‘Great,’ I said.
‘College?’ he said.
‘Going okay. We have slowed down a bit. We don’t have the capital,’ I said.
‘I will arrange the money,’ Shukla-ji promised.
‘Take it easy, Shukla-ji. Keep a low profile. Things can wait,’ I said.
He switched off the TV. ‘Your friend fucked us, eh?’ Shukla-ji said.
‘He’s not my friend. And he is finished now. And you will be back,’ I said.
‘They won’t give me a ticket next time,’ he said pensively.
‘I heard,’ I said.
‘From who?’ Shukla-ji looked surprised.
I told him about my friendship with Aarti, the DM’s daughter, and what she had told me. I didn’t tell him about her relationship with Raghav, nor did I give details about her and me.
‘Oh yes, you have known her for long, right?’ he said.
‘School friend,’ I said.
‘So her father won’t contest?’ Shukla-ji said.
I shook my head. ‘Neither will the daughter. She hates politics. So maybe you still have a chance,’ I said.
‘Not this time,’ Shukla-ji dismissed. ‘I have to wait. Not right after jail.’
‘They’ll find someone else then?’
‘The DM’s family will definitely win,’ he said. ‘People love them.’
‘They aren’t interested,’ I said.
‘How close are you to her?’ His sharp question had me in a dither.
I never lie to Shukla-ji. However, I didn’t want to give him specifics about Aarti and me either.
I kept quiet.
‘You like her?’ he said.
‘Leave it, Shukla-ji. You know I am immersed in my work,’ I said, evading the topic.
‘I am talking about work only, you silly boy,’ Shukla-ji said.
‘What?’ I said, amazed by how the MLA sustained his zest for politics even in jail.
‘You marry her. If that broken-legged DM can’t contest and the daughter won’t, the son-in-law will.’
‘What? What makes you say that?’
‘I have spent twenty-five years in Indian politics. It is obvious that is what they will do. Wait and watch, they will marry her off soon.’
‘Her parents are pestering her for marriage.’
‘Marry her. Contest the election and win it.’
I kept quiet.
‘Do you realise where your GangaTech will be if you become an MLA? I will be back one day, anyway, maybe from another constituency. And if both of us are in power, we will rule this city, maybe the state. Her grandfather even served as CM for a while!’
‘I haven’t thought about marriage yet,’ I lied.
‘Don’t think. Do it. You think she will marry you?’ he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Show her mother your car and money. Don’t take dowry. Even if the daughter doesn’t agree, the mother will.’
‘Shukla-ji? Me, a politician?’
‘Yes. Politician, businessman and educationist – power, money and respect – perfect combination. You are destined for big things. I knew it the day you entered my office,’ he said.
Shukla-ji poured some Black Label whisky into two glasses. He asked the guard to get ice. I kept quiet and sat thoughtfully while he prepared the drinks. Sure, power is never a bad thing in India. To get anything done, you need power. Power meant people would pay me money, rather than me paying money to get things done. GangaTech could become ten times its size. Plus, I loved Aarti anyway. I would marry her eventually, so why not now? Besides, she had somewhat hinted at it. I let out a sigh.
I fought my low self-esteem. It’s okay, Gopal, I told myself. You are meant for bigger things. Just because you didn’t get an AIEEE rank, just because you didn’t remember the molecular formula, doesn’t mean you can’t do great things in life. After all, I had opened a college, lived in a big house and had an expensive car.
Shukla-ji handed me the drink.
‘I can get the girl,’ I said.
‘Cheers to that, Mr Son-in-law!’ Shukla-ji raised his glass.
36
‘Busy?’ I said.
I had called Aarti at work. A tourist was screaming at her because the water in his room was not hot enough. Aarti kept me on hold while the guest cursed in French.
‘I can call later,’ I said.
‘It’s fine. Housekeeping will take care of it. My ears are hurting!’ Aarti said, rattled by all the screaming.
‘You will own a college one day. You won’t have to do this anymore.’
