“SUNIL! This is hardly a time to do these things. You know I am getting late—does this have to be done today?”
“Sir, forgive me—the wasps were making this their headquarters too. Sometime I had to kill them. I got on a ladder when you were resigned and burned them. So long it has still taken. Can you imagine? The bastards were sitting inside even as it was burning…”
Mr. Ahuja wasn’t listening and couldn’t hear anyway. From the large bay windows of the corridor, he was aware of a sound that had a much lower register than the collective buzzing of wasps. He looked out to the road in front of the ministry.
Nearly two hundred middle-aged women—armed with silver spoons and plates—were chanting something and moving slowly in the direction of the Ministry of Prime-Time, a massive slab of exposed concrete. Rakesh leaned out of the arched bay window and was assailed by a trade wind’s-worth of coconut hair oil; he felt faint. The woman four stories below walked like Sangita—thumping loosely from side to side, each step like a tree being uprooted, then caught in some kind of environmental debate and thrust back in just a few centimeters ahead. Mr. Ahuja placed his palms on the cool bricks and ran his fingers down the rough crevices between them. To watch a crowd eat away and corrode the city’s infrastructure, to feel—even from a distance—the liters of sweat being lost for a ridiculous cause and to rise several stories above the conical boom-range of the loudspeaker, this seemed to Mr. Ahuja to be the point of living. He always wanted to be this close to mass action. He wanted to join this noncooperation movement. He wanted, for a moment, to tell these women that he—yes, he—would be the new Mohan Bedi, that he would negotiate the steps of the ministry and become the first man to join the Aunties, and in truth, he’d only be doing it for the crowd. Perhaps that was why TV had no appeal for him; when he was on TV giving interviews, the masses watching were abstract glitches and sparks on antennas jutting illegally from rooftops all over the country. He couldn’t feel them. So he focused his vision now on the bobbed heads and the sagging banners—and that was when a face turned up at him in a flash and became Sangita. Or he thought he saw Sangita. She had been right there. He leaned farther out of the window, aware of a wasp having snipped at his neck. There, between the woman who was carrying a little boy on her shoulders and the other one who was talking on her cell phone and winding her dupatta around her fingertip even as the rest of the women screeched insults at the Ministry of Prime-Time. Would Sangita dare come out into this heat and risk a stampede when she was carrying his child? Would she actually forklift and airdrop her large self into the scene of such elbow-to-elbow action?
A thread of mango in his teeth tantalized his tongue; his fingers were striped with the pressure marks of skin against brick. He knew the answer was no—Sangita never even visited the vegetable market—but he felt the same unease he felt when he sat up at night with a great twitch in his left leg, the traffic outside a pulmonary roar, and remembered that Sangita could easily betray him and tell Arjun the secret whenever she wanted. At that moment his thoughts would go dense and sticky; he’d look at her half-open mouth and the expanding whorl of a polio injection on her shoulder and remind himself that she owed him everything, that in all these years he’d never sunk into true cruelty, that despite her ugliness he’d never sent her packing off to Dalhousie or confronted her parents or headed out in search of the girl he’d actually been shown on that beautiful and hopeful day in the hills months before the wedding that ruined his life.
CHAPTER 16
BRIBING AGE
AT THE HOSPITAL ARJUN WATCHED as Ravi called his father and explained—in quick breaths—what had happened. Arjun was secretly glad he hadn’t been driving; he didn’t want to involve his father in this. Fathers were prone to push situations to their natural extremes, undoing any reactionary restraint or compensatory aggression their sons may have learned. Ravi’s father, it turned out, was in the former category: he knew no restraint. His arrival five minutes later spun a fairly controlled situation into a tizzy. He shouted at everyone. He wore glasses that skidded down his shark-fin nose. He made Ravi sit down on a chair in the tiny waiting room and scolded him to the point of tears. He asked Ravi why he didn’t look when he drove. He was a tense man and he had come expecting a fight, and he was upset to find none. He couldn’t handle the fact that everyone had been awfully nice to the boys.
