Once again, she says, ‘Look ahead.’ But this time, she is laughing.
The phrase comes to be used by both of us on various occasions, often when we do not have any other way out. When I accept my job transfer against her wishes, ‘look ahead’ comes to the rescue that day too.
I sit in her room. Her parents are not home, nor are her two brothers who bay for my blood. She sits down slowly. We don’t know yet how the transfer will affect us. For now, we are arguing about whether I should accept the transfer or quit my job and look for another. She holds my face in her hands, turns it towards her, and says, ‘Look ahead.’ I look at her. The memory of that moment will continue to haunt me through the rest of my life. But I do not know that yet.
The town was less than a kilometre away from the police station. It seemed to be lost in itself. Everyone looked as if they were occupied with something. Besides the many makeshift kiosks on the streets, the first store in the town was an electric sawmill, the noise from which could be heard from far away. The town grew crowded immediately after the mill. Sahadeo must have been feeling uneasy at the growing silence inside the car, so he said, ‘Sir, Bihar starts right after this settlement.’
He must have been familiar with this place and that is why he called it a ‘settlement’. I had been calling it a ‘town’.
‘What do you mean “Bihar starts from here”?’
‘It’s a paradise for smugglers and criminals, from that side and from this side too. If a new police chief comes on either side of the border, the miscreants cross over.’
I didn’t say anything but let out a laugh at this creative use of borders. Had Anjan Agarwal used the same technique to his benefit? The thought was a distraction and it got me to look outside the car. There were lots of hoardings and jostling banners on both sides of the street. Every hoarding was perhaps twenty-five to fifty metres apart. One advertised various discounts at Big Bazaar, but in blue and not the sparkling red that had become associated with the outlet. Only when we drove past it did I notice that the advert was for Bigger Bazaar and not Big Bazaar. It was a great imitation. Right behind it was a hoarding for a computer repair store that said in big letters: ‘A computer doctor, now in your town’. The text for the advertisement was replete with medical jargon. In fact, on the top-left corner of the hoarding, there was even a photograph of a man wearing a doctor’s white coat standing next to a computer screen.
The next hoarding had a random assortment of bright colours, and I couldn’t discern it very well. But after two or three more of these, it became clear that the people whose photos were featured on these hoardings were all the same. On the top were ten or twelve photos without any names. I could only recognize Swami Vivekananda. On his right were pictures of the Prime Minister and other Union ministers. Text had been stacked to the left and in the centre. One hoarding announced a pilgrimage to Kailash–Mansarovar. ‘Chalo Kailash!’ – Let’s go to Kailash! – the large type called out. A huge image of Lord Shiva was printed alongside, with the Ganga flowing out from his locks. To the right of the god, almost as big or perhaps bigger, was a photograph of a young man whose entire manner seemed calculated to convey humility and sincerity. Below his picture, typed in yellow letters, was his name and official position: ‘Amit Malviya – President, Mangal Morcha’.
The choice of colours could make one wonder if the banners had been put up in a great hurry. But the order in which they had been placed revealed that this was not the case. If the call for the pilgrimage was on the right side of the street, the same hoarding was on the left too – in the same size, with the same colour, people and text. The coordination was perfect. Even the hoardings that were put up right after repeated the message. Whoever had done this clearly did not want a single person passing by on the street to miss it.
A bhandara – a religious feast – was advertised on the next hoarding. It was similar in type and colour to the Kailash one, so it was not difficult to guess what it said. As the car came near it, I saw that the feast would go on for a week. The same photos were printed on the top, starting from Swami Vivekananda and ending with the Prime Minister. But while Lord Shiva had towered over the previous one, here it was the goddess Annapurna. The designer had been astute enough to add the deity’s name, given that she was not as popular as Shiva. Two photographs were printed to its right: one of Amit Jain – Treasurer, Mangal Morcha, and the other of Amit Malviya. These hoardings had been arranged in the same way too: front-back-right-left, four in all.
The next hoarding advertised a pilgrimage to Vaishno Devi and Amarnath. If you ignored the many photos, it looked like the cover of an old T-Series album.
The one after that advertised a private university. The letters ‘BL(D)U’ were printed in large type, and the name followed in parentheses, ‘Baba Lakarnath (Deemed) University’. The photographs of two boys and a girl, all three wearing formal suits, were placed next to it. I couldn’t tell whether they were students at the college or professional models. The girl wore a collarless shirt, while the boys wore ties. The advertisement said admissions into courses like Management, Hotel Management, BEd, BSc, MSc, BCom, MCom, BA, MA, etc. were about to close soon, and to reserve a seat as early as possible. A phone number had been listed for enquiries, and on the corner to its right were small photographs of two men. The word ‘Principal’ was typed below one, with the name following in a very small font. Or perhaps I couldn’t read it because there was already so much text on the advert. The other photo was that of an older man with a glowing face, and below it were listed several academic degrees and awards. The awards looked to be of the literary kind, but our car had already zipped past the hoarding before I could read his name.
