by Mahesh Rao
Some distance away from the main house was a guesthouse, converted into a sort of reception center for supplicants and sycophants. Fahim had spent a couple of hours there as soon as he had arrived, asking those waiting a few discreet questions. They squatted on the verandah floor, they stood around in groups on the hard-packed earth outside, a few stood waiting outside the main gates. From time to time a select number were allowed into the outer room and permitted to perch on the cane chairs. Women were ushered into the stifling air of another anteroom, where the fan refused to budge from the lowest speed.
Sometimes tea was served, sometimes it was not. One lucky visitor might be plied with four cups while the others had to look on. Since these dispensations were an indication of probable success in Altafbhai’s office, the scrutiny was relentless. Everyone knew that a grain wholesaler from Kairana was given two Nice Time biscuits on every visit.
This domain was presided over by Altafbhai’s assistant, a man whose face bulged in rather odd places, like an angry cauliflower, his countenance matching his bellicose nature. He sat at a desk in the inner room, grunting into one of his numerous phones, glowering at his minions when they knocked on the door and then opened it to peek inside. By some mysterious internal process revealed to no one, he decided who would be granted passage to the main house to lay a request before Altafbhai. Seemingly undeserving petitioners were marched to the house within minutes; others were cast out of the gates for relatively minor infractions, pacing up and down or laughing too loudly.
They came with genuine grievances or solely to spend a moment with the great batsman. Others knew of his personal generosity and arrived with plans for personal development, empowerment, betterment. Altafbhai was renowned for drawing out wads of cash from his pocket on a busy street and handing out money to anyone with a sorrowful tale. His party colleagues were appalled. Patronage and largesse were essential tools in politics, but they could not simply be squandered on the poor.
Fahim was also in search of patronage, and this weekend it looked as though his industry in cultivating Altafbhai would finally achieve some success. But he had not realized that there were others even more eager to show him their generosity.
Ania had called Fahim earlier in the week.
“You need to come over this weekend. It’s really important.”
“I can’t. I’m going to be in Saharanpur.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“I’m interviewing Altaf Masood for a TV special.”
“But why can’t you interview him in Delhi? And why the whole weekend?”
“He’s an MP now. We’re doing it in his constituency. It was his idea, actually. It’s an in-depth kind of thing. We’ll chat in his home environment, where he’s comfortable. I’ll get to see the kind of work he does there. He’s a hospitable guy.”
“This is really inconvenient, and I’m sure it’s on purpose. Okay, let me know as soon as you get back.”
Half an hour later she had called again.
“Fahim, listen, I’m a huge Altaf fan. Can I come to your interview thing? I really want to meet him.”
“Since when?”
“Since, like, the first time he batted, okay?”
“Right.”
“Fahim, I’m serious. I want to come and hang out with you guys. I think he’s amazing. Please, you can swing this.”
“I’m working, not hanging out. You can’t just show up. There are protocols and security arrangements. He’s not just some dude.”
“Look, tell him about me; he must know Papa. He’s not going to say no, and it’ll be so much fun. Please, just ask him and see what he says.”
“Ania, no.”
“You know I’m just going to harass you until you do it. So, speak to him and call me this afternoon?”
Fahim had seen it many times, this appetite for entertainment among her set. It emerged as a hot flare, an acute and insistent demand. And if it wasn’t immediately satisfied, it dissipated just as quickly and then rose elsewhere. They were young, rich, groomed, and bored. Their gazes alighted on anything that promised a little diversion, but the moment there was a dip in their enjoyment, their absorption vanished. They often did not mean to give offense; having so many admirers and devotees, they simply did not consider it a possibility. On they went, with their careless endearments and excited intrusions. But as much as he was flattered by Ania’s attention, this interview was too important. He would not do anything that might displease Altafbhai and ruin his plans.
Ania had called again late that night.
“Well, you’re completely useless. So I’ve arranged it myself.”
“What?”
“Altaf is expecting us on Saturday afternoon, so we’ll see you then.”
“‘We’?”
“Yes, me and my friend Dee. Dimple? You remember her. We’re so excited!”
“But what the actual fuck; you’re really just turning up there?”
“Please don’t swear. It shows a real lack of vocabulary. And no, we’re not just turning up. Altaf has invited us, and it’s going to be amazing, so relax. I’ll text you later.”
He had felt a surge of anger. It had taken him months of positioning and planning to gain this special access; he had barely slept in weeks. Even now he carried with him the feverish prospect that the interview would be called off. And a girl like Ania had been able to inveigle her way into Altafbhai’s home with one phone call. It would have been simple, a question only of identifying the most advantageous conduit, and Altaf would hardly refuse the chance to offer his hospitality to a Khurana. A flimsy yarn would have been spun: Ania’s interest in television production, her newfound enthusiasm for cricket or politics.
Anything could have happened. Altafbhai could have postponed or even canceled the interview, saying it was no longer convenient. Dileep Khurana’s daughter was coming over to play. In that moment, Fahim hated her, hated them all.