For instance: when they’d arrived, the ward had been full of young women who’d slit their wrists in solidarity with Mohan Bedi, but the nurse had noted Arjun’s hysteria and made extra space for the girl, ushering her into a white cuboid of fluttering curtains. The girl, too, had been relieved. She was strapped down on a stretcher, begging for painkillers. She kept talking between moans, saying again and again it was her fault—the boys were very nice, her cell phone was okay, wasn’t that proof? Doctors went at her bones with flat hammers and found nothing. Tissues were damaged, mitochondria were impaired with asphyxiation, no bones were broken. Tests were summoned. Then the girl’s parents—two globular specimens, slow-moving victims of diabetes and arthritis, people used to being slowly killed, out of place in the spotless clean white-lit accidental aftermath of the fancy emergency room—arrived and started dumbly text messaging their friends and family. They didn’t know quite what to do with themselves; the woman’s salwar swished the floor; the father stroked his chin and sagged on the side with which he carried his briefcase, telling Ravi that there was nothing to worry about. He had no interest in litigation. The girl was okay, that was what mattered. They were decent people.
Now. A smart father would have taken one look at this propitious situation, gathered up the boys, and dashed through the exit. A smart father would have made sparkling promises to the girl’s parents, gotten down on his knees, and gifted them a dud contact number. A smart father would have avoided the inevitable chitchat with the policeman who would register the accident. Failing this, a smart father would take the policeman aside and thrust a folded one-thousand-rupee note into his grubby hand. A smart father would not argue with authority.
Arjun knew because he had a smart father. Genetic impulses propelled him to intervene. “Uncle, the receptionist said the police-wallah is coming. It’s better if we go before. Ravi doesn’t have a license.”
Mr. Mehta stopped scolding Ravi for a second; he pushed his gold-rimmed glasses to their summit. “The person who was hit is saying nothing is wrong. What is the problem?”
“Please bribe the police, Dad,” Ravi implored.
“No. Nonsense,” said Mr. Mehta, lifting both palms skyward in rage. “The people you hit don’t want to press charges. You expect me to bribe? All my life I have lived in this country.” He paused, rescued his glasses from tipping off his nose. “And not once have I bribed.” (He was lying.) “This everything-goes attitude of yours is no good, Ravi.”
Everything goes, my foot, thought Arjun. He wished Ravi would be more persuasive. But, Dad, I don’t have a license. I’ll have to go to jail. I won’t be able to get into college abroad. Please, Dad. These things matter to Harvard and all. Even if I have a 1500 SAT they won’t take me with a criminal record. Please, let’s bribe the police-wallah.
But Ravi was gutless before his father. “Sorry, Dad. But please?”
“This is all part of growing up only,” continued Mr. Mehta, wagging his index finger at Ravi. “When I was ten, my father used to send me on all sorts of errands. I had to even go to the butcher shop and buy meat—have you seen how filthy those shops are? I used to go alone to Garhi. Awful, awful place. Flies everywhere. They also expect you to bribe if you want non-fly meat. I told them go to hell. I’ll eat flies. I was only ten remember. But even then I knew: better to eat flies than to feed money to people. And then I came back home with halal meat, and you know what your grandfather did? He slapped me. Slapped me straight across the face, chaaapppatt. Nowadays everyone wants you to be a softie. But I tell you, slaps work best. I never got bloody halal meat again—”
“But, Dad,
I started driving because you wanted me to,” said Ravi. “You wanted me to run errands.”
“How is this relevant?”
“Sorry, Dad.”
And that was that.
Arjun—nurtured on arguments, on talking back to his father—felt the full weight of Ravi’s defeat as his friend balanced his head in two shaking palms. The perspective was chastening. Arjun felt bad that he’d been ornery with his own father. The regret was also convenient: Arjun needed to involve Mr. Ahuja before sanctimonious Mr. Mehta landed them in more trouble. He excused himself to make a phone call and, in doing so, missed out on a conversation between Mr. Mehta and the beat policeman that would have caused him severe palpitations.
The policeman was tapping his case register on his knee in a steady rhythm. He asked to see Ravi’s license.
