by Anil Menon
‘Flying straight home. Gwalior is down with a stomach upset.’ Pillai extended his hand. ‘It’s always great to see you, Anand. I don’t know why, but it is. Listen, I have an idea. You’ll be in Bangalore next month, right? We should be done with the configuration release by then. It’s the last milestone my people have to meet. You’ll have to party with us. I will give you a good time you’ll remember on your deathbed.’
Ratnakar was waiting with the information. Shabari had been assigned to the Hapur office. She was earning thirty percent less than she used to, but with provident fund and annual increment—Anand held up his hand. As long as the woman was working. He had fulfilled his promise to Kannagi.
The girl in plaits was approaching him. Very earnest, very determined. She wanted an autograph. He pointed her to Pillai, but no, she wanted his autograph. He complied. She smiled. 100 watts.
Could she be a crypto-lesbian? Impossible. Just impossible. Just look at her innocent face.
#
The Computer Science departmental meeting at DU, or departmental meetings as Kannagi liked to joke, were rigorous affairs run by rules that a white fellow named Robert had established in the days of Patiala pegs and pith helmets. Kannagi had introduced a small innovation in the form of a gavel to hurry things along, but it had been taken away from her because Professor Maya Nair’s seven-month-old foetus liked to stomp to Kannagi’s rat-a-tat-tats.
The motion to buy John Liu a farewell gift passed handily. Professor Yashpal moved that the gift not cost more than two thousand rupees and be something other than quote stupid branded stationery end quote. Professor Kuldip asked for a division, a vote was held, the motion denied, and Professor Yashpal’s motion was voted upon and carried. Professor Kuldip raised a point of order that the motion to buy a gift not costing more than two thousand rupees and be something other than quote stupid branded stationery end quote was not within the scope of the by-laws. Dharmaraj, the chair, ruled the point well taken.
‘I move to table this discussion,’ began Kannagi.
‘Move to lay on the table,’ corrected Dharmaraj with a warm smile.
Kannagi really missed her gavel.
In the recess, Maya Nair drifted over to Kannagi’s side. Yashpal had been making a beeline for Kannagi, but he stopped abruptly.
‘Hi Maya, how’s Chhota Bhim doing?’ said Kannagi, wishing Yashpal had got to her first.
Maya Nair said she’d been diagnosed with anaemia and stretched her left eyelid to prove it. It did look somewhat whitish. She was taking iron supplements. Kannagi remembered that germs thrived on iron. Perhaps the anaemia was a way of keeping the foetus healthy? As Kannagi googled for papers on the subject, Nair continued her litany. She was constipated. The students didn’t respect her. She was afraid of them. All the best students went to the IITs so they were stuck with the idiots. Money was tight. The departmental sexism was unbearable, blah blah.
Kannagi told her to double-check the anaemia diagnosis. The constipation was a clue the iron had triggered a population explosion in the gut flora which was clogging the pipes.
‘These students only want a degree,’ moaned Maya Nair. ‘Don’t you agree? They’re hopeless.’
‘No, they’re not. You sound like you hate teaching, and they pick up on that.’ Kannagi showed her friend the web page. ‘All the information on pregnancy and anaemia is right here.’
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Maya stiffly, and walked away.
‘What did I say?’ she asked Yashpal, puzzled.
‘Never mind her,’ said Yashpal. He said there was a rumour Kannagi was joining TIFR in Mumbai. Was it true?
‘Yes, there’s an opening in the School of Technology and Computer Science.’
‘I know there’s an opening. Are you applying is what I’m asking? What about the NYU offer?’ One thread at a time, he unscrewed the information out of her. ‘What about your boyfriend?’
Resistance was futile. She told him that Sawai had found a government job with the DCA and was in fact graduating from the training program this very afternoon. Details, Yashpal wanted details.
She’d come to understand it was only partly idle curiosity. Yashpal had nephews, nieces, and friends’ kids to watch out for. It was useful to know who was employed where.
‘Department of Cultural Affairs,’ mused Yashpal. ‘That’s not the government. That’s under the Lokshakti.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ But Yashpal’s knowledgeable expression left little room for doubt. ‘The Lokshakti? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes. He’s lucky. Normally you can get into the Lokshakti only through Civil Service exams or military service. He must have had contacts. But can he get a transfer to Mumbai?’