There was a traffic jam up ahead. Everybody had squeezed their vehicles in wherever they found some space, and now several cars were stuck on both sides. An Indica stood sideways. An autorickshaw’s front wheel popped out towards the right. Everybody honked relentlessly. Anasuya watched the mayhem. Thinking this could be a chance to start a conversation, I asked, ‘What sort of traffic jam is this?’ Then, ‘Does this happen every day?’
She responded to both my questions with a terse, ‘I never come this way.’
As I wondered whether to keep the conversation going, Sahadeo changed the topic and said this was where smugglers paid toll tax. ‘A government checkpoint comes after crossing the river Gandak in Mehrauna,’ he said, ‘where vehicles carrying legal goods are checked. But in Noma, the tax is paid by smugglers. Oil, cattle and sugar are all trafficked via this route, and one has to pay to smuggle out or bring in every sack of sugar or head of cattle. The rates are quite high these days. This is the gateway to our state.’
He had begun to irritate me with his stories, so I asked him to keep quiet. There was no point in believing what he said.
‘Take the right from Durga Mandir Chowk please,’ Anasuya said in a calm voice. I had been waiting for this moment. At some point, the tears dry up, despair leaves your side, and anger fades away. This relief doesn’t last for very long – anger often returns with renewed vigour, and the tears return too. But I had been waiting for this interval of respite, even if it was just for a moment or two.
After giving directions to Sahadeo, Anasuya rummaged inside a yellow plastic bag that had ‘Furkan Vastralaya’ printed on it and brought out another plastic bag that had been folded several times. Water dripped from it. As she unfolded the bag, it continued to drip. Sahadeo watched the scene unfold in his rear-view mirror. He would have minded if the seat got wet, and I didn’t want that to happen. The deeper we went into town, the more I felt like going back home. But I wouldn’t have found another taxi in this town-like settlement – or settlement-like town.
Anasuya brought out four objects from the bag that, had they not been drenched, could have been called diaries or notebooks. The paper had swollen. She handed them to me and said, ‘When the police raided our home, I rolled up Rafique’s diary, his notebook and two photocopies of his new play in this
bag and hid them in the flush tank. This is the best I could do. I folded the plastic bag several times, but water still got in.’
I took the papers as a courtesy, also thinking that this might somehow start a conversation. A few pages became casualties in this exchange. As I put them back inside the yellow plastic bag, I said something I wished I hadn’t: ‘Was Rafique involved in politics?’
Who would have answered such a ridiculous question? She certainly didn’t.
We had arrived at her home.
HER HOUSE LOOKED MORE LIKE a cage. It was no wider than twelve to fifteen feet, however long it may have been from the inside. The other houses in this neighbourhood, which was close to the centre of Noma, all looked the same.
Sahadeo hurried ahead of me to open the door for Anasuya so that she had no trouble getting down. Noticing the taxi, Anasuya’s landlord came out. He took one look at our gloomy faces and didn’t bother asking what had happened. Nonetheless, Anasuya told him at once, ‘We’ve been asked to come back once the daroga returns in the afternoon.’ The landlord’s wife helped her climb upstairs. Every step seemed to be as hard as climbing a mountain for Anasuya. She would take one step, then bring up the other foot. She would then take a deep breath and repeat the exercise.
After climbing more than half the stairs, she seemed to remember that I had been left behind. ‘Come up,’ she invited me in.
It was a one-room apartment. The hundred-watt bulb’s luminescence couldn’t overpower the enormous darkness inside. If the bulb wasn’t lit, I wouldn’t be able to see my hands. There was a kitchen in one corner of the room, and you could see the bathroom through an open door on the far end. The bed was simply a mattress on the floor, facing west. There was only one chair and she asked me to sit on it, but I offered it to the landlord instead. Anasuya slowly lowered herself on to the bed. The landlord’s wife sat with her, put Anasuya’s feet in her lap and massaged them slowly. I stood with the three students – Jagdish, Kushalpal and Mukesh.
I looked at the three youngsters. How, instead of looking to the future, they were stuck watching the handiwork of previous generations. The room was not big enough to accommodate so many people. It was also difficult to understand why a teacher from a degree college was living in such conditions.
The walls were empty – not even a single picture hung from them – and made me yearn for a glimpse of Rafique.
‘Do you have any photos of Rafique?’
Anasuya looked towards her purse lying a little further away. All of us followed her gaze, and Jagdish picked up the purse and handed it to her. The purse was the colour of a banyan tree’s bark. Old and battered, only its purse-like shape gave any indication of its function. Anasuya took out four pictures from it.
The first picture looked like it had been clicked at some ceremony. The photo had lost its lustre over time. A young woman had put a garland around a man’s neck and now waited for the man to put one around hers. Both of them looked into the camera as if someone had asked to click a picture at that very moment. Two young women and a man laughed behind them.
The second picture had the shine of a new photo and seemed to have been clicked at dusk. A scene from a street play that had been shot at a wide angle. The young man who had looked eager to place the garland in the previous picture was now being held by a policeman. Kushal, one of the three students who stood with me, played the policeman. A young woman looked on, afraid at what was going on around her.
The third student, Mukesh, came closer. Putting his finger on the young woman’s face, he said, ‘Her name is Janaki. She too has been missing since yesterday.’ He stumbled through the sentence, which may have been because of his choice of words. ‘I mean, she has not returned home since yesterday,’ he clarified.
