Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  ‘We have to invest in our people,’ said the General, sounding angry. ‘Get the goddamn begging bowl out of their hands.’

  ‘Wasn’t the performance terrific?’ he asked her, and the sudden shift to Hindi felt like a slap. He again called his Director of Cultural Affairs. She remembered the fellow, the one who had asked all the questions, the one who was chasing that stupid movie.

  ‘Vyas, have you read The Giving Tree?’

  He had.

  ‘How did it strike you?’

  ‘Pretty much identical to Raja Harishchandra, sir.’

  ‘I was moved, terribly moved. It’s the leader’s story, isn’t it? You give and give, but the people only ask for more. More, more, more. Are you a student of Charles de Gaulle, Vyas?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘A man born for the laurel. Charles de Gaulle said that a principled politician had a single choice, either to betray his country or to betray the electorate.’

  ‘And your choice?’

  ‘Betray the electorate! As did de Gaulle.’ The car shook with Dorabjee’s mirth. ‘Just joking of course. But the public’s an ass. We cannot let an ass get in the way of what’s good for the country. Damn it Vyas, you should include more anecdotes. I think the scribble’s too serious.’

  ‘The scribble?’

  ‘My book. It’s too heavy. I’m a military man, not a bloody gasbag. I want anecdotes—no, not anecdotes. Parables. A General’s Arabian Nights. See how long that book has lasted.’

  ‘Fables, perhaps? The General’s Fables.’

  ‘Yes, fables. That could work. Parables are for saints and such anyway.’

  ‘We have to find the right set of animals.’

  ‘What do you mean, lad?’

  ‘Well, there’s the ass you just referenced. Stupid, obstinate, usually comes to a miserable end. For example, Buridan’s ass caught between two equally tempting bales of hay and unable to make up its mind, died of starvation. Only Buridan never actually mentioned as ass anywhere in his writing. Which means the ass is a stand-in, a cipher, so to speak. Any other animal would have done; it could have been Buridan’s pig for example or Buridan’s hummingbird. The hummingbird does hover, so it would have captured the sense of hovering between two choices better than Buridan’s dumb ass. But I suppose we don’t care what happens to an ass whereas we do care about what happens to hummingbirds. If there were an actual donkey starving, we’d hurry in and remove one of the bales of hay. But the donkey is there only as a placeholder, a necessary absence, a zero, which is what cipher means. Cipher from sifr, the Arabic equivalent of the Hindu shunya.

  ‘There’s also another way sir, in which an animal can be used in a fable. For example, the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. It has to be a wolf. It can’t be a lion or tiger or some other ferocious animal. A wolf has the face of a pervert. Maybe it’s the hair. Or the long face with sharp teeth. Such necessary animals are not ciphers. They are indices. They index, that is, point to a moral. But in Latin, the word index has another meaning. An index is someone who informs on another. The indices in our fables, eventually they will tell on us, their masters. Buridan’s ass is a cipher. It’s safer for Buridan that way. But the wolf, he informs on us. We think he’s there to do our bidding, and he is, but in doing so, he reveals our true natures. Namely, that we are the wolves.’

  ‘Good god man, what the devil are you gassing about?’

  ‘Working on your book, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s my book so kindly keep your paws to yourself. And for the record dear boy, if you can’t control that cleverness of yours, I’ll control it for you.’ Dorabjee terminated the call, turned to Saya, nudged her with his forearm. ‘Our final stop for the day, my dear.’

  It didn’t take long to guess what Dorabjee had in mind. As the limo left NH B and took a right onto Jharsa road, the guess became a certainty. They were headed for the Trocadéro Residency.

  Now she could admit it. She had been tense. There had been nothing to be tense about—she was a famous movie star and Dorabjee was besotted with her. She wasn’t the actress Irma Mendel, the General wasn’t Interrogator Klegel of the dreaded Comintern, they hadn’t just attended a show at the Bolshoi and he wasn’t driving her to the Lubyanka instead of home. But she had been tense anyway. Curse Mir and his grim anecdotes.

