the front of his shirt.
‘Hi, I’m Apok,’ he introduced himself.
It took Arjun some time to spot the resemblance to his late sister. Arjun hadn’t expected him to come straight up, and now he had to invite him in, asking him to sit on the only chair in the room while he himself sat on the bed. In front of his visitor the shabbiness of the room seemed magnified. And it didn’t take him long to understand that Apok didn’t agree with his father’s decision to try and track down the killer.
‘I told my father, it’s been more than a year. Sometimes it’s better not to hope too much.’
‘I think he feels the loss deeply. Finding whoever did it might help him cope.’
‘I feel the loss too. But what can anyone do now, after a year?’
‘I’ve found some leads. I’m looking for a person named Tony now, an old friend of your sister’s.’
‘Anthony? That Kuki fellow? What does he have to do with it?’
‘He was in Delhi just before Amenla died.’
Apok shook his head and looked down at his phone. As with the Naga youth in Delhi, Arjun was struck again by how effortlessly stylish they were. And because of that, they seemed to be let down by their surroundings.
‘It seems like a wild goose chase,’ he said. ‘Even my sister thinks so. But my father . . .’
‘Were you close to your sister?’ Arjun asked.
Apok nodded, his face grave now. ‘If only she had decided to come back from Delhi. I hate that city,’ he said with a quiet forcefulness. ‘That city killed her.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Arjun said.
‘The tears have dried, but the sorrow remains,’ Apok said. ‘I think I read that somewhere. Finish your investigation fast, Mr Arora. The longer it takes, the more my father will start hoping. That can be a dangerous thing at his age.’
‘Do you have any idea where I could find Tony?’
‘Maybe Manipur. I’ve never been there myself.’
After Apok left, Arjun lit a cigarette. His visit to Dimapur hadn’t exactly got off to a flying start, he reflected. And now there was the whole day to be killed before Abbas showed up. He could go out on his own, but where? There was a former commander of one of the Naga NPG factions whom he knew from before, and who was probably in Dimapur now, but how to track him down? It would be easier to ask Abbas.
Suddenly restless, he flipped through the newspapers. The local paper had front-page news of a Naga politician talking about how the Naga-inhabited areas of Manipur were part of the larger Naga ancestral territory. The police were still ‘looking into’ the shooting of the two cadres the previous day, while a traders’ body had gone to meet the governor over unabated ‘taxation’ by multiple NPGs. Things hadn’t moved on much since he had last been in the state. Inside, a small item on the city-news page caught his eye. ‘NGO to Hold Programme on Women’s Issues’ said the headline, but it was the first sentence that had got his attention. ‘Shillong-based activist Baia Lyngdoh will be holding a conference-cum-workshop on women’s issues along with Dimapur-based NGO Voices from the East today at Duncan Bosti.’ Having nothing better to do, he decided to go have a look.
He left his room and caught an auto from the road outside. The young tribal driver kept an eye on him in the round rear-view mirrors as he drove. They came out to the Dhobinala area with its lines of shops then moved up to the Circular Road, passing the colonies, or khels, of different tribes and their Baptist churches. The sun shone white behind the dust haze, and the surroundings opened up, unlike the grimy clutter of the railway station area. He recalled a few details from their briefing before being posted here during his stint in the army. The ancient capital of the Dimasa Kacharis, Dimapur had been given to Nagaland in 1963 on a ninety-nine-year lease by the Assam government, as it had a railway station and an airfield the new state could use. It was the only place in Nagaland where people from the rest of the country didn’t need an inner line permit. There were still some ruins from the old capital, carved stone columns set in lines, and he had been to see them the first time he had been here. Where Golaghat Road crossed over into Assam was Khatkhati, a hub of the illegal liquor trade in this dry state. A Naga bureaucrat Arjun knew had commented about it, with the usual relaxed Naga humour: ‘That place has the largest floating population of Nagas outside Nagaland.’ The other road into Assam, before it crossed the border towards Diphu, went past the 3 Corps military headquarters at Rangapahar.
The auditorium where the programme was taking place was down a road in Duncan Bosti. He knew bosti was also used to denote a village or settlement here, not just an urban slum, so the large houses with spacious compounds didn’t come as a surprise. The autorickshaw driver dropped him off in front of the hall, then drove a short distance away and waited. Arjun lit a cigarette and looked around. There were a couple of cars and two-wheelers around and a banner for Voices from the East strung up above the gate leading to the auditorium. A signboard by the gate proclaimed that the auditorium belonged to a particular tribe’s Baptist church. From inside came the amplified voice of a female speaker—the programme had started.
