Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  Here was the alternative to the western conceptions of state power.

  Here was the door to a happy dystopia.

  How hadn’t I seen it earlier? In this land, in my land, everything existed on the threshold, in a state of ambiguity. Living on the threshold meant we lived in a state of perpetual possibility. We extended hopewards, towards tomorrow and what it could bring, like the exposed rebar atop our concrete jungle. We lived a subjunctive life. We couldn’t be ruled with certainties. A subjunctive people need a subjunctive dictator: part God, part servant, neither servant nor God, both God and servant. Better do my work, madarchod! Thakur-baba was such a subjunctive deity.

  The Indian state needed to be such a deity. That would define the kinds of violence it needed to practice, the states of exemption it could declare, and most importantly, enable joy to once again bridge the distance between freedom and constraint. I had my answer to Benjamin, Schmitt, Arendt, Agamben and other apocalyptic dialecticians for whom all narratives of state power begin with Genesis and ends in Revelations.

  I peppered Rathod with questions about Thakur-baba: the legends, how Thakur-baba was worshipped, the ways in which he communicated, the rewards and punishments he handed out. Partly gratified, partly very worried by my interest, Rathod did his best to answer my questions. The conversation kept us engaged all the way to the first of the checkpoints.

  Rathod pulled up, handed our Lokshakti cards to a guard at the gate. As others checked the vehicle, the guard swiped the cards through a reader, peered at the Samsung tablet in his hand, then at our faces. My briefcase had to be put through the scanner. The guard had Rathod open it, take out it contents: Adhamo’s PFR file and a ball pen. The guard riffed through the file, vigorously clicked the ball pen several times.

  There was of course a visitor’s book to be filled. A guard handed Rathod a couple of visitor tags and a plastic tag for the vehicle, instructed him to keep it on the dashboard. We were then waved through. Overall, I was impressed. They were very respectful but neither my rank nor Rathod’s rudeness had intimidated them. It was still about a dozen kilometres to the main administrative unit.

  Section 34 was mostly meant for political prisoners and so a bit more luxurious than others. Like all modern prisons, Section 34 controlled behaviour by controlling behaviour. There was nothing subtle about it. I wasn’t sure why it was called Section 34. There were many Sections but not thirty-four of them. Some Sections stocked only men, others only women, still others were dedicated to the mentally ill, women with children, and so on.

  The second checkpoint repeated the exact same steps as the first. Here we were also frisked. We discovered Rathod had stolen six coasters from Hanwant Mahal.

  At the third checkpoint, we were waved through. I was a Deputy Director after all.

  For many of the prisoners, life in a Section had to be more comfortable than life outside its walls. A Section is only inhumane in the same manner the natural world is inhumane: it is a system without much redress. Survivors who’ve worked for their survival always feel justice has been served, and since the prison only had survivors, a Section was one of the more just places on earth.

  At the admin block, everybody seemed to be in a heightened state of excitement. The guards saluted. The office staff rose to their feet when we entered. The superintendent began to apologize profusely. The prison’s top administrator was on an European junket. My intimation this morning had been a complete surprise. If only I had intimated I was coming a little earlier. Despite the superintendent’s distress, only paperwork stood in the way of Sam Adhamo’s release.

  The superintendent set a Samsung tablet in front of me. The digital app was an almost exact replica of the original paper process. The app even made a little rustling sound as I fingered it for the next page. There were papers to be stamped (a muffled thunk), often three times, and lots of blanks to be initialled. Tea arrived. Cream biscuits. I served the same brand in my office.

  In one corner of the office, a pale-faced clerk blew into long, narrow brownish envelopes and extracted grey government-issue paper, both its sides covered with smudged typewriter text. A prisoner, tall and cadaverous, as grave as a banker, stood by his side, expertly stripping the envelopes open before handing it to him one after another. He was bald. I remembered all the prisoners were bald. The collected hair was sold via intermediaries to an American company which used it, I’d heard, to clean up oil spills. Doubtless, it would all be spilled in a 60 Minutes exposé some day.

  As I rested my hand, weary from all the initialling, the clerk took a chai break. He poured some chai onto the saucer, gestured with a finger, and the trustee greedily finished it off, making soft cat-like slurping sounds. His eyes met mine over the circular rim of the white saucer.