  She played her feminine role in the theatre of paternalism, which was to be nubile and virginal, commanding when she could command, pouty when she couldn’t, breathless with pretended anticipation, until the limo finally pulled up in the parking lot of the Trocadéro Residency. The advance contingent of elite Ghatak commandos— mere Black Cats weren’t enough for the gentleman’s ego—and led by that Irani, Darius, had already pulled up a few minutes earlier. So had Bilkis. ‘Surprised, cuddly cakes?’ Dorabjee’s fat penis-like cigar was an exclamation mark for his white toothy grin.

  No, not really. Perhaps I’m a bit surprised that you don’t see the irony in wrecking my apartment, fixing it up, giving me what is mine as a gift and then expecting gratitude at the end of it all. She made suitably surprised sounds.

  ‘Location’s secured, sir,’ said Darius, after conferring briefly with one of his men.

  ‘About time,’ said Dorabjee. ‘Bloody mobs come out of nowhere when they see her.’

  Crowds made Dorabjee twitchy. He’d never liked the masses but he hadn’t been afraid of them. At least, she didn’t remember him getting so twitchy and wild-eyed every time a fence of people developed around them. His anxiety was contagious, and she hastened after him to the elevator, feeling particularly exposed in her mini-skirt.

  ‘You bloody well stay here,’ said Dorabjee to Bilkis.

  ‘I want her with me,’ said Saya.

  ‘Madam, we have enough men upstairs,’ said Darius.

  ‘I want her with me,’ insisted Saya.

  ‘Oh very well.’ Dorabjee gave in with ill grace.

  In the elevator, when she pushed him away, pointing to imagined security cameras, Dorabjee laughed. In the elevator’s confined rectangular space, the laugh sounded strangely synthetic. She tried to think of a movie where an elevator ride was just an elevator ride, but couldn’t. Something always happened in elevators in the movies. It was a space fraught with significance.

  Darius accompanied them to the twelfth floor. Three guards were stationed in the short corridor leading from the elevator. Dorabjee raised his hand to acknowledge their salute. He told Bilkis and Darius to wait outside with them. This time, there was no over riding his wishes. Bilkis gave in with ill grace.

  Above the tenth floor, the apartments got much bigger and the Trocadéro Residency only had two apartments to a floor. The apartment at the other end of the corridor was locked.

  ‘You won’t be bothered with neighbours,’ said Dorabjee, as they went in.

  ‘Have they moved?’

  ‘Yes. We can always use extra room for visitors and so forth. Of course it’s not like you’re going to live here.’ He handed her the key, stepped aside. ‘Maharani-ji, after you.’

  It was almost three years since she’d last seen the place. The walls had been freshly painted, the tiles had been completely replaced, even the knobs and handles on the cabinets looked new. The curtain shades seemed to be the only things that had been retained. Otherwise the rooms were bare. The furniture had probably been sent back. Good. She remembered her dislike of the original decor. It had been too cold, too western. It had all been on rent from a high-end design outfit. Bindu would probably know the details. It occurred to her that she’d spent a lot of money to keep a man she didn’t particularly like in velvet. Well, it wasn’t the first time.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Dorabjee, gazing at her closely. ‘I had practically a whole brigade working around the clock to get this shipshape.’

  ‘Oh, I love it.’

  They had changed the room’s furniture but what would they do about the room’s history? The sunlit rooms, the cool crisp air-conditioned air, the artfully arranged flowe
rs—everything seemed saturated with complicity. Stand here long enough and it would seep into her clothes as well. Saya wondered how long she would have to wait before she could sell the place. Since it had become a gift, was she expected to keep it forever? The apartment had been an investment, nothing more. It had become too much more. She saw the thugs rushing through the apartment, tearing it down, assaulting Durga-ji, poor old man. Such a desire to improve the world. Why hadn’t he just stuck to what he was best at: chit-chat, inspirational speeches, friendship. There was no improving the world. It only got worse in different ways.

  Her face was beginning to ache from all the smiling.

  ‘We could make this our getaway,’ said Dorabjee, opening and closing various cabinets. ‘It’s well out of Delhi.’

  She didn’t know how to respond. Anger? She wouldn’t have to pretend to be angry. Was the gentleman under the impression that three outings had made her his whore? Perhaps she should just ignore the question. But if she didn’t address it, it would only embolden him to make even more outrageous statements.