But over the past few days his rage had abated. Nothing adverse had happened. The interview schedule remained unchanged. And it seemed as though there was a curious providence at work. He hadn’t believed for a moment that Ania cared about meeting cricketers. It had seemed as though this was a sudden amusement, a jolly trip into the provincial hinterlands. But there was something more. He thought of the dark gloss of her hair and her fragile-looking limbs. There could be a real opportunity to become much closer. She had been so much more attentive of late; she had begun to act as if he was a real friend rather than one of the cast of extras in her life. A chink had opened up.
“All you need to do is work hard, put your heart in it, and anything is possible,” Fahim’s mother would always say, her head bent over a customer’s embroidery.
It was not true. Or only partially true.
Fahim had learned that diligence had to be applied not necessarily to a person’s work but to the people who enabled that work: the authorities and benefactors, the sovereigns and their gatekeepers. The first step was that most precious of grants: an introduction. Then followed a careful ballet, the choreography of further encounters, managed with constant vigilance and forethought.
The technique could be learned by anyone with a bit of intelligence and a huge appetite for success, even by a boy who had grown up in the shadows of a tire factory in Meerut. Some judicious flattery, hints of familiarity with their world while taking care not to be caught out in a lie, no sense of challenge, an impression of loyalty, a willingness to acquiesce, a ready laugh. Good looks helped as long as they were the kind that might be glimpsed on an office staircase or in a supermarket queue, not the kind that dazzled on a billboard.
When Fahim first started as a journalist a decade earlier, he had been avid and enthusiastic. He had been punctilious about counting the number of bullet holes in the wall of a military outpost in a remote Kashmir village. A police lathi had left welts on his legs as
he had entered the fray at a demonstration in Manesar. He had received death threats for refusing to reveal a source. He had still been in thrall to his mother’s advice then, and he did everything with a sense of great responsibility. He felt that he was in touch with a certain kind of honor. As soon as he’d left college, he developed a lightly sarcastic tone that did little to disguise his anger at being the token Muslim, a boutonniere pinned to a lapel to set its wearer off to best advantage.
And then it had slowly crept up on him, the eradication of purpose. The exhaustion had begun to take over, limb by limb. He discovered that his mother had been wrong. He saw capable and industrious colleagues lose their homes and wreck their marriages, and he also noticed the untalented networkers who suddenly began to achieve every kind of success.
Over time, he taught himself their ways. He talked about garden parties and private members’ clubs he hadn’t been to. It was simple these days: everywhere was photographed and reviewed, some Instagrammer was bound to have violated the sanctity of every secret domain. He learned the easy manner of the young men he sought out, the sudden bright guffaw, the devotion to their immaculate side partings, the cuffs allowing only a glimpse of a superior silver watch. He found the fraud came to him all too freely.
He googled assiduously and scrutinized connections on social media. He studied photos with care: jungle spas in Vietnam; a music festival in Spain; yacht decks in Sardinia, the water almost painfully blue. There were pictures of table centerpieces in Aspen—it was preposterous that someone would find the time and opportunity and inclination to take this photo, but they had. And at such a moment, his eyes would feel like cinders, as if at the end of some long, sleepless night.
Now, he spilled out opinion pieces and had his nose powdered under studio lights. It wasn’t so bad being the Muslim of choice, the liberals’ darling. But it was not enough; it was never enough. He was still exhausted, sleep still eluded him. His greatest fear was that his background and ruses would be discovered, that mediocrity had a smell that would break through. He had taken credit for the work of others and cast false aspersions on colleagues and rivals as his career had progressed. These had been dispensations he granted himself to balance out the handicaps in his life. There had been no school tie, no foreign degree, no early introduction over a whiskey at the club.
He had made the decision to work only for personal reward—the promotions and esteem that were due to him—rather than any nobler cause. He continued to pursue powerful people, even though the reasons for his attempts were sometimes foggy and inchoate. Having lost sight of what they would do for him, the pursuit had become an end in itself. But he wasn’t sure how long he could keep going. A tendon would snap, a capillary would burst: he was sure of it. Even a man with his patience and perseverance could stay wise for only so long. In a short while, during the course of some interminable party, he would hurl a glass across a crowded room.
CHAPTER SIX
DIMPLE LIT HER cigarette as they waited for the driver to return, enjoying the scandal she felt she was creating in the small town where they had stopped. Schoolgirls with ribbons looped around their braids stared at the film star smoke she blew into the air. She and Ania leaned against the back of the SUV, both dressed as though they were going on safari, all taupe and khaki with a hint of animal print. Across the road, a man adjusted the crotch of his trousers.
“Please don’t tell me you made a sex tape,” said Ania.
“Of course not!”
“Let’s see, you used protection, there’s no documentary evidence, it’s only his word against yours. Not great, but at least I can work with this.”
“Poor Ankit, I really don’t know what you have against him.”
