by Arnab Ray
‘Can I get you something to eat? Maybe another cup of tea?’
He reached out and held a bangled arm. For a moment, Arjun felt whole again.
‘You are not well, are you?’
‘If the question is “am I dying?”, the answer is no. I am not Meena Kumari, and this story isn’t written by Guru Dutt.’
‘I can find out, so please don’t lie.’
She did not reply, and Arjun gently let go of her arm.
He stood up, feeling as if he had suddenly aged twenty years. There were so many things he wanted to say to her that he knew that if he started, he would never leave.
‘I ought to get going. I think it’s just drizzling outside, and if I don’t get going now, I will get caught if it gets worse.’
‘I have an umbrella. I can take you to the taxi stand.’
‘Like Raj Kapoor and Nargis?’ he asked, raising his hand and hunching forward in the manner of Raj Kapoor, and she laughed, with a slight sniffle.
‘No, I will manage,’ he said. ‘I saw where the stand is.’
She followed him to the door.
‘Oh wait.’ He suddenly remembered. ‘My shirt. I should change…’
‘No, it’s still very wet. Wear that. It’s yours.’
‘I don’t think Arijit will like me wearing his shirt.’
‘It is yours. It had somehow stayed with me and good thing I never threw it away.’
‘And now I am leaving behind another…for the next rainy day.’
They were outside near the gate now, the drizzle had reduced to a few random cold drops, and for a moment, all Arjun wanted to do was to hold Nayantara in an embrace, but he knew he could not, not ever again. Instead he said, ‘That song you were singing just before I came in was beautiful. I don’t think I have ever heard you sing that before.’
‘Milon hobe koto deene, amar moner manushero sone?’
‘What does it mean?’
‘How many days do I wait for the person I love?’
‘An eternity I guess.’ He smiled sadly.
Nayantara nodded. ‘And yet we must not stop loving for he is already there. In our hearts.’
‘I think you should go in now,’ he said, gently placing his hand on Nayantara’s shoulder. ‘We don’t want to make that cough any worse.’
She stopped but made no move to go back. He wanted to say so much, a hundred and then a thousand words fought their way from his heart right to the tip of his tongue, and in the end, the ones that won were just these.
‘I am sorry. I am so sorry for everything.’
Nayantara said something but Arjun never heard it. He had started walking away.
12
Nayak nahin…khalnayak hoon main.
The remixed version of the song from Khalnayak reverberated from the party downstairs, thumping the walls and bleeding into the room.
‘That song, uff that song.’ Mohan squinted, sniffed in the white powder, and murmured, ‘I wish I could take a grenade launcher, and blast their faces off, like Tony Montana.’
They were in one of the second floor rooms of Rishi Karnik’s sprawling Mehrauli farmhouse and the party was on in full swing. It was by invitation only and a ring of bodyguards stood outside the gates with guns to keep out the riff-raff so that cricketers, baba log, bureaucrats, models and wannabe starlets could rub shoulders and other body parts away from prying eyes.
‘Who’s Tony Montana?’ asked Rishi Karnik.
‘Only a choot of a particular aukaat would ever ask that question,’ Mohan grunted back.
Rishi Karnik shrugged.
‘Tony Montana is the baap of all your Bachchans and Dutts. But as I said, it’s beyond your aukaat. Because all Indians can do is lift scenes straight off Scarface.’ Mohan was normally quiet, but Hindi film music and cocaine combined was one of the few things that made him lose his composure.
Sudheer was sprawled out on the large black sofa, his legs skewed at an angle, head thrown back, shirt buttons open to the summit of his large hairy belly. ‘Madarchod, yahaan humaara gaand chodi ja rahi hai, and all my little brother can give a fuck about is the music downstairs and some firang flick.’