‘It’s okay, Gopal. I really like my job. Sometimes we have weirdos. Anyway, what’s up?’
‘How did the dinner go?’
‘Boring. I dozed off on the table when the fifth guy wanted to inform me of the Pradhan family’s duty towards the party.’
‘Any conclusion on the ticket?’
‘It’s politics, Director sir, things aren’t decided so fast. Anyway, election is next year.’
‘You said something when you were saying bye,’ I said.
I could almost see her smile. ‘Did I?’ she said.
‘Something about your husband becoming the MLA?’
‘Could be, why?’ she said, her voice child-like.
‘I wonder if I could apply?’ I said.
‘For the husband or MLA?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Whichever has a shorter waitlist,’ I said.
Aarti laughed.
‘For husband the queue is rather long,’ she said.
‘I am a bit of a queue jumper,’ I said.
‘That you are,’ she said. ‘Okay, another guest coming. Speak later?’
‘I’m going to visit Raghav soon.’
‘I have stopped talking to him,’ she said. She didn’t protest against my proposed meeting with him. I took it as her consent.
‘Intentionally?’ I said.
‘Yeah, we had a bit of a tiff. I normally fix things up, I didn’t bother this time.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘So what’s the tourist saying?’
‘She’s Japanese. They are polite. She will wait until I finish my call.’
‘Tell her you are on the phone with your husband.’
‘Shut up. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ I said and kissed the phone. I opened the calendar on my desk and marked the coming Friday as the day for my meeting with Raghav.
I pressed the nozzle of a Gucci perfume five times to spray my neck, armpits and both wrists. I wore a new black shirt and a custom-made suit for the occasion. I put on my Ray-Ban glasses and looked at myself in the mirror. The sunglasses seemed a bit too much, so I hung them from my shirt pocket.
I had taken the day off on Friday. Dean sir wanted to bore me with a report of the academic performance of the students in the first term. I needed an excuse to get out anyway.
All the best. Avoid hurt as much as possible, Aarti had messaged me.
I assured her that I would handle the situation well. From her side, she had messaged him a ‘we need to talk’ equivalent and he had responded with a ‘not the best time’ message – exactly the kind of stuff that irked her about him in the first place.
I told my driver to go to Nadeshar Road, where Raghav’s place of work was.
One could easily miss the Revolution 2020 office in the midst of so many auto-repair shops. Raghav had rented out a garage. The office had three areas – a printing space inside, his own cubicle in the middle and a common area for staff and visitors at the entrance.
‘May I help you?’ a teenager asked me.
‘I am here to meet Raghav,’ I said.
‘He’s with people,’ the boy said. ‘What is this about?’
I looked inside the garage. Raghav’s office had a partial glass partition. He sat on his desk. A farmer with a soiled turban and a frail little boy sat opposite Raghav. The father-son duo looked poor and dishevelled. Raghav listened to them gravely, elbows on the table.
; ‘It’s personal,’ I told the teenager before me.
‘Does he know you are coming?’
‘No, but he knows me well,’ I said.
Raghav noticed me then and stepped out of his cabin.
‘Gopal?’ Raghav said, surprised. If he was upset with me, he didn’t show it.
Raghav wore a T-shirt with a logo of his newspaper and an old pair of jeans. He looked unusually hip for someone in a crisis.
‘Can we talk?’ I said.
‘What happened?’ Raghav said. ‘MLA Shukla sent you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Actually, it is personal.’
‘Can you give me ten minutes?’ he said.
‘I won’t be long,’ I said.
‘I am really sorry. But these people have travelled a hundred kilometres to meet me. They have had a tragedy. I’ll finish soon.’
I looked back into his office. The child now lay in his father’s lap. He seemed sick.
‘Fine,’ I said and checked the time.
‘Thanks. Ankit here will take care of you,’ he said.
The teenager smiled at me as Raghav went inside.
‘Please sit,’ Ankit said, pointing to the spare chairs. I took one right next to Raghav’s office.