“And how was it?”
“It was strange. I mean, it was fun and all that. But also comforting, as if we had done it before even though we hadn’t.”
“In other words, boring. What did I tell you?”
“It wasn’t boring.”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter what it was. We just have to make sure that he doesn’t get the wrong idea about you and become a total stalker.”
Market traders had begun to set up stalls behind them, emptying out sacks of cauliflowers and potatoes onto their patches. They indulged in a good-humored joshing and occasionally threw glances at the two women standing by the side of the road in their sunglasses. There was a fat sizzle and the smell of garlic hitting hot oil.
The man across the road was joined by a friend, and they both continued to stare.
“Let’s get back in the car,” said Ania.
Dimple took a long, final drag and stubbed out her cigarette, her theatricality unabated.
“I still can’t believe we’re going to Altaf Masood’s house,” she said, gathering up the magazines that were strewn all over the back seat as she climbed in.
“Okay, listen, I told Fahim I was a huge fan, so if he asks you, just say we’re both crazy about him.”
“But I actually am crazy about him. My God, you remember when he scored that double century against Sri Lanka at Headingley? I didn’t breathe for a week.”
“You’re such a loser. But actually it totally worked that you started hyperventilating as soon as I mentioned Fahim’s interview with Altaf. I just knew that I had to call him back. All your cricket knowledge is perfect for what we need. It’ll make you shine in front of Altaf and, more important, Fahim. I have such a good feeling about this.”
Dimple looked as though she was about to say something.
“What?” asked Ania, her tone sharper than she had intended.
“Nothing,” said Dimple.
The driver appeared with bottles of cold water, and in a minute the SUV sped off, showering pebbles and gravel onto the verge. One of the schoolgirls stepped away from her companions and continued to stare until the car disappeared from sight.
* * *
—
ANIA AND DIMPLE arrived just as the crew was wrapping up for the day. Altaf had disappeared a couple of hours ago, and there was a strangely festive atmosphere. Ania took in the house’s enormous façade, stippled with columns, porticoes, and balconies, all insisting on their artistry. An underling was dispatched to turn on the fountain as they approached the front entrance, but the water supply had unfortunately run out.
There were innumerable introductions, refreshments were offered, their bags were taken to their rooms. Fahim was at his most charming, and Ania knew she had made the right decision. She thanked him for all the trouble he had taken, urged Dimple to tell him all about the fistfight they had seen en route, and assessed the pair with a practiced eye. As they sipped their drinks, the late-afternoon sun freckled the verandah floor. Squirrels darted across the lawn. Overhead they could hear a tiny rustling in the trees.
A short while later, Altaf walked into the room and everyone stood up. He was more handsome than he appeared in the advertisements for the dozens of products he had once endorsed. It was true that the physique of a sportsman in his prime had made way for a different kind of build: there was a thickening around the waist, a softening around the belly. But if he represented any kind of decline, it was a magnificent one, a replacing of one kind of allure with something gentler, more accessible.
“New friends,” he said, smiling at the group. “This month has really been the month to make new friends.”
Fahim made the introductions as though this gathering had been a long cherished ambition.
“I’m so pleased to meet you finally,” said Ania. “You know, I’ve watched all your matches.”
“Welcome,” said Altaf, turning to smile first at Ania and then at Dimple. “No, no, it is my pleasure, thank you for coming. You have made me very happy.”
Dimple let out a soft, low sound like a wounded animal.
“Come, let us sit and talk. But not here. Out on the other side, near the rock gard
en. It is beautiful at this time. Unfortunately my family is away on holiday in California. They would have loved to meet you too. I have just come back from there, in fact. My wife only likes these places where no one plays cricket as it means I am left in peace.”
The group trailed after Altaf through the public parts of the house as he pointed out improvements he had made or mentioned his plans for his constituency. He carried a sense of spectacle around with him from room to room. His strides were long. He looked as if he might execute an elegant swing with an imaginary bat at any moment. On the verandah Dimple continued to be mesmerized, wiping her clammy palms against her seat, nodding at anything that was said. Ania too felt herself swept along by his charisma. He had a deep chuckle that delighted her. He used it often and indiscriminately, seeming, more than anything, to be laughing at his own good fortune, at all this abundance that he now wished to share.
“You are a writer?” he asked Ania.
“Yes, I’m working on my novel, but who knows,” she said with a modest shrug.
“I am sure it will be wonderful. I will read it. I will ask all my party workers to read it.”
“Oh, thank you so much, you’re too kind.”
Altaf turned to Dimple. “Fahim said you are a member of Miss Ania’s staff?”
“No, I am not her staff,” she said, casting a nervous look at Ania.
“Not at all,” said Ania. “Dee is a very dear friend. Did you really say that, Fahim? There must have been some misunderstanding.”
“Oh, yes,” said Altaf. “These misunderstandings are very common, especially in Western UP. So, Miss Dimple, you’re also a writer?”