As he stood there smoking the cigarette, a white Toyota Fortuner with tinted windows and an NL07 Dimapur number plate pulled up. Arjun had heard that the Fortuner was now the car of choice among those who had made it in the North-east, which largely meant those who had swindled central government funds or sold off natural resources; during his time here it had been the second-hand Mitsubishi Pajero from Delhi or Bhutan. A slim young man in white trousers and a body-hugging coat got out, followed by a plump young man in jeans and a crumpled jacket carrying a laptop bag. The first person took off his Ray Bans and looked around, then sauntered in, followed by the other, who looked like his assistant. Arjun had a vague feeling they might be from Zunheboto or Tuensang or some such far-off place. He followed them past the gate and into the auditorium.
It was a large hall with over two hundred chairs lined up, brightly lit by rows of tube lights. To one side of the stage, a big-built woman in a red sari and large glasses was reading her speech out at a lectern. A screen in the centre had pictures of tribal women in a village working at various activities; the images came from a
projector placed below the stage.
‘Without economic empowerment, women will still be victims of patriarchy in this country,’ the woman said. ‘We must tackle patriarchy head-on, and we will be mistaken if we believe it doesn’t exist in tribal societies in the north-east.’
She paused here to look up at the audience, where several thoughtful-looking young girls—they seemed to be college students—nodded grimly. Less than half of the seats were taken, and Arjun made his way to the other side of the hall and took a corner seat in the last row of people. Near him an elderly Naga man was drooping in his chair and snoring gently. Even when he had been in school he had always liked a corner seat in the last row, preferably by the window. The speaker droned on, and Arjun checked out the people sitting in the first row. He could make out Baia as she turned to speak to a woman on her left. After a while, a man to her right in the row behind leant forward to say something to Baia. Arjun recognized him as the person who had turned up in the Fortuner.
There was a round of applause as the speaker on patriarchy ended her talk, and the sleeping man woke up with a start. The speaker came and sat in the front row near Baia. The next speaker appeared to be from out of town as well, a tall woman with short hair in a dark salwar–kameez. She started off talking about women’s participation in politics in the North-east and in Nagaland (which had just had a single woman MLA since 1963), but she soon veered off towards the AFSPA.
‘It’s sad that we still treat the Nagas like a colony,’ she said, and more heads nodded.
Arjun could see her at the IIC or IHC in Delhi, articulating her positions with a glass of wine in hand, part of her progressive world view. He wanted to show her the gamblers drinking outside the hovels by the train lines, the NPG ceasefire camps where the boys would mostly turn up for a headcount, the gleaming SUVs on the potholed roads. The reality was much more complex than their theories would allow for. He wondered who was footing the bill for the show. There was a Voices from the East banner above the stage as well, and he strained his eyes and made out the words at the bottom: ‘Organized by the Department of Social Welfare, Government of Nagaland, with assistance from the NEC, Ministry of DONER’. As with most other things in north-east India, central government funds were required to make things happen.
Arjun was spared more speeches as there was a break for tea. The tall woman came down from the stage and Baia went up to announce that there was going to be an hour’s break, and that light refreshments were available in the adjoining room. Today she was wearing high heels and a light-grey skirt with a matching formal coat. She looked very different from the person he had met in Shillong, more like a Korean soap actress, he reflected, which could have been the look she had in mind being in Dimapur. He waited till most of the people had moved out of the hall before following them to the next room.
There were soft drinks and tea, and samosas and pastries, being set out by volunteers on tables at the far end, under a portrait of Christ’s crucifixion. Seeing Baia talking once more with the young man in white trousers, he moved towards them. She turned as Arjun approached, and a frown appeared on her face.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said.
‘Oh well, I was in the neighbourhood,’ Arjun replied.
‘Did you like the talks?’
‘Patriarchy and colonialism? I think the church could tell you about that as well.’
‘Point taken,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re like Nancy, a cynic. Not all of us look at the world with such jaded eyes. There are some who try to make a difference.’
‘And I respect them for that,’ Arjun said.
He was surprised to find that the coldness of the first meeting had quickly thawed.
‘This is Romeo, he’s from Manipur,’ she introduced Arjun to the young man.
They shook hands, and from close up Arjun could see he was actually middle-aged.
‘Mr Arora is a detective from Delhi,’ she explained to Romeo.
‘Really? Very interesting. What are you doing here in Dimapur?’
‘I’m looking for someone, actually.’
Romeo nodded, then turned to Baia, ‘Yaar, let’s go to the Cake Shop for a coffee. It’s nearby, na.’
‘Now? But all our guests are here.’
‘Come, na. We’ll be back before the programme starts.’
‘I could do with a good coffee,’ she said, and looked at Arjun. ‘What about you?’
28
THE CAKE SHOP WAS A stylish new cafe on the main Duncan Bosti road before the turning towards the high court. The glass doors led on to rustic wooden tables and a long display counter, while on one side was a section for clothes and books. On the wall were framed photos of Naga tribal villages on mist-cloaked mountains, and wiry men and women in their traditional wear. Despite it being a Monday there were several young people sitting there, with light pop music playing from overhead speakers. Baia sat with Romeo, opposite Arjun, and they ordered coffee and cake. They had come here in Romeo’s Fortuner, and Baia had asked a colleague to keep an eye on things while she stepped out for a while. Romeo’s assistant had been left behind.