I chatted with Ankit to pass time.
‘Nobody else here?’ I said.
‘We had two more staff members,’ Ankit said, ‘who left after the office was ransacked. Their parents didn’t feel it was safe anymore. As it is, salaries are delayed.’
‘Why haven’t you left?’ I said.
Ankit shook his head. ‘I want to be there for Raghav sir,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘He is a good person,’ Ankit said.
I smiled even though his words felt like stabs.
‘The office doesn’t look that bad,’ I said.
‘We cleaned it up. The press is broken though. We don’t have a computer either.’
‘You did such a big story,’ I said. ‘They fired an MLA because of you guys.’
Ankit gave me a level look. ‘The media ran with the story because they wanted to. But who cares about us?’
‘How are you operating now?’ I said.
Ankit opened a drawer in the desk. He took out a large sheet of paper with handwritten text all over it.
‘Sir writes the articles, I write the matrimonials. We make photocopies and distribute as many as we can.’
‘How many?’ I said.
‘Four hundred copies. It’s handwritten and photocopied; obviously not many people like that in a paper.’
I scanned the A3 sheet. Raghav had written articles on the malpractices by ration shops in Varanasi. He had hand-drawn a table that showed the official rate, the black market rate and the money pocketed by the shopkeeper for various commodities. I flipped the page. It had around fifty matrimonials, meticulously written by hand.
‘Four hundred copies? How will you get ads with such a low circulation?’
Ankit shrugged and did not answer. ‘I have to go to the photocopy shop,’ he said instead. ‘Do you mind waiting alone?’
‘No problem, I will be fine,’ I said, sitting back. I checked my phone. I had a message from Aarti: ‘Whatever you do. Be kind.’
I kept the phone back in my pocket. I felt hot in my suit. I realised nobody had switched on the fan.
‘Where’s the switch?’ I asked Ankit.
‘No power, sorry. They cut off the connection.’ Ankit left the office.
I removed my jacket and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. I considered waiting in my car instead of this dingy place. However, it would be too cumbersome to call the driver again. I had become too used to being in air-conditioned environs. The hot room reminded me of my earlier days with Baba. As did, for some reason, the little boy in the other room who slept in his father’s lap.
I looked again from the corner of my eye. The farmer had tears in his eyes. I leaned in to listen.
‘I have lost one child and my wife. I don’t want to lose more members of my family. He is all I have,’ the man said, hands folded.
‘Bishnu-ji, I understand,’ Raghav said. ‘My paper did a huge story on the Dimnapura plant scam. They broke our office because of it.’
‘But you come and see the situation in my village, Roshanpur. There’s sewage everywhere. Half the children are sick. Six have already died.’
‘Roshanpur has another plant. Maybe someone cheated the government there too,’ Raghav said.
‘But nobody is reporting it. The authorities are not doing anything. You are our only hope,’ the farmer said. He took off his turban and put it on Raghav’s desk.
‘What are you doing, Bishnu-ji?’ Raghav said, giving the turban back to the hapless man. ‘I am a nobody. My paper is at the verge of closing down. We distribute a handful of handwritten copies, most of which go into dustbins.’
‘I told my son you are the bravest, most honest man in this city,’ Bishnu said, his voice quivering with emotion.
Raghav gave a smile of despair. ‘What does that mean anyway?’ he said.
‘If the government can at least send some doctors for our children, we don’t care if the guilty are punished or not,’ the man said.
Raghav exhaled. He scratched the back of his neck before he spoke again. ‘All right, I will come to your village and do a story. It will be limited circulation now. If my paper survives, we will do a big one again. If not, well, no promises. Okay?’
‘Thank you, Raghav-ji!’ There was such hope in his eyes, I couldn’t help but notice.
‘And one of my friends’ father is a doctor. I will see if he can go to your village.’
Raghav stood up to end the meeting. The man stood up too, which woke up his son, and bent forward to touch Raghav’s feet.
