The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  KOTA NEELIMA

  The Honest Season

  RANDOM HOUSE INDIA

  Contents

  A Note on the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Epilogue

  Follow Random House

  Copyright

  A Note on the Author

  Kota Neelima has been a journalist for over twenty years, covering politics in New Delhi, India. She is Senior Research Fellow, South Asia Studies at The Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies, Johns Hopkins University, Washington, DC. Her recent academic research in India on perception seeks to develop a structure based on rural and urban voter choices.

  Her previous books include the bestselling Shoes of the Dead and Death of a Moneylender, among others. Also a well-known painter, Neelima’s works are a part of several collections in India and abroad, including the Museum of Sacred Art, Belgium.

  www.kotaneelima.com

  To my father

  Prologue

  New Delhi; July (Six months before the national elections)

  It rained in that disinterested Delhi way as if doing a job that would bring neither rewards nor recognition, the same way the government officer in the Free Water department signed an order that afternoon to normalize water supply to areas in south-west Delhi. No one had asked him to expedite the file or delay it by luring him with tickets for the IPL cricket matches or special passes to movie previews. No one even thanked him for making sure that 15,000 households would be pleasantly surprised to find water in taps next morning for the first time in three months. He knew why there had been no supply. The water had been secretly diverted to private businessmen, who had resold it at a profit to the same households. The dry taps were explained to the government by saying that the water supply was affected because of peak demand due to summer heat. No one thought of investigating the matter; the private water lobby ensured that. This informal and hugely profitable arrangement usually came to an end with the arrival of monsoon rains each year, after which there could be no justification for water scarcity. It helped if the rains were delayed, though; people remained thirsty a little longer. This year, however, the rains were on time.

  The officer angrily snapped shut the file on his desk and left his room to take a coffee break. The rain that fell listlessly sharpened with sudden focus, and drops found him, choosing their target as he walked to the café across the lane. Settling down at a table with coffee, he pensively lowered his eyes to his cell phone. He had worked in the department for six years now and had made money every summer; all except this one. That was because of the new director, a man famous for his discipline and efficiency. He was specially brought in one year before the elections next January to ensure that water reached the voters abundantly this summer, enough to make them forget the last four very parched seasons. He was so strict that within two weeks of his appointment six months ago, he had launched a full-scale investigation into reports of water pilferage and threatened to take action against any officer found guilty of collusion with the private water business. The findings were submitted in sixty days, collusion was indicated, officers asked to show cause and businessmen issued summons.

  Then the summer began. The water supply was once again cut off to households and privately owned tankers reappeared on Delhi roads to sell water at a premium. But there was a difference this year; no one knew what the deal was. The new director was that disciplined, and efficient.

  The officer thoughtfully touched the ID card that hung by a cord from his neck. The informal income he earned every summer supported a lifestyle his family was now used to. It paid for the plasma TV and home theatre, holidays in Lakshadweep and Leh, school trips to Nepal and Bhutan, that expensive and unnecessary watch, and that exorbitant but enticing jewelry. He felt poor and deprived today, enough to justify selling the secret details of a multi-crore-government project to the highest bidder. He decided to make the phone call and glanced around once to check. The café was never crowded; there was a couple in the corner who hoped no one recognized them, a young man in the front with headphones peered at a screen, a young woman near the windows was immersed in her notebook and a middle-aged woman and her young son at the counter read the menu aloud, deciding.

  The officer made the call.

  After the greetings, he had some instructions for the businessman. ‘Please make sure no one calls me after this on my official numbers. You told me this cell phone is safe, so I will call if necessary. Don’t use your regular numbers to text me either. Do you understand?’

  At a distance near the counter, the mother and son chose a latte.

  ‘Of course I’m nervous. And you better be too,’ the officer replied on the phone. ‘This is an election year. There could be an inquiry into this deal if a different party forms the government after the elections. The companies involved may have to buy immunity from the new government against scrutiny. But if there are loopholes, and if we are not careful today, the contracts may get revoked and officers concerned could be suspended. So, yes, I’m nervous!’

  He listened to the other side.

  ‘I know it’s all the same to you,’ he agreed testily. ‘It doesn’t matter which party is in power.’ He paused to overcome the last tentative tug of his conscience, then said, ‘I called to say that I can get what you want; the entire financial profile of the project.’

  As he heard the response, he was suddenly upset.

  ‘You did what?’ he demanded a little loudly, and then glanced around, but no one paid attention. He gathered himself quickly. This was an unforeseen crisis; he could sense from the light-hearted tone that the businessman no longer needed him. ‘I don’t have a problem if you want to talk to other officers in my department,’ he said tersely. ‘No one has more information than I do, and that’s because of a small detail you seem to have overlooked; I’m the head of the Public Commitments section!’