‘The owner is a friend,’ she now said to him. ‘Their cakes are to die for.’
‘I’ve been telling her to come and open a branch in Imphal as well,’ added Romeo, looking around. ‘We need places like these.’
Arjun nodded and looked around at the youngsters, all sharply dressed as usual. They wouldn’t have been out of place in Bangkok or Seoul. And why wouldn’t the youth here want someplace nice to help them forget all the unpleasantness? At the same time, there was something sad about it, grasping hard at a foreign source of cool in this dusty, flyblown city.
‘Who was the person you were looking for?’ Baia asked him.
‘Tony Haokip. Do you know anything?’
‘No, but Romeo might.’ She turned to the Manipuri. ‘The person he’s looking for.’
‘He was, or still is, in one of the Kuki defence groups,’ Arjun explained.
‘I see,’ Romeo said, and scratched his chin. ‘What has he done?’
Arjun would have preferred not to say, but Baia had already chipped in: ‘Murder case of a Naga girl in Delhi, you must have heard? My friend Nancy’s cousin.’
‘Might have heard about it,’ Romeo said. ‘So Tony Haokip is the murderer?’
‘We don’t know yet, but I need to meet him and talk to him,’ Arjun said. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I think I’ve heard of him. And he’s here in Dimapur?’
‘In Manipur most probably.’
‘You’re going back today, right?’ Baia said to Romeo, then turned to Arjun, ‘You can go with him to Imphal.’
‘Sure,’ Romeo said, ‘come along with me.’
Arjun was tempted by the thought of a comfortable ride, but he had to discuss things with Abbas before that.
‘Thanks, but I have to meet a friend today evening.’
‘Let me know if you change your mind,’ Romeo said. ‘And here comes our order.’
The red velvet cake and coffee were well prepared, and they made some small talk about Baia’s NGO. There was something good-natured about her that Arjun hadn’t caught on at their first meeting, and he could sense a steely inner core to her as well, something of the independent North-eastern woman. Her office was in Guwahati, where she would be headed the day after. Romeo was into business, he didn’t specify what exactly, and he also ran a couple of NGOs. He and Baia laughed a touch uneasily when Arjun commented that it was a good career opportunity for the educated in the North-east. They exchanged numbers before they left the cafe, and Romeo insisted on settling the bill, which Arjun noticed he did with crisp new 500-rupee notes.
Back at the Baptist Church auditorium, Arjun made his excuses and left. He wouldn’t have minded sitting near Baia for a while, but he was in no mood for more speeches. So he caught an autorickshaw back to Golaghat Road. On the way, he reflected on the meeting with the girl from Shillong. Ther
e was something about her that intrigued him, and she had hinted that he could get in touch with her the next day. Things were taking an interesting turn.
After getting down in front of his hotel, he walked down Eros Lane, where one or two of the old prostitutes’ cabins still stood with ordinary, bored-looking women inside them, and turned into another lane where past the damp-looking butchers’ shops were several rice hotels. Like the Baptist churches, they mentioned the tribe they were from—Sumi, Lotha, Chakhesang, etc. The sour smell of bamboo shoot hung in the air and men with paan-stained mouths standing at the doorways of the rice hotels looked at him with cold eyes. Another turn and he was out on one of the market roads where there were a couple of cleaner rice hotels run by women.
He went inside one, washed his hands at the sink and was shown to a cabin. He asked one of the boys for rice, chutney and pork, and to go along with it a bottle of beer. He had stayed dry for long enough. Families were eating with gusto in the other cabins, and some cabins where people were drinking had their curtains drawn shut. Nagaland was a dry state thanks to the Baptist church, but liquor was available almost everywhere. The boy brought him the bottle first and pulled the curtain. The first sip of the strong beer seemed to get the synapses in his brain firing. He lit a cigarette and reflected on why he was there. Was it destiny, arriving in Dimapur and meeting Baia again?
Arjun knew he was no closer to Tony Haokip here than when he had been in Delhi, but Abbas would be able to give him some good information. Then there was Romeo, who appeared to be someone resourceful: a person who might turn out to be helpful once Arjun got to Manipur. There had been a smoothness about him, a canny intelligence which Arjun had been familiar with among the Meiteis when he had been posted in Manipur. He recalled officers who had made the mistake of reading them as simple gullible tribals and who later paid the price in botched operations, or even with their lives. Pouring himself a second glass, Arjun played back the meeting with Rohit Chaudhry the morning he had left Delhi. Getting a third meeting with Rohit would be difficult; he made a note to call Negi and remind to concentrate on Amenla’s ex-boyfriend.
More Bodies Will Fall Page 16