‘Please don’t,’ Raghav said. ‘I have a meeting now. After that, let’s go to your village today itself. How far is it?’
‘A hundred and twenty kilometres. You have to change three buses,’ the farmer said. ‘Takes five hours maximum.’
‘Fine, please wait then.’
Raghav brought them – the man and his weak and sleepy son – outside the office.
‘Sit here, Bishnu-ji,’ Raghav said and looked at me. ‘Two minutes, Gopal? Let me clean up my office.’
I nodded. Raghav went inside and sorted the papers on his desk.
The man sat on Ankit’s chair, facing me. We exchanged cursory smiles.
‘What’s his name?’ I said, pointing to the boy who was lying in his lap once again.
‘Keshav,’ the farmer said, stroking his son’s head.
I nodded and kept quiet. I played with my phone, flipping it up and down, up and down. I felt for the duplicate Mercedes key in my pants pocket. I had especially brought it for the occasion.
‘Baba, will I also die?’ Keshav said, his voice a mere thread.
‘Stupid boy. What nonsense,’ the farmer said.
I felt bad for the child, who would not remember his mother when he grew up, just like me. I gripped the key in my pocket harder, hoping that clutching it will make me feel better.
Raghav was dusting his desk and chair. His paper could close down in a week and he had no money. Yet, he wanted to travel to some far-flung village to help some random people. They had broken his office, but not his spirit.
I clutched the key tighter, to justify to myself that I am the better person here.
I realised the boy was staring at me. His gaze was light, but I felt disturbed, like he was questioning me and I had no answer.
What have you become, Gopal? a voice rang in my head.
I restlessly took out the sunglasses from my pocket and twirled them about. I suddenly noticed that the eyes of the boy, Keshav, were moving with the sunglasses. I moved them to the right, his eyes followed. I moved them to the left, his eyes followed. I smiled at him.
‘What?’ I pointed at my fancy shades. ‘You want these?’
Keshav sat up, feeble but eager. Though h
is father kept saying no, I felt a certain relief in handing over the sunglasses.
‘They are big for me,’ the boy said, trying them on. The oversized glasses made his face look even more pathetic.
I closed my eyes. The heat in the room was too much. I felt sick. Raghav was now on the phone.
My mind continued to talk. What did you come here for? You came to show him that you have made it, and he is ruined? Is that the high point of your life? You think you are a better person than him, because of your car and suit?
‘Gopal!’ Raghav called out.
‘Huh?’ I said, opening my eyes. ‘What?’
‘Come on in,’ Raghav said.
I went into his office. I kept my hand in my pocket, on my keys. According to the plan, I was to casually place the keys on his table before sitting down. However, I couldn’t.
‘What’s in the pocket?’ Raghav said as he noticed that my hand would not come out.
‘Oh, nothing,’ I said and released the keys. I sat down to face him.
‘What brings you to Revolution 2020? Have we upset your bosses again?’ Raghav chuckled. ‘Oh wait, you said it is personal.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘What?’ Raghav said.
I didn’t know what to say. I had my whole speech planned. On how Aarti deserved better than him, and that better person was I. On how I had made it in life, and he had failed. On how he was the loser, not me. And yet, saying all that now would make me feel like a loser.
‘How’s the paper?’ I said, saying something to end the awkward silence.
He swung his hands in the air. ‘You can see for yourself.’
‘What will you do if it closes down?’ I said.
Raghav did not smile. ‘Haven’t thought about it. End of phase one I guess.’
I kept quiet.
‘Hope I won’t have to take an engineering job. Maybe I will have to apply …’ Raghav’s voice trailed into silence.
I could tell Raghav didn’t know. He hadn’t thought that far.
‘I’m sorry, Gopal,’ Raghav said, ‘if I have hurt you in the past. Whatever you may think, it wasn’t personal.’
‘Why do you do all this, Raghav? You are smart. Why don’t you just make money like the rest of us?’
‘Someone has to do it, Gopal. How will things change?’
‘The whole system is fucked up. One person can’t change it.’
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