It had happened very fast. All the newspapers in Delhi had received, right in time to make the Monday papers, identical brown packages. In each of them were tapes, transcripts and photocopied documents. On the tapes were conversations, one a call from Arjun to the energy secretary asking why certain regulations still had not been written the way Arjun had asked for, another from Manoj Karnik to Arjun with choice expletives directed at the Mehtas, and another from Manoj Karnik to the energy secretary asking for the transfer of a stubborn bureaucrat in the environmental clearance office. Apart from this, there were numerous conversations among Vantor officials about money transfers to political parties and incriminating internal memos of Vantor, referencing the calls. In all, there was enough material in the packages to blow the government sky-high. None of the papers had carried it all – the editors knew better than to get on the wrong side of Arjun Bhatia – but still enough had leaked out to be of embarrassment to the principals involved. Even then it would have been fine, had not the same set of tapes and documents been sent to the offices of some anti-Vantor lawmakers on Capitol Hill. The lawmakers raised questions about the business practices of Vantor in foreign markets, specifically whether they were violating US law on kickbacks. Within twelve days, Vantor held a press conference where they announced that market conditions were not aligned with investing in India and that they would be looking at other emerging markets like Brazil.
‘Someone has gotten into the phone system,’ Vinod Khandelwal had said in the emergency meeting at Arjun’s house. ‘We have no idea how they did it. The level of sophistication suggests a foreign government, maybe Russians, maybe the Chinese, but I don’t see what angle they could have in targeting us.’ Vinod Khandelwal was in charge of Arjun’s energy and pharma operations and was considered the smartest guy among Arjun’s inner circle, a slightly stooped man, whose English accent had given him the nickname ‘Amreekan’. Arjun had said nothing, just sat quietly glum, and Sudheer and Mohan had both been surprised by how powerless he had looked, as voices were raised and accusations exchanged at the meeting. After the outsiders had left, Arjun had made a few calls to smoothen some tempers in the ministry, and his tone and demeanour, the last few weeks, had been of a man on the defensive. His sons had never quite seen him like this.
Rishi slapped Sudheer on the back chummily. ‘We are not getting fucked in the ass. We got him, man. Now we do the buttfucking.’
On the glass table in front of them, near the lines of white powder and glasses of Jack Daniels, were two photos and a few sheets of paper.
‘He looks like a homo,’ said Sudheer, picking up one of the photos, ‘Chikna chora hai. I think he might enjoy the butt-fucking.’
Mohan looked cagey. ‘You sure that’s him?’
Rishi nodded. ‘As sure as I know you are your papa’s son.’
Rishi had got hold of the memos that had been sent to the newspapers. They had a Delhi postmark. The memos had then been sent to a lab in Japan for analysis. Only one brand of photocopiers made those kinds of grabber marks and used that kind of toner. Rishi’s men had worked with the police to scope out Xerox shops in and around Delhi, concentrating their line of questioning on the few that had that brand of photocopiers. It took them five days to locate the shop. The man who had come to make the photocopies was identified easily enough by the shop owner, he had even gone to his house to deliver some of the copies. Within a day, Rishi had his picture.
‘How did he do all this?’ asked Mohan. ‘Do your men know that? How did he manage to listen to and record all our calls?’
‘From what I know, he is a shadow, this chap. Attends union meetings but isn’t a part of any. Does some work in the slums around the Yamuna, gaand-maaro-ing builders and other kinds of commie mischief. He maintains that address in Noida, stays alone, doesn’t seem to have family he
re.’
‘Wohi toh uski gaand se nikaalenge. How did he get into the phone lines? Who is he working for? What’s his game?’ said Sudheer, opening and closing his eyes rapidly.
Rishi opened the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured himself a peg, the liquid gurgling over the ice. ‘That’s what I want to know too. Chikna chora here definitely isn’t acting alone. There is someone with his cock inside him, and I suspect it’s Kulkarnis. This has his cumstains all over it.’ He took a photo from the table, and tapped its edge. ‘We need to make this guy sing, sing like Lata Mangeshkar.’
‘Maybe we should ask papa about this, maybe we just let him know,’ Mohan said, putting his finger on his nose and inhaling.
There was silence for a moment, with only the sound of music filtering through and nothing else.
It was broken by a blur of motion – Sudheer took his glass and flung it. It flew through the air, a good foot away from Mohan’s head, and exploded on the wall, leaving in its wake a stain of whisky and broken glass all over the floor. ‘Madarchod, how many times do I have to tell you? We do this ourselves. You hear? No running to papa, with our tails between our legs.’