  Apparently, it was too small a detail. His face stiffened in anger at the businessman’s reply.

  ‘All right then!’ he said, miffed. ‘If you believe you want to deal with some other officer, well, that’s just fine with me. I would like to see how anyone can get the financial information on this project without my cooperation.’

  He was interrupted by an explanation that was too brief to be polite.

  ‘Yes, I know how much this project means to you and I also know you don’t want to fail,’ he conceded tolerantly. ‘But every big company will compete for this project, and I’m just surprised that you want to risk a new source, that’s all.’

  The officer turned as the young man with the headphones exclaimed at something on his computer screen; probably a catch at the boundary or a missed goal.

  ‘Of course I will help if a colleague asks me to, but the price won’t be the same.’ The officer retorted in response to a question on the phone. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he added nastily, ‘I like the fact that you are trying out others in the department. Very soon, you will discover exactly how considerate I have been with my demands. I have told you this before; I don’t do transactions. This is a relationship of trust between a bureaucrat and a busi
nessman. It has to be nurtured.’

  The detailed response infuriated the officer. ‘Those were not “gifts” as you call them,’ he snapped. ‘You gave them to me in return for the information. I earned them.’

  The reply was candid and the officer frowned. ‘Fine then. I won’t compromise on my principles.’

  There was a surprised cackle on the phone.

  ‘Yes, you heard that right.’ The officer was getting worried by this flippant treatment. ‘We’ll always be friends, and you can always call me for any information on any project,’ he continued with forced composure. ‘But you see, I will have to help other companies as well. And that would include exposing the weak points of competitors,’ he paused significantly before adding, ‘like you.’

  There was a sudden silence of realization on the phone and then a swift apology from the businessman.

  The officer closed his eyes in relief but said dismissively, ‘It’s no use. I have made up my mind . . .’

  He was once again interrupted by an explanation, this time lengthy and pleading.

  ‘I know,’ he smiled to himself, ‘you never meant to go to anyone else . . .’

  He paused and relished the panic on the other side of the line, then said, ‘Sure, you are under a lot of stress.’ He had a sip of the coffee.

  ‘All right, calm down now,’ the officer chuckled. ‘I won’t help any other company on one condition. You have to deal only with me, all through and right until the end of the process.’

  There was rapid agreement.

  ‘Meet me tomorrow at the usual place, the movie theatre. Leave the payment in the trunk of the car like last time and hand me the keys inside the hall. The evening show is the new Superman–Batman movie, I think.’ The officer gently urged, ‘Be there.’

  He refused a request of the businessman.

  ‘Instalments won’t do. I strongly advise you to bring the entire payment tomorrow,’ the officer insisted. ‘I can’t meet you again for some time while the project decisions are being made.’

  The woman who had been sitting at the window walked by his table towards the counter. He was distracted momentarily by her slim, tall figure, until he heard the response on the phone.

  ‘No, that’s not enough!’ he lost his patience. ‘We are talking about five officers, one in charge of each step of the contract. Are you sure you can afford this?’

  He didn’t respond immediately to the reply, and then thoughtfully nodded to himself.

  ‘Fine then. Two instalments, but no more! I’ll wait for the confirmation tomorrow morning. Remember; text me, don’t call. Texts can’t be traced.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed to a suggestion. ‘A Blackberry phone would have helped, but I don’t have one.’

  The alacrity on the other side made him smile again.

  ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’ He paused, listening to a question, and then answered, ‘Black, please. I like black phones.’ After he ended the call, the officer lounged back in the chair, feeling happy with the way he had handled that negotiation. He had not been entirely truthful. He was not the only one who had the financials of the project, this was not the only company he would help and the payment wouldn’t be divided among his colleagues; he would keep it all. It was a big project, the last of its kind for Delhi. Pipelines were to be laid for newly developed parts of the west and north-west parts of the city, a vast area with thousands of homes to be served through dozens of government contracts worth hundreds of crores. He had been truthful about one thing though; there would be an inquiry after elections into the process of how the companies were selected for the project. This was too large a deal not to interest any new political party in government. It was risky, yes, but just like his new director, even he was efficient when necessary, and disciplined.

  After half an hour and a walnut muffin, he sauntered back into his office and settled in his cabin, humming a ringtone of a cell phone he had just overheard in the corridor outside. A smile lingered on his face as he opened a new file marked ‘Urgent’ and started to estimate the cost to improve water quality in parts of his zone. The air conditioner was set to low. The raindrops on his shirt touched his arms coolly, as if to remind him of his secret deal. His colleague from the next cabin came in to say there had been a phone call for him while he was out. The caller had left a message, and the colleague handed him a slip of paper. The officer read it absently and froze.