“I don’t have it,” said Ravi. “It fell down.”
“How old are you?” said the policeman.
Before Ravi could lie, Mr. Mehta said, “Sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” the policeman wheezed. “Sixteen and driving?”
“Everyone does it,” said Mr. Mehta.
“Yes, yes. Everyone does it. You will have to come to the police station,” he said to Ravi. “You are a minor, you are illegally driving, and you have hit someone. You have almost taken a life. Now please come. Let us go.”
“You want money?” Mr. Mehta griped.
“That’s not how you bribe!” said Ravi.
The policeman paced about the waiting room. He was a hassled man with two glistening velvet pouches of hair around either ear and a handkerchief with which he mopped his umbrage-taking forehead, the eyebrows pulsing upward as if to capture and harvest the sweat pouring down—and right now he was in a philosophical mood. “Whether I want money or not is irrelevant. In the long run, yes, of course, I would like money. Who doesn’t like money? But, at present moment, both of my daughters are married. I do not plan to have more children except by accident. Hence I am not presently needing money. I am looking for glory. Making arrests is glory. Now, if you resist, I will be even more glorious. So, please, just come quietly. You are in the wrong. I have the law on my side.”
Arjun, still on the cell phone, overhearing this last bit, turned around in horror, and said, “One second—can we wait please? A witness is coming. Please. Please. Please.”
CHAPTER 17
USE THOSE CONNECTIONS
MR. AHUJA WAS IN HIS CAR—contemplating the forthcoming flattery of the SPM—when the call came.
Mr. Ahuja screamed. “WHY THE HELL WAS RAVI DRIVING?”
“Sorry, Papa. I’m in trouble—”
“DOESN’T MATTER. HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU? ONLY GO IN A CAR WITH A DRIVER?”
Unlike Mr. Mehta, Mr. Ahuja’s shouting was calculated—a flexing of his larynx to firmly reestablish his authority, so severely eroded by Arjun’s untimely appearance in the nursery last night.
“Sorry Papa. Please come.”
Then Arjun explained the complications. The dutiful policeman. Ravi’s stubborn father.
“Coming,” said Mr. Ahuja.
In the hospital Mr. Ahuja found the four boys crouched low over a table in the waiting room and was so relieved to see Arjun that he immediately botched the moment. “You must be the famous band,” he beamed.
The boys, Arjun included, jolted upright, said their “Hello uncles.”
Ravi’s father looked a little upset, his cheeks twisted into a scowl.
“Where is the policeman?” asked Mr. Ahuja. “Let me talk to him.”
Unnecessary. The policeman—harassing some other innocents outside the ER—simply saluted him and followed, looking pale. Mr. Ahuja was now his concentrated best, marching through the neon-lit corridors with his arms wound into his three-piece suit, his chin tucked into his neck, shoulders hunched—the entire world gets sucked in when a powerful man turns brusque and broody. He exuded importance. He had brought his two Black Cat Bodyguards—Balwant Singh and Ram Lal, former washermen—out of their laundry fellowship; they followed him with upright machine-guns. The receptionist came to meet him at the automatic doors to the waiting room, palm curled like a rose. He was so sorry. He was the one who had called the police. It was simple protocol. Now he was sorry. So, so sorry to offend the Minister-ji.
Ravi got up and kept saying thank you.
After conferring with the policeman, Mr. Ahuja said, “Okay, so we need to write out an agreement if we want to settle out of court. So—who is the driver?”
“He is the driver,” said Arjun, a bit irritably. “I told you on the phone.”
“Please be quiet. He is not the driver,” said Mr. Ahuja, matter-of-factly. “Correct, Mr. Mehta?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But we need to put a name down.” Mr. Ahuja paused. “Not you boys. We need to say someone else was driving.”
“How about one of your bodyguards?” said Mr. Mehta, looking askance at Balwant and Ram.
“ID card?” said Mr. Ahuja.
“Bodyguards,” repeated Mr. Mehta.