Mohan looked strangely collected, in spite of the glass that had just zipped by his head and his brother’s violent outburst. He just adjusted his jacket and leaned back on to the couch.
Sudheer was still bellowing at the top of his voice. ‘This is exactly why papa does not take us seriously. He treats us like little boys whose balls haven’t fallen. Well, I say, we show papa we are made men now. We go and we do what needs to be done and we do it ourselves. Yeah. Ourselves, behenchod.’
‘When papa wants us to show a bit more initiative, I am not sure he wants us to deal with things as big as this.’
‘Jaa apna lund hilaa jaake madarchod. I am going to do this, with or without you.’
‘It’s one thing to be high here and talk big, another thing to actually go and do it.’
Rishi sauntered up and held Mohan in a mock chokehold. ‘Oh relax, you two choots are going to have a bad trip tonight the way you are fighting. And oh, by the way, I think that fat fuck of your brother is right for once.’
‘Yeah?’ asked Mohan, his voice still devoid of all emotion. ‘Says who? The bookie son-of-a-bitch.’
‘Hold on, madarchod. I just saved your family’s gaand. Remember who found this man out, don’t you forget that, baawade. What’s the matter, Mohan boy? I thought you were the brains of the family. ’Cause right now it seems to me that your brother has the big stomach as well as the big brains. Chikna chora is a danger, a danger to me and my papa, true, but a bigger danger to you. If he can get into…’
‘I am not saying he is not a danger. As a matter of fact, I am saying he is such a big danger we should tell papa.’ Mohan looked at his brother and then at Rishi, hoping one of them would see reason. ‘We don’t know who is holding his pyjama strings, and the last thing I want to see happen is – we rush in, the cord drops, and there staring at us in the face is a big flopping cock we can’t handle.’
Sudheer was about to say something and Rishi gestured for him to stop.
‘Mohan, my dad, he is a mean madarchod. I am telling you. A mean, mean madarchod. He has killed people and he has watched people bleed out like pigs. And though he won’t say it aloud, even he is afraid of Arjun uncle.’
‘Yeah, he should be,’ Mohan said. ‘My papa keeps a line of your papas as randis. That’s why.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Rishi continued, ‘the real reason is because my papa knows a few of your papa’s old friends. Arjun uncle has killed more people than tum dono ne randi chodi hai, and I know that’s a high number.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Mohan said, smoothing back his hair.
‘And these people your father killed and tortured were madarchods too, not chikna choras like this fag with John Lennon glasses. The city fears your father, and it’s not just because he gets things done. It’s because he knows what to do when things don’t get done.’
‘And your point is?’ Mohan asked.
‘Your father did not ask anyone’s permission before doing what he did. He did not run screaming to his father. That’s why he is a legend and you two will end up as baba log. That is if you keep up with this whole permission thing. Your father won’t tell you “beta, go and do this”. No. He expects you to handle shit. On your own.’ Rishi got up and perched himself on the arm of Mohan’s couch.
‘Let me tell you a little story about your father.’
‘Spare me,’ said Mohan.
Rishi ignored him, papa told me this when he was drunk, so I am pretty sure it’s true. Everything he says sober is a lie of course. Anyways, back in the ’60s, when he was still running guns, Arjun uncle put his best friend and business partner into the ground. Took him to a wheat field, and, boom, shot him in his head. Didn’t even bat an eyelid. What do you think he would do if he was in your place today?’
‘I have heard that,’ Mohan muttered. ‘Everyone has fucking heard that.’
‘Leave it, Rishi.’ Sudheer seemed to find his voice again. ‘If little brother is wetting his diapers at the thought of a little blood, you and I will do it. We get a crew, and we make keema out of him.’
The track had changed to Dr Alban’s ‘It’s My Life’ and Mohan looked into his empty glass morosely. ‘If we are going to do this, why do it ourselves? I am sure Rishi has men who are better at getting information out of people than we are. That encounter guy from Punjab…what’s his name?’