  Though the people were my own, the fabric of the place had felt foreign, imported from without, as if I’d come across a discomfited rustic in his Sunday best, namely, an Abercombie t-shirt and Levi’s jeans. There was an automated, disembodied quality to the actions of the guards, the prisoners and the administrators, as if they were geometrical points moving about in an abstract coordinate space. The goal was to imprison the prisoner’s time; it was too bad the prisoner came attached with it. This place was more than a prison. It was father to the nuclear family, brother to the factory, sister to the corporate office, mother to the modern school, cousin to the TV dinner.

  But the trustee, lapping the chai off the saucer, lifted my spirits. I was reminded of Vidura’s parable in the Mahabharata, where a brahmana, trapped in a dark and vast forest, hangs suspended by his heels from the creepers of a giant tree, fallen across a gaping pit filled with snakes, and is plagued by angry bees who’d made the tree’s branches their home. Even then, damned as he was, the brahmana had extended his tongue, striving to taste stray droplets from the honeycomb. The living may be imprisoned but there is no incarcerating life.

  In due course I learned that Sam Adhamo was in the infirmary. He had been in treatment for the past one week. I knew he had diabetes, but the thought of the man suffering needlessly in this place was suddenly intolerable.

  ‘We gave him the best treatment, Director-saab. But our budget was reduced by ten percent last annum.’ The superintendent’s demeanour suggested he would have made a good mortician. ‘Even clean laundry—’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about your laundry bills,’ I barked. ‘I will see Professor Adhamo now. And make sure the ambulance is ready.’

  The chastened superintendent led us through a maze of corridors and courtyard spaces. Prisoners sat quietly in these spaces. Some rocked, others sat as if they’d been carved from soapstone. Gazing at their blank, incurious faces I wondered if they’d being drugged. But there were others doing various odd jobs. Several had been set to watering the patchy lawns, some to painting, others carried buckets, brooms, carpentry tools, spades. We passed a large hall where about a dozen men sat in a circle kneading dough on the swept, but obviously still dusty, concrete floor.

  The Infirmary was nothing more than a set of five rooms. One was set up to resemble an operating theatre. Another had a long line of patients, many with the self-pitying faces characteristic of the ill. We were led into a large room marked ‘ICU’ except that the ‘C’ had slipped so it read ‘I, U’. Adhamo’s cot was one among many, located nowhere in particular except where it happened to be. It could just as easily have been at the center of the room or a corner or an edge or by the door or at a window. The cot had a frame for a mosquito net but the frame didn’t have a mosquito net and several other beds also had empty frames. Each cot had at least one air pillow and a thick hospital mattress covered with cheap synthetic leather. Patients had a single white sheet at their disposal. All these observations helped offset the stink. And the fact that the old man wasn’t Sam Adhamo.

  ‘This isn’t Sambuka Adhamo,’ I told the superintendent, calmly.

  I didn’t recognize the old man lying on the cot. He had a faint resemblance to Padma Vibhushan Durga
Dhasal, Professor Emeritus of Computer Science at Delhi University, winner of the Turing Award, the Donald Knuth Prize for contributions to Random Algorithms, the Avicenna Prize for Ethics in Science, the Rajendra Prasad Prize in philosophy, Kalinga Prize for science popularization, nine honorary degrees, Bollywood actor, activist, writer; once so many things but now merely a point of comparison. A glucose drip had come loose and hung semi-detached from his outstretched arm.

  The superintendent stared at me, open-mouthed. He fingered the tablet in his hand. Then he peered at the plastic strip around the man’s wrist. Back to the tablet. Finally, he had to confess he agreed with me more or less, less actually, but more wouldn’t be a problem if I made it one. Wasn’t this Adhamo? I mean, yes sir, but this is Sambuka Adhamo. The numbers all match. Also photo ID. Please see?

  ‘This isn’t Sambuka Adhamo,’ I repeated. ‘Rathod.’

  Rathod withdrew the PFR file from the briefcase and handed it to me. The thick, heavy paper file. Marks made on paper couldn’t be altered by time travellers from the future determined to change history. This is a scientific fact. A physical mark is a bit like a symbol’s grandfather. Erasing the mark led to all kinds of paradoxes. I opened the file to the page which had Sam Adhamo’s passport-sized photograph and held it out so that the superintendent could compare it with the one he had in his tablet.