‘I don’t know.’ She couldn’t wrap her head around the fact Sawai hadn’t been upfront.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Yashpal, leaning forward. ‘I won’t tell anyone about TIFR. I always knew we wouldn’t have you for long.’
‘I haven’t decided anything, Yashpal. When I do, I’ll be upfront about it. You know me. WYSIWYG. Listen, I want you to be honest. Do I come across as heartless?’
‘Not to me.’ Yashpal hesitated. ‘I hope you aren’t worrying about Maya Nair?’
‘Yeah, I am. And others.’
‘You could be a bit more empathic.’ Yashpal’s thumb and forefinger indicated the desired amount. ‘Put yourself in other people’s shoes. See their point of view.’
‘But why?’
Yashpal laughed.
Dharmaraj wasn’t happy at her leaving the meeting half-way and let her know he was granting her request only because he’d never known her to lie or worm out of obligations. Nevertheless, blah blah.
Kannagi took the metro and during the ride called Anand, chatted a bit. ‘Come attend one of my fab-jab meetings, she urged. My clowns have some ideas that could use a little financing.’ She wanted him to meet Kalai. He didn’t promise a visit but he promised to try. Good enough. Anand’s word was gold.
She got off at Saket station and then took an auto to the DLF mall. She asked around for Swantantra Building. Everyone had heard of it but no one seemed to know exactly where it was. In the end, it was the steady stream of people that gave the building away. Mostly women, many with children, an assortment of elders, all in their best clothes and the same solemn air. Kannagi approached a heavyset woman, mentioned she was looking for the Swantantra building, and was promptly adopted.
‘Come with me. I’m going there too. My brother’s getting his commission today. What about you?’
Swantantra Building was a complex of low-lying buildings and taken as a single unit, bounded by its tall wall; it had the look of a retreat. Some attention had been paid to landscaping; there were lots of workers in khaki watering, planting, weeding and struggling with antiquated lawn mowers. At the other end of the compound, partially blocked by the complex itself, was a rectangular area where young men and women, presumably cadets, could be seen practising martial arts.
The guard at the gate said she wasn’t on the list of invited guests.
‘My husband must have forgotten to notify,’ said Kannagi, in English. She didn’t smile. ‘Shall I call him?’
‘Madam is a professor at Delhi University!’ said her new-found friend, strategically indignant. ‘If formalities are a problem, she is my guest. The invitation said 1 plus 1 was allowed.’
The guard looked trapped. He had been trained to handle one female bully; two was just unfair. He glanced at his superior, but the gentleman was busy on the phone. The guard hesitated. He reexamined the DU identity card.
‘Arre bhaiya, my husband is becoming an officer today.’ Kannagi shifted back to Hindi. ‘If it is this much of a problem, you can explain to him he should have arranged an invitation card. Maybe he will understand.’
‘No Madam, 1 plus 1 is allowed.’ The guard gave in. ‘Please sign the book. Name, number and address.’
The security scan wasn’t a formality. The female guard did a thoroug
h job of patting her down, was equally thorough with the handbag, and confiscated her soft drink after mentioning that food and drinks would be served inside.
‘All these terrorists, what to do,’ said Kannagi’s friend, as if an apology was owed. ‘Where is your husband posted?’ ‘Satara I think. Where is your husband posted?’ asked Kannagi, then realized from the woman’s titter she had erred. ‘Sorry, your brother.’
‘Dehra Dun, thank God. We have many relatives there. Satara’s okay. If your mister was posted to Orissa or Srinagar, then something would need to be done. Are you NRI?’
The induction ceremony was a cross between a college graduation and a baptism. One hundred and fifty officers were to be inducted. They were all in white T-shirts. The officers’ names were announced, they went up to the podium, got their handshake, and were then directed to an enclosure. This took forty minutes. Then the officers reappeared, decked out in their gorgeous new uniforms. A great roar. Cameras flashed. The officers were sworn in.
‘How smart they look,’ whispered her lady friend. ‘General Dorabjee himself designed these uniforms. But I like the black Nehru suit better, the type the Director is wearing. More business-like.’