Sudheer bellowed, ‘I am sure Rishi also has men with bigger cocks than you have. So are you going to let them screw your wife? I should have hit you with that glass, I really should have.’ He tried to get up, tottered, and slumped back on to the couch. ‘Didn’t you just hear what Rishi said?’
‘I did.’
‘So? Did papa send someone else to clean his shit up? No. He did it himself. ’Cause it’s personal. Revenge is personal. Like a fuck. If you are a man, you stand up, you look the bitch in the eye, and you pull the trigger, and you don’t stop going in and out till the eyes close and the bitch feels it, feels it enough to know she shouldn’t have messed with you.’
‘So you are going to shoot him? I mean that dialogue you gave is all chawanni-phenk, but can you do it? Pull the trigger on chikna chora’s face? ’Cause face it, you are no papa.’
‘And you are?’
‘I never said I am. That’s why I said, let the professionals do it.’
Rishi slapped Mohan’s shoulder. ‘Look, there are going to be no bullets. Sure, we will have guns, but that’s just to get the guy to talk. We will slap him around a bit, I mean look at him, he is going to be crawling on his knees in no time, and if he tries to be Amitabh Bachchan or something, we put him in our jeep, drive out somewhere lonely, and there I have my men work on him. He is going to sing sooner or later. And I agree with Sudheer, we do this whole thing ourselves. No need to tell Arjun uncle or involve his men. Come on, it will be fun.’
Sudheer roared and punched his fists in the air. ‘Yeah, guns. I am going to carry my Beretta.’ He made shooting sounds and growled, mock Clint Eastwood, ‘Do I feel lucky? Punk? Fuck it, I need another whisky.’
Mohan murmured, ‘It’s “do you feel lucky?”’, and stood up, adjusting his jacket. ‘Since I suppose this has all been planned and settled and nothing I say is going to matter, I think I should go downstairs and ask the DJ to change the track.’
Rishi looked at his watch, ‘And finally little boy Mohan’s cock has come to the party.’ He grinned conspiratorially at Sudheer. ‘I was wondering what was up with Mr Milk Moustache here, sitting and sulking like a girl on her monthlies when there is wet, needy, paid-for pussy downstairs.’
‘Aren’t you coming down, Rishi?’ asked Mohan. ‘I mean this is your party.’
‘I will join you in a bit,’ he said, pointing towards the door. ‘Pick someone up for me, please. You know the kind I like.’
‘Yeah, hijr
as. Cock for when he is sober, hole for when he is wasted,’ Sudheer wheezed, bloodshot eyes half-closed. ‘And I need more whisky. Madarchod, how many times do I have to ask? The bottle’s done here.’
Mohan walked down the stairs briskly. Rishi got up, closed the door, and then sat down on the single-seater where Mohan had been sitting, right opposite Sudheer.
‘There’s something I wanted to tell you. Just you alone. I would normally not have any problems saying things in front of Mohan, but you are my friend, and he is, well, just my friend’s kid brother. And he lacks courage, so he needs a little garmi to rile him up. Which I just gave him a nice blast of. But with you…with you I can be honest.’
‘Tell me, but you have got to promise me to send someone here with another bottle.’
‘I will. But first I want you to listen to me carefully. You are not going to like what I have to say.’
‘I don’t care. Just get me another bottle.’
‘Things are looking bad for Arjun uncle after what happened with Vantor,’ Rishi said slowly. ‘I mean people are talking, you know how they talk. They are wondering whether he can push such big deals any more, whether age has made him lose that edge, you know how batsmen lose their timing and hand–eye coordination. Like that. And well, don’t get angry, they are also saying that you two aren’t really up to take over from the old man. They are saying Arjun uncle is not as strong as he was because he has to take care of you two.’
‘Don’t you think I already know that? They think of me as a fat retard and my brother as the thin shadow. Why am I saying “they”? Even my papa thinks that.’
‘That’s why this is important. You have got to take control. We have got to take control. You and me, we can do this. Mohan is a nice kid, but woh bahuteasy patloon geela kar deta hai yaar, and still thinks he can get by, clutching his father’s coat-tails. You and I…’
‘I know what you are trying to say. We have to take control. Since papa won’t give me control…’