  ‘You are wrong,’ the message stated. ‘Texts can be traced. Keep up Mr Shrivastav.’

  He felt his heart slow down, his body turn cold with fear. He glanced up at his colleague warily, but he only seemed confused. No, it couldn’t mean anything to anyone but him. His face was drawn as he stared again at the slip; the little white square paper proved that someone knew all about that call he had made in the café to the businessman. His colleague, intrigued by his reaction, inquired if something was wrong. The officer didn’t answer; he just stood up abruptly and, in a manner not befitting a man of his rank, ran out of his office.

  Outside in the lane opposite the café, Mira Mouli stood under the awning of a shop window and grimly surveyed the shoes on display. These were shoes for mingling, prancing and dancing, not for rush hours and long hours, or for taking the stairs when the elevators didn’t work. These were shoes for going places, not going home. One of the salesmen assessed her from inside the shop to check if she was a potential customer. The black heels were stylish, the blue shirt was khadi and the dark eyes were cold as they met his through the glass. He looked away hurriedly. She wasn’t interested in the shoes in the shop window; she was interested in the shop window itself because it reflected the café entrance across the street. By now Mr Shrivastav must have read her message and figured out that someone had overheard his phone call in the café. She didn’t have to wait long; Mr Shrivastav came running through the rain in his creaseless clothes. He rushed straight into the café but emerged in a few moments, looking lost and bewildered. He didn’t appear smug now, Mira thought as she smiled faintly, like the way he had after he struck the deal to sell confidential details of the government contract. The officer shook his head in disbelief and regret, as the rain pounded down on his shoulders in reprimand. The deal would have to be called off, he told himself. He should have been more careful; he shouldn’t have been so desperate for the deal. But the season to make money was coming to an end, he thought weakly; the rains were here. Mira studied his reflection among the fancy shoes in the window as he reached for his cell phone and made the call. Though he spoke briefly, it wasn’t difficult to guess whom he might have called and what he might have said. The Superman–Batman show would have to wait.

  It was good entertainment for her birthday afternoon, Mira concluded as she walked to where her car was parked. It was just a little café on the fringes of a lazy market place where she had stopped for a cup of tea on way to office. But she was intrigued by the officer’s angry expression as he had emerged from the government offices across the road and stormed into the café. He had sat two tables away and talked in whispers. But when the negotiation got harder, he couldn’t whisper anymore; and that was all she had needed, to hear him speak once. She had already noticed that his shirt was fresh; he didn’t sweat through his day. His watch was gold; he had got away with this before. His pen was a ruse and the wedding ring a bait.

  Mira had walked by his table to take a better look at his ID. The blue cord round his neck had the initials of his department; the green corner of the card declared the zone and his last name was printed in black. It wasn’t difficult to determine his designation either, as he flung it into the conversation. The government directory, accessed on her cell phone, provided his office phone numbers. She left a message just as the head of Public Commitments for the south-west zone exited the café. The officer had been unafraid as he had walked back into his building, as if he knew the public wouldn’t bother if he stole from them; they never did. Yes, people would not let him get away if he had touched their hom
es, their furniture, their vehicles or their parking slots. But their roads, their bridges, their trains? These could be stolen from them anytime. Just like their drinking water.

  One

  Some years ago, Bidur Munshi—the owner of a newspaper in Delhi—decided that enough was enough. There should be a limit to the badgering that the newspaper could take, and this was not any newspaper. It was a political institution, the dream child of those who participated in the greatest endeavour of the nation, its struggle for freedom. It was the voice of unknown Indians, an instrument of change and a mirror of the ideals people aspired for. Today, the newspaper was once again part of a struggle, but unlike the one in 1947, it could lose this one.

  Like most symbols of an archaic age, there was respect for the newspaper but no utility. After the round-the-clock reportage on television, there was no news to print for the next morning; nothing that the readers had not already heard, seen, weighed and judged. The line ‘At the time of going to press,’ was beginning to hurt, and the news didn’t seem to care; it just kept breaking. Like, for instance, the minister, whose house was raided, was already arrested by next morning; the actress, who was expecting a child, already had the baby late last night; and the young challenger with the blistering forehand was already the new men’s singles champion at Wimbledon.

  What was left to report? It was a question Munshi had often grappled with in the last few years, especially while dealing with the plummeting figures of sales of the daily.

  He was offered some solutions, which he sincerely tried. There was still scope for political analysis, he was told. Those studied articles that explored new possibilities and tested old theories were so ponderous that nothing but ink and paper could carry their weight. One may love the instant fame of news channels, but, in the end, the printed word was for posterity. And so Munshi got the best thinkers to write for him and launched fresh ideas into the sterile space of what-could-have-been and what-should-have-been.