But Kannagi’s eyes were fixed on Sawai. He looked cheerful, attentive. He positively glowed with cheer and attentiveness. The Director told a story about how a lion fell in love with a beautiful maiden and petitioned her father. The father said if the lion truly loved his daughter he’d understand how fangs could be a turn-off. Perhaps if the lion got rid of his horrible fangs? The lion did so and returned to the girl’s father. The father said they were making progress but surely the lion could see that his razor-sharp claws could injure what he loved. Perhaps if he got rid of his horrible claws? Blah, blah.
She had to expend some brain cycles to figure it out. The lion was the Indian Mind. The father was Western Education. The daughter was Getting Ahead In Life. The funda was that modern education, yaani western education, made Indians ashamed of who they were. Sheesh. Why couldn’t he just come out and say it?
After the Director had concluded his sinister fable, Sawai applauded with the same enthusiasm she’d seen him exhibit for Durga’s inspirationals. Even when forced to follow, he had a way of leading the applause. It set him apart from the other officers and Kannagi observed how their behaviour was entrained to his.
The Director congratulated the very first batch of Lokshakti’s newly commissioned Sanskriti Corps, and the cheers and the braided caps had returned to the officers’ heads, a small crowd of officers gathered to backslap, hug, shake hands with Shailendra Gawai, Liaison Officer, Grade 2. She went up to the new recruit.
‘How do I look, Kanno?’ he asked. The grin couldn’t be any wider.
‘Totally cool. Fascists have the best uniforms.’
‘They do, they do,’ sighed Sawai. He put his arm around her. ‘I didn’t think you would come. What changed your mind? I was afraid you would come. I’m afraid of you.’ He laughed. ‘Do we fight now or do we fight later?’
‘Are you going to introduce me to your new friends?’
‘Of course! Oye–’ He turned, and she quickly found herself surrounded by a number of cheerful, attentive faces. They all had personality, a term her father had used to describe men he’d found attractive. For one thing, these men were relaxed. Women didn’t frighten them. Perhaps the uniform had something to do with it.
‘Rahman, I want you to meet my friend,’ said Sawai, clasping a gent affectionately by the nape. ‘Kannagi.’
Friend? She shook Rahman’s hand. Then she shook the hands of his other friends. Mixed crowd. Mostly Hindus but not entirely. Muslims. Christians. Don’t forget the Buddhists. Mathematically, it was a diverse crowd. Oh look, some women too. Big tent. Awesome.
There were people with degrees in anthropology, philosophy, social work, comparative religions. There were regional writers, film makers, editors, translators. Lots of translators. The Lokshakti was making a major investment in regional languages.
She’d expected a Hindutva-type outfit. She had expected saffron and kurtas. She had expected lighting-of-the-pooja and vote of thanks and token of our appreciation. This was far smarter. The Lokshakti had weaponized the Humanities.
‘Let’s go home,’ she told Sawai, and cursed herself because her voice wobbled. ‘Let’s leave before it’s too late.’
Sawai frowned. ‘Kanno, I can’t. There’s a briefing with the
Director. He wants to speak with me, one on one.’
‘Great. The word on the street seems to be Dehra Dun is the ideal posting. That’s not too far from Delhi.’
‘Dehra Dun is for lazy people. And you know about Aayi’s health. We’ll discuss, don’t worry.’ He gestured at the world around him.
‘Have you changed your mind? Yes or no?’ Sawai was happy, she could tell. He was happy to be somebody again. He was happy to have something important to do. He was happy to have a direction. He was happy being happy. She had no desire to take that away from him. ‘Sawai Gawai, my man with the plan.’ Kannagi reached up, touched his face. ‘I’m happy that you seem happy. But about changing my mind, I’ll think about it. I have to think about how much I care about us.’
‘See it from my angle,’ urged Sawai, a strange look on his face, ‘then you’ll see this was the right thing.’
Kannagi walked back to the metro. She needed to walk. She needed to be lost in a crowd of people who expected nothing from her. All through the walk and the train ride, she thought of Sawai’s plea. Yes, she could try to see it from his perspective, from his ‘angle’. But what would that tell her except that he felt justified in his decisions. Naturally. He was a sane guy. He didn’t go around doing things he felt were unjustified. What mattered for her was what she felt and thought about things. And she didn’t feel that great. In fact, she felt terrible.
‘Are you feeling all right, beti?’ asked the woman sitting next to her in the compartment. She was old and shrivelled. The multitude of mirrors embedded in her colourful blouse indicated she was a banjaran from up north, perhaps Rajasthan.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Kannagi, smiling. ‘Thank you, sister.’