“No, no,” said Mr. Ahuja dismissively. “They are poor people. The last thing poor people need is their name on a legal document—”
“My driver—” said Mr. Mehta.
“No, no. If you don’t mind, can you put your name?” asked Mr. Ahuja. Only it wasn’t a question; it was a command. Mr. Ahuja was looking Mr. Mehta in the eye, his head tight and trembling with authority.
Mr. Mehta hesitated. “Well. There’s one issue. I’m not sure—”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Ahuja, appalled by Mr. Mehta’s cowardice. “I will put my name down. How does it matter if I am a minister? I will say I hit the girl. I am to blame. It is my fault.”
And before anyone could stop him, he’d written out a statement in Hindi and signed it. Mr. Ahuja was now officially the driver. Mr. Ahuja had hit the girl. Arjun was impressed by his father’s self-sacrifice, and he understood from the lovelorn expressions on his friends’ faces that they would be eternally grateful for Mr. Ahuja’s intervention. That he—Arjun—could misuse their gratitude to establish complete control over the band. That he’d never have to invite them home to practice.
CHAPTER 18
A LITTLE CHAT
MR. AHUJA DID, IN THE END, have his revenge on Mr. Mehta. He walked into the ward, shook hands with the girl’s parents, patted the girl on the head, and pointed to Mr. Mehta. “He is a great man. He has agreed to pay for all medical expenses.”
Mr. Mehta frowned, assented.
“Your good name?” asked the girl’s father.
“Minister Ahuja.”
They signed the agreement. Then, to cement the situation, Mr. Ahuja gave the girl’s parents the ultimate prize—his phone number. He told them they could call if they ever needed “help.” Yes, help: in Delhi, the only thing that mattered was who you knew, and now—for the rest of their lives or for the duration of his term—the girl’s parents knew a minister (whether they’d be able to get through Mr. Ahuja’s peons and busy phones was another matter). They signed the legal document and the case was closed. Mr. Ahuja was triumphant: he inhaled deeply and took in the peculiar odor of the hospital, a smell he associated with babies being born, kick-started with a little slap on their backs to out any fluid.
He walked toward the car with Arjun. The parking lot was floodlit and finished with tiny, ugly peaks of concrete.
“Thank you, Papa.”
“You’re welcome, son,” said Mr. Ahuja. Then he added, “I hope you’re not upset about last night.”
“I’m normal,” said Arjun.
“It must be upsetting. What you saw last night. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk about it.”
“Papa, the more you ask me if I’m upset, the more upset I’ll get.”
Mr. Ahuja said, “Come sit here with me in the car. I need to have a father-son talk with you.”
They remained standing, knees awkwardly bent in the breach between cars. Mr. Ahuja as
ked the driver, who had been sitting with one leg out of the car, smoking, to take a bus back home.
“I’m going to drive,” he told him. The driver handed Mr. Ahuja the keys and walked away.
Mr. Ahuja gestured at the open driver’s door. “Let’s sit in the car and have a father-son talk.”
“This is a father-son talk,” Arjun reminded him.
“Very funny, young man. But what I am going to talk about is very serious. Get in.”
“Papa, I know how sex works. I’m sixteen.”
“No, of course, beta. Of course! In this day and age how can one not? But I also wanted to use this opportunity to talk to you about, well, a question you asked me some years ago.”
“What question?”
“Well. Do you remember you asked me why your penis looks different from that of other boys?”
“What? Did I? No.”
“You asked me. And I said then that it is because they have foreskin and you don’t. Remember?”
“No.”
There was a point to this excruciating exchange. Mr. Ahuja wanted to use Arjun’s mandatory circumcision in America as a segue, applying to dialogue the same tricks of photography that showed a flower retracting into a bud in a few seconds. A concentrated life span. Circumcised penis = America = Rashmi. Later, Mr. Ahuja would wonder if this was unconscious revenge he’d taken on Arjun. Hitting back with a sexual secret.
“Please bear with me for a minute. This will all be clear to you soon. I’m not doing this to needle you. But there is a reason why they have foreskin and you don’t. I want to explain it properly.”
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