I told them I had read about her in Dainik Jagriti. Everybody turned to look at me.
Janaki–Rafique, Rafique–Janaki. My mind raced around the two names. I almost asked how long the two had known each other – and how well. The query settled itself in a narrow corner of my mind, or rather, in a corner of my narrow mind. But I could not resist asking, ‘Is Janaki one of Rafique’s students?’
A wave of silence enveloped the room and would have overpowered us all had Anasuya not answered – plainly and simply, but her expression was remarkable. The sternness with which she said ‘yes’ could have set to rest any future questions too. ‘She even comes home every now and then. She is part of their theatre group, and these three were also part of the same street play in the photograph.’ The three nodded. Mukesh began to tell me about the play. They had decided to start performing it from the end of May, but their scheduled performances had been blocked because of some civic issues. Jagdish corrected some details. But I kept returning to the question of the two going missing at the same time.
The third photo was a passport-sized one and, from a distance, looked like it had been taken from the admit card of an exam, for the marks of a stamp and a faded signature were visible too. But the picture had been cut out from a larger photograph. On a closer look, it seemed as if it had been subjected to inks of various colours.
I could not figure out whether the fourth and last picture depicted a play or reality. The same young man, this time in a gown worn at convocations, was receiving a degree from an elderly man. The picture could very well have been real, except there was no one else in the photograph. Which was possible only if it had been clicked up-close, or if it were a scene from a play.
Jagdish asked for my WhatsApp number. It was clear that he wanted to send me Rafique’s pictures. I handed all four to him.
Then, I finally uttered the sentence I had been preparing to say for a long time. ‘I want to know a few more things from you.’ Anasuya gestured at me to stop. She closed her eyes. After a short pause, she said, ‘We will talk.’ I was walking out without having heard what she’d said, when she mumbled, ‘Wait.’
‘Tea?’
‘No.’
I, however, liked the idea. The whoosh of the gas burner and the simmering of the tea leaves would allow us a chance to recoup. Otherwise, was this really any way to meet?
She pointed towards the kitchen. The stove was on the floor. I lit it with a matchstick and started boiling the water. ‘Tell me what happened?’
She took her own time before she started to speak. ‘I might be able to say something if I could figure things out myself. Everything was fine at college. Rafique has been teaching at Swami Devanand Degree College for the last five years, and sometimes he talks about his ad-hoc job. Some people in the college feel that he is doing well despite being an ad-hoc teacher, so he would have a reasonable chance of getting a permanent position when it opens up. That’s why they want him to quit. They create problems every year during the new appointments. Rafique has mentioned a few confrontations. But I can’t believe they would go to such an extent.’
I could believe it, however. Jobs were more precious than lives nowadays. If it was me, I would not have dismissed their possible involvement in Rafique’s disappearance.
If it was me? What did I mean by that? What did it require for me to say, ‘It is me’? I could beat myself up for my habit of running away from the present. But I was here now. Very much here, and no one would be excluded from my list of suspects until Rafique was found. This town, its people, nobody would get any leeway.
‘Did Rafique ever tell you the names of those with whom he had a confrontation?’
‘Jagdish and Kushal would know more about this, but there is someone called Guru-ji – a man named Ratnashankar Mishra. He used to come home earlier.’
I didn’t insist on that point. There was so much else that I wanted to know. Most of all, I wanted to know who had suffered more after I had left her stranded. It was an unreasonable question, and I chided myself for thinking about the past when there were lives at stake here.
‘How did you end up in Noma? This town is the complete opposite of Karnal’s glitter.’
She started to laugh, bu
t her weariness did not allow her to do so properly. She tried to say something but kept laughing over and over. I realized I should have framed the question differently. ‘You had two brothers, didn’t you?’
She patiently began to reply. And she said the same things I had been thinking about since the previous night. But to be honest, it didn’t feel good to hear her say them.
‘My brothers didn’t like our relationship.’ It would have been enough, had she stopped at this point. But she thought it necessary to continue speaking – as if her monologue would help solve the mess she was in and help find Rafique. A constant undertone of bitterness was now discernible in her words. Her face turned red. Her anger was justified. Someone whose husband has gone missing has every right to see the world as a bad place. The only problem was that I was also a character in her tale. I listened to her. Finding Rafique now became all the more necessary because I had started fearing guilt as much as I feared committing a crime.
‘It took you seven or eight years to understand that you wanted a girl from your own caste, but I had figured it out fairly early. Your actions told me everything. You did not have the courage to say no, and that is why you dragged the relationship on, and demoralized me for one reason or another. You know, after breaking up with you, I swear on my mother, I didn’t feel any further grief. I met Rafique around the same time. He had been appointed, albeit temporarily, to Kurukshetra University. You may be surprised to learn we decided to get married after just two or three meetings. But my brothers didn’t like him either. They wanted to kill him and nearly beat me to death.’ She started to cry. ‘Rafique left Haryana. Some friends helped us find this town and this place. And a job. Which was supposed to be permanent from day one but has remained temporary for the last five years.’
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