17
SHE LOOKED GOOD, THAT WAS A FACT. AMONG THE MORE disappointing aspects of the army had been its ill-fitting uniforms. They were nothing like the tailored olive-and-black outfits in the movies and the army had strange ideas on how women were put together. Bilkis had almost resigned herself to the fact she would have to die first. As Vyas had commented, there was no starch as strong as death. Correct. Cent percent correct. All dead soldiers looked really spiffy.
What was all this nonsense about death? The sun was out, the morning was crisp and cool, the weather channel promised a mild winter’s day, birds were chirping, life was sweet, et cetera. And here she was, queen of lightning, unable to stop herself from twirling in front of the 360-degree mirror, a kaleidoscope of height, black, gold and the word ‘SECURITY’. Bilkis liked the soft cotton-polyester feel of the black uniform but not the word ‘Security’ sprayed in gold across her back. It suggested a lack of confidence in her ability to do what the word advertised. The Lokshakti logo on her cap and shoulder badges should have been enough.
She placed her hands on her butt and was startled by the six pairs of mirror hands that mimicked her grasp. Her butt felt smooth and round—it had always felt smooth and round but to also see its smoothness and roundness was somewhat titillating. She hadn’t realized tight pants could be so liberating.
Bilkis headed for the AC unit across the room. She needed to stop sweating and fast before the uniform lost its razor-sharp creases. Her own bloody fault. She had overheated in the shower. It had been impossible to resist playing with the hot and cold settings—six outlets! such jets!—of the shower from Switzerland, or perhaps it was Scotland. She remembered the buffaloes she used to see near Chandni Chowk as a kid, just behind Saint Anthony’s church, clumsy, bulky creatures, jostling, grunting, savouring the first monsoon rain
s, just standing there, rain pouring off their black hides, the silliest of grins on their ugly faces.
She grinned. It wasn’t just the shower, it was everything. She more or less had a 2BHK apartment at her disposal: a large bedroom, a small living room, giant closet, attached bath and excellent gourmet-chef cooked meals from Saya’s kitchen. She had never slept so well in her life, never showered so well in her life, and never eaten so well in her life. If she began to feel trapped in her hovel, there was a separate entrance with a small flight of stairs leading upwards to a vast green yard, partitioned into graceful kidney-bean shaped spaces by cunningly arranged brick pathways and short cinder-block walls. Saya was a crazy bitch, but she took very good care of her staff’s comforts, one had to give credit for that certainly. From Chandni Chowk to a film star’s guest quarters. Bilkis, you have won the lottery.
It made her nervous. Something was bound to go wrong; perhaps terribly. Something always went wrong precisely when everything was ha-ha hee-hee. Good luck required a small black spot, some known imperfection, some non-trivial but manageable drawback. Otherwise good luck couldn’t be enjoyed with relief.
Of course, there were drawbacks. Oh, there were many drawbacks. For one thing, she had to make do with an incompetent crew. Four idiots, hatta-katta Punjabis, ex-army types, and unused to taking orders from a woman. A decade of easy pussy, free beer and clueless star bosses had made them little more than hairy status symbols. They were all armed with fancy semi-automatic Glocks but had barely managed to qualify when she’d given them a simple 3-yard test with 20 rounds. They were all gym-strong but had no real core endurance. They took twelve minutes to run six laps around the Colaba gymkhana track, gasping, wheezing, and clutching their kidneys. She had requested permission to hire her own team, but Vyas had explained the men were Saya’s hires, so she’d have to check with the actress. Yaani, she was stuck with them. Saya never let go of her staff.
The mansion’s hierarchy of servitude was another drawback. She liked hierarchies, that wasn’t the problem. Hierarchies were natural and simplifying. There was no people problem that couldn’t be solved by arranging people in a triangle. But the mansion’s hierarchy was a viper’s nest of obligations, gossip, old grudges, and alliances. The maidservants were at the bottom, and Bindu reigned at the top. Of course, the mansion’s deity was outside the heap. Bilkis knew she herself was neither in nor out. As Saya’s bodyguard, she had access, which meant she had to be treated with respect. But everyone knew she was only a temporary add-on, not really part of the social quilt.