  Both men wore white shirts and were of roughly the same height, so the decision came down to the faces. Rathod came over and took the file from my hand. We put our heads together and examined the two images. ‘Sir, for this, there is a simple explanation,’ said the superintendent, looking up with relief writ large on his features. ‘The photo in your file, that is obviously another person’s face.’

  ‘Obviously?’ I glanced at Rathod. ‘Is it obvious to you as well, Rathod?’

  Rathod smiled.

  ‘Sir, this is why we digitize everything now. With paper files, anything can happen. A page from here gets accidentally shifted there. There are photocopying errors. Human errors. That is the simplest explanation.’

  The superintendent explained how digitalization had largely eliminated the many unfortunate mix-ups that used to happen. But not every government department cooperated. This gave rise to inconsistencies such as this. The paper version told one story, the digital files another. In such cases, the digital version was to be preferred since the system was so set up, important digital documents couldn’t be changed without leaving some trace. The superintendent even gave me a remarkably clear overview of how private-key cryptography worked. ‘Why don’t we contact Adhamo’s wife, sir-ji?’ Rathod brought a chair over. He was generally more solicitous of me when others were around. ‘Take a photograph of Mister X, email it to his wife, and then let’s see if X = Adhamo. Problem solved. If a wife can’t recognize her husband, who can?’

  An excellent suggestion. However, that wasn’t my problem. I already knew Mister X wasn’t Sam Adhamo since Mister X was Durga Dhasal. My problem was what to do with what I knew.

  Dorabjee had kept Dhasal alive for exactly one purpose: to extract all of Dhasal’s radical connections. He’d been sucked dry and now he inhaled each breath on Dorabjee’s whim. My knowledge of this fact had just put me in peril.

  In life, Sam Adhamo had been a scholar and lover. In death, he’d lost his head and taken Dhasal’s place. Perhaps his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain and his shrines would dot the local landscape some day.

  How could I face Tanaz’s friend? Poor woman. For that matter, what on earth would I tell Tanaz?

  ‘Kannagi,’ cried the old man, ‘let the speaker finish.’

  It sounded like he was dreaming. Perhaps of a grad seminar or holding office hours or mentoring, dreaming of summer, when the sun had been at its highest point in the sky. He was dying, but his brain, starved for oxygen, was still dreaming of making a difference. The brain offered comfort, even now. Kar diyo kaam mera, madarchod!

  ‘Sir-ji?’ said Rathod. He was itching to try out his check-with-themissus idea.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ I said. ‘This is indeed Adhamo. He is obviously not well enough to travel. Some better arrangements will have to be made before we move him. Let him stay here for now.’

  At the admin desk, the staff had a certain shifty alertness, almost as if they expected me to question them on their treatment of Sam Adhamo. They tried to delay me further, until fed up with their form-filling nonsense, I nearly lost my temper. Nearly. I had started the release process so there was nothing for it but to do whatever it took to undo it.

  As we drove away, I realized I was tired. I ached to rest my head on Tanaz’s soft breasts. I ached to hold her close and have her shout at me, insist that I quit this wretched soul-destroying job. If she insisted, I would quit.

  No, that wasn’t fair. She had no part in this. Why should she bear any responsibility?

  Why the fuck couldn’t my brain do its job? Comfort me, comfort me, comfort me.

  Ahead, we saw a cluster of army jeeps blocking our path.

  ‘Another check!’ muttered Rathod. ‘Do they think we’re smuggling their mother’s chuts or what?’

  It wasn’t a check. Seven commandos surrounded the SUV. Their sub-machine guns were directed primarily towards Rathod. I had the full attention of the one commando not carrying a weapon. Colonel Kal Kishore Shastri. So that is why the office had kept me busy filling forms. They’d been waiting for Kalki to get here.

  My heart clutched in fear. All I could think of was Tanaz. A part of my mind watched numbly as I streamed prayers to the heavens for her safe-keeping.

  ‘Director Vyas, you are charged under Sections 124A, 295A and 307 of the Indian Penal Code. Get out of the car and come with us.’