  ‘It’s ideal for one person,’ she said. She walked across the room that had been Durga’s study and towards the window, turning her back on Dorabjee. ‘Still, it is full of ghosts. A man died here. An innocent man. I would be terrified to come here.’

  ‘Why are we discussing that old fool?’ He joined her to gaze out the window. ‘Let’s discuss us.’

  ‘General-saab, you’re standing too close–’ she pushed him away and couldn’t help allowing her irritation to show. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  The thickening of his tone frightened her. He was going to get emotional, perhaps he’d fall on his knees and propose, God alone knew what this crazy madarchod bawa was planning. She should have invented a feminine illness, something vaguely disgusting. It had worked before. But if Dorabjee lost interest… He made it a point to periodically remind her of his contempt for Mir. As he had done in the car today.

  Trapped, trapped, trapped. She should have never agreed to leave Bilkis behind. Bilkis would have known what to do. Bilkis would set this randy old goat straight. Where was Bilkis when she needed her? Bilkis had promised never to leave her alone.

  ‘Patience, General.’ She smiled, tried to look mysterious but not alluring. ‘All in good time. Shall we go?’

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘What?’ she froze.

  ‘The sunlight,’ he cried, in English. ‘No, don’t move! Don’t. Move. You’re so fucking beautiful.’

  She stood frozen, knowing she was smiling the bemused I-wish-I-weren’t-this-beautiful smile she used for song sequences in which the hero publicly wooed her with an excess of enthusiasm. Would he now start to leap and twirl and wriggle?

  ‘I’m always beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. Yes you are. Turn around. Please. For me!’

  She sighed, rotated. Better do as he asked, otherwise the old bastard was likely to have a heart attack. Just look at his red jowly face. She felt him come up behind her. Felt his swollen crotch pressing against her rear, his arms around her, cradling her sides, whispering some English nonsense over and over, and his hand trying to get inside her top. She wrenched away, violently.

  ‘General, let me go!’ she said, sharply. No girlishness. It was time to be dead serious. She tried to dislodge his arms. ‘Let me go!’ Then she repeated in English. ‘Let me go!’

  He continued to babble something or the other in English. Slid his hand under her top, pushed up her flimsy bra and squeezed her breasts, at first almost in wonderment, then with a savage force. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Then just as suddenly, the hand was gone.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he whispered, pulling her skirt upwards. He fingered her gossamer-thin panties. ‘Oh you naughty, naughty girl.’

  She struggled, but Dorabjee was stronger than he seemed. He had her pinned against the window and she cried out as her cheek pressed against the sun-warmed glass. She felt a sudden draft of air and realized her mini-skirt was now over her waist. She clamped her thighs shut but his hands were everywhere. She again cried out and she had this strange feeling she was hearing someone else in another room.

  ‘Sorry,’ he panted. ‘I just have to.’

  She managed one good kick, but he drew both her hands behind her back, almost twisting her arms out of their sockets and laughing as she hung suspended in his hold. He kicked the back of her knees and she collapsed into a crouch. She felt his weight on her back, his right hand insinuating, probing its way into her crotch, as his left hand closed around her neck. He squeezed and she began to choke. She willed herself to die.

  Then just as suddenly, he let her go. Lifted her up, supported her while she found her feet. She shrank from his touch but he wasn’t having any of that. He seized her hand.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were untouched?’ he asked, gently. He didn’t know the Hindi word for virgin. ‘I respect that. This is not how it will happen. You will give it to me yourself as a gift. Yes?’

  He zipped his pants, bent to pick up his cigar. She stood, trembling.

  ‘God, you’re so beautiful.’ He patted her head. ‘But I will wait.’

  He helped her up, adjusted her dress. She stood like a mannequin as he buttoned her up. For a second, she had the feeling it was Bindu who was helping her dress.

  ‘Do you have a pin?’ he asked, solicitously. ‘Looks like I ripped your skirt. Oh, I have an idea–’ He took off his military jacket, wrapped it around her lower side, tied the arms into a knot. ‘There.’

  He smiled. She stared at him.