  Sedition, blasphemy, murder. I was in good company as far as sedition was concerned. Practically every Indian freedom fighter, including Gandhi, had been arrested under Section 124A. But murder?

  ‘Who did I attempt to murder?’

  ‘The General, who else?’ The Colonel’s eyes never left my face. He was really enjoying this. ‘The bodyguard bitch, the one you plotted with, she is dead.’

  ‘This is all a misunderstanding,’ I said, reaching for my phone. I had the strangest sense my voice was coming from somewhere else, as if my words weren’t mine, my thoughts weren’t my thoughts. ‘Let me call Dorabjee.’

  He leaned into the car, stopped my hand. ‘General Dorabjee, bhenchod. Now step out quietly or I’ll drag you out. Sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ I got out of the SUV. ‘Rathod, I will see you shortly. Proceed to CA.’

  Rathod, optimistic as always, decided I was still in charge and if I ordered him to save his skin, he was duty-bound to do so. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in charge. Rathod cursed the men as they moved towards him.

  ‘Oye, sons of bitches, think twice before you set hands on a Rajput.’

  They thought twice, jumped him, kicked him in the balls, handcuffed him. They manacled me with greater courtesy. Perhaps it was because they expected me to bluster about my rank and proximity to Dorabjee, and instead I was thinking about what I could offer the General.

  Suddenly I realized Kalki had told me that Bilkis was dead. Bilkis was dead. Bilkis was dead.

  It was all my fault. I should have recognized Bilkis wasn’t stable. If she had killed Dorabjee—no, that couldn’t be, I was charged with Section 307, attempt to murder, not murder which was Section 302, so Dorabjee had to be alive. Or had Bilkis tried to harm Saya? She had often complained about the actress. If she was the only reason I’d been arrested, I could talk my way out of this mess.

  Then Tanaz’s face came to mind and all my bravado evaporated. I willed Tanaz to be safe. Dorabjee would spare her. She was practically his niece after all, and tyrants were sentimentalists. Anybody could see she was innocent. She was innocent, my sweet chakli, how she enjoyed getting her feet massaged, especially if I tickled her pink soles. But her feet had changed. All that walking, ten, twelve kilometres. Incipient calluses, corns, the
rough soles, the elastic band she wore on her left foot to protect her arch. A fallen arch! Chakli had wanted children. Still time for dreams, our dreams. I had time. I could stop worrying, all wasn’t lost for me, let alone for her. Oh yes, absolutely. I was sure I could explain it all to Dorabjee. I had always been able to explain my way out of any situation. I simply had to give him a reason. Dorabjee was fond of me in his own exasperated way. We were bound in English, if nothing else. I felt a surge of confidence.

  Kalki sprang into the front seat of the jeep, turned to face me, smiled. How had Kalki’s parents resisted the urge to strangle him in the cradle? I thought of the smile that had gone with a lady for a ride on a tiger.

  ‘You have a nice smile, Colonel Shastri,’ I said politely. ‘I hope you don’t misplace it by end of day.’

  Colonel Kalki’s smile faded. For a second I thought he would strike me. Then he turned his head and the late evening sun flowed like molten gold over his exposed arms, neck and camo uniform. ‘Chalo!’

  #

  (Tanaz is clinging to the jeep’s seat and internal frame for dear life. The Lokshakti jeep’s suspension is having a hard time with the dirt road from Hapur. The Lokshakti officer who had arrested Tanaz has been treating her with courtesy.)

  23

  THE TIME HAD COME TO SAY GOODBYE. KANNAGI HANDED JOHN Liu the cappuccino, sat down by his side. He was headed for Dulles via Frankfurt. Security check hadn’t started for his flight and there wasn’t much to do other than wait. Liu was an antsy traveller and she watched him confirm and re-confirm that his passport was still in the traveller’s pouch around his neck, check and re-check that his electronic tickets were in order, transfer and re-transfer notes from one RFID-protected wallet compartment to another. He finally sat back; face red, sweating, breathing a little heavily. He met her glance, smiled, took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Okay, one last time, you really want to stay here? At DU?’

  ‘About DU, I don’t know. I’ll definitely stay on for another semester. But about staying here-here. Absolutely. I’ve made my decision on that.’