  ‘I know, I know. I misbehaved. But it’s not like I’m a stranger, is it? But you can’t look the way you do and not expect men to go crazy. Grrrr.’ He smiled. ‘Now, step into the bathroom and freshen up. I want you to come out with a smile. We’re going to have lunch and then I’m going to take you home. Go on.’ He slapped her on the butt. ‘Go on.’

  She went into the bathroom, stood uncertainly at the sink. She washed her hands, and the clink-clink of her bracelets sounded obscenely loud. She rinsed, wiped her hands on her skirt. A stab of pain in her right thigh. She lifted the skirt and saw a tiny mirror embedded in her flesh. She pulled it out, dropped it in the drain. Then she puked. She rinsed again and slowly lifted her head to face herself.

  As they exited the apartment, she avoided the eyes of the men in the corridor. But she couldn’t help glancing at Bilkis. Where were you? She had intended to convey only the question, not the story behind it, but she was tired. She let through too much. Saya dimly realized she’d tattled after all when she saw Bilkis’ eyes widen in shock, first go from Dorabjee then to her face and then back to Dorabjee.

  Bilkis leapt. There; here.

  Dorabjee was taken completely by surprise, couldn’t do anything about the high kick to his head. He fell with a solid thump. But the motion cost Bilkis. By the time her leg touched the ground and she’d drawn her gun, incredibly fast as she was, she had already been shot in the right leg and the shoulder. Bilkis still managed to fire off a shot, hitting Dorabjee in the chest. She took a bullet in her stomach, another shattered through her neck. She sank to the ground, her eyes glazing in the manner of the fatally wounded.

  Darius leaned over the General, cellphone in hand. He was taking instructions from someone at the other end. Yes sir, no sir. She’s dead, sir. Then Darius straightened, set events in motion.

  She was taken back to the car, told not to say anything. She wasn’t to worry about the General. He was alive, an ambulance was already at the scene. She learned that an ambulance was always no more than seven minutes away. Darius looked into her eyes. He was now a Mughal, she was just a woman. Say nothing, do you understand Madam? She nodded. Not a word about Dorabjee, not a word about the assassin, not a word about the assassination attempt. Do you understand, Madam? She nodded. Colonel Kal Kishore Shastri will get in touch with you. Do you understand, Madam? She nodded.

  Back at her
house, she showered, changed, held court, listened patiently to her subjects’ many complaints. She had been gone a whole day and everything was in an uproar. There were quarrels she had to adjudicate, egos she had to stroke, favours she had to grant. Bindu asked about Bilkis and Saya said she’d been reassigned; a new guard would start work from tomorrow. Surprise, questions; she feigned indifference and eventually Bindu moved on to some other obsession.

  Saya phased in and out, but as long as she turned her head every now and then, no one seemed to notice. At one point, Bindu reached to finger-sample her temperature and Saya shrank away from the touch. She ordered an early dinner, but after the first bite, had to rush to the sink and vomit. Perhaps it was the cake. How many hands must have touched that birthday cake. She stared at the debris and it seemed to contain an augur, not of an unpleasant future, but the lack of one. It was impossible to eat another bite and she asked for some tea to be sent to her room. Bindu had to be hurt before she would stop pestering, but she could be hurt, and Saya thought, almost with gratitude, that nothing fundamentally seemed to have changed. When the chai came, its heat was an unpleasant reminder of how her vagina felt and she set the tea aside. She used the remote to dim the light, close the curtains.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. The wail of a distant police siren set her heart racing. She fumbled for the remote, clicked through to a music channel, and as Shamshad Begum’s cheerful voice danced in the room, she eased back into the sheets. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She tried to remember something to feel proud about, but that familiar exercise, always so reliable, not in its results, but in the fact that it had kept her company through the many years of struggle, now only sparked tears in her eyes. Against the face of the dark, she saw her own eyes, brilliant, peacock-coloured, staring at her.

  She sat up, turned off the music, but then was unable to bear the hushed silence. She reached for the phone, called Mir. He sounded cheerful, excited. He was on his way to a lecture. He was giving the lecture. That always made him happy. He liked to stand and share his brilliant ideas before a crowd eager to appreciate. She ordered him to share the talk’s opening notes. Oh, such power in his voice. Such beauty in his art. She tucked her hand between her wounded thighs, curled into a ball.