by Kota Neelima
‘They are not my parents, are they?’ Mira couldn’t help asking him that morning at the river. ‘This is not the photo of my parents.’
Raghunath had tried to stay with the lie. ‘How can you say such a thing?’ he begged. ‘You are the only person in whom I can see a glimpse of my dead brother, Mira. Please don’t . . .’
But she could discern his thoughts. ‘You took this photo yourself when I demanded proof of my identity. These are your friends, not my parents!’
Raghunath had been shaken by her discovery, she could tell, but he wasn’t really surprised. He knew her special powers would reveal the truth one day. It was just a matter of time.
She had fought back the tears. ‘I’m right, am I not?’
He had reluctantly accepted. ‘Yes.’
Mira didn’t know what to do with the truth, it was so hard and so cold that it drained the warmth from everything around her. As the breeze dried the tears on her face that morning, Mira had felt her life was made of temporary matter. She had suspected that her fate lines were drawn in sand. Now she knew they were, in fact, lines drawn in water.
Raghunath had told her the rest of her story, or the little he knew of it. She was found abandoned as an infant at the orphanage on the day that was later registered as her birthday. Raghunath, then a professor at the local college, had often visited the orphanage and offered financial help to as many children as he could afford, given he had a family of his own to support. He had grown fond of the new infant, whom everyone called Mira. He discovered early, like others, that Mira was not an ordinary child and seemed to know things without them being explained to her. She never needed lessons in conduct or discipline, learnt the subjects quickly and excelled at studies. But unlike other children at the orphanage who were reconciled to their reality, Mira constantly tried to know more about her own origin. Her every question led to the eventual assumption that her parents had abandoned her because they didn’t want her. She refused to believe that, despite her powers that confirmed it as fact, and continued to ask the same question, hoping for a different answer.
Unable to watch her disappointment, Raghunath built the lie of a family and a home to which she had once belonged. Mira had asked him a myriad questions and wouldn’t rest without some tangible proof. His heart was wrung by how desperately she wanted to believe him despite her doubts and so, gave her a photograph of his friends. She was happy at first, but then her mind slowly eroded the façade of Raghunath’s lie like a persistent river that triumphed over her belief. This process was so apparent that Raghunath was certain she would soon discover his lie. He just hoped she would understand why he had done it, the same reason why he had given her his name; he truly wished she were his daughter.
At the end, Mira did understand why Raghunath had lied, but at the beginning, she had hated him. The beautiful dream he had built for her had turned an inexplicable misfortune into a deliberate destiny. She could almost hear his gentle voice now, pleading her to never think of herself as being alone. She was well acquainted with those words. She had repeated them to herself a million times until then. But as he spoke them aloud, they created a sudden and permanent gap between her and the rest of the world. She had hated him then for his kind, futile words, for his yet another injustice to her. It took time to realize it was her gift that separated her from the rest, the power to see the invariable truth all the time, without choice, without relief. It robbed her of her mirages, the necessary falsehoods required for happiness. And ironically, none of her special powers could tell her anything about the parents who had abandoned her or the reason for their decision. Her now-famous gift of knowing that could unravel the minds of powerful men and women failed to answer the only question that tormented her: why was she an orphan?
Mira abruptly stood up from her chair, grabbed the apple, and left the office cabin to escape the memories. All cabins of the editorial department opened into the newsroom at the centre, which was a long hall divided into departmental work stations. The glass doors at the end led out to the elevators and stairs, and to the open balcony across the corridor. This was on the second floor of the three-storeyed building that Munshi owned. The ground and first floors were for non-editorial staff, and the third floor was dedicated to offices of Munshi himself, his two deputy editors and the meeting rooms.
Mira paused in the newsroom for the distraction of some random conversation until Lina Kamat, the news editor, joined in. Lina was one of the key people of the editorial department, who brought out the edition every night efficiently and faultlessly. She was also beautiful and single. Lina used to like Mira, until she discovered that Mira didn’t need anything from anyone. She didn’t need assurances, she also didn’t need approval. She didn’t care who was promoted, who was reprimanded, the reason for that unfair increment or that well-deserved memo. She wouldn’t attend office parties, wouldn’t take long coffee breaks and didn’t enjoy any gossip based on lies. There was, therefore, not much scope for an office friendship with her. Sensing that Lina hoped for some lunch-hour disagreement, Mira placidly listened to her provocative criticism of her articles and quietly agreed. After avoiding the skirmish, she headed towards the glass doors and, as she passed by the photo section, smiled at the sports photographer who waved at her. He pretended to be a die-hard cricket fan because of his boss when, in fact, he was a die-hard football fan. Then in the city reporting department, she noticed a young reporter diligently typing at his desk to finish a story; she knew he was also considering a job at a rival newspaper.
Crossing the corridor, she stepped out into the balcony where the rain was painting the day silver. The busy main street two floors below was almost deserted as the rain that day was heavy, like a force of nature and not just an urban inconvenience. She leaned against the wall and had the apple. The rain calmed her down in time and she analyzed the inaccuracy of her birthday. She wasn’t born on that day; she was merely found alive. She had often wondered if it would be the right day to be found dead as well. Mira considered the edge of the balcony a few feet away and the rain beyond. To reach rain, fall with it, to become rain. To be found again, this time as rain, on her birthday.
Two
It was almost 4 p.m. Mira was scheduled to meet the young politician of the PP, Kirit Singh, famous for his spectacular rise from college politics to the national stage. He was immensely popular among youth and students, the reason why the PP was considering him for the Middle Delhi seat that included two university campuses. He also had a massive following in the social media network, where he had already begun his election campaign and got enthusiastic support. Then suddenly, earlier that week, Kirit Singh had resigned from the PP and shocked everyone. He said it was a mark of protest against a party that was fast slipping into a dynastic system where the real worth of party men was not being recognized. He revealed he had been denied the Middle Delhi seat as the party president Mahesh Bansi had wanted it for the re-election of his son, Sikander. That was the truth, but as with any truth told without strategy in politics, it was hastily disowned by everyone.
However, it brought to notice a fact that few had engaged with; the future prospects of a little known politician called Sikander Bansi. He had contested for the first time in the last election from a rural constituency and won effortlessly against a sitting MP of whom the voters had tired. And now after four and half years of Sikander’s tenure as their MP, the voters were tired of him. It was well-known that his re-election would be difficult. The Opposition candidate had informally begun touring the constituency and was gathering impressive crowds. Analysts agreed that if Mahesh planned a rescue for his son, this was just the right time to change his constituency, and Middle Delhi was just the right place to contest from. Sikander was better suited for Middle Delhi because he was born in the city and had lived there all his life. The city elite had an easy recall of him, although it was mostly about his decadent lifestyle, fast cars, celebrity friends and the frequent cause for embarrassment to his father. E
ven as an elected MP, he had spent more time in Delhi than in his rural constituency. He never addressed the issues of his constituents and rarely raised questions in Parliament. In contrast, he was a lively participant in Delhi’s various social circles, where he could be often seen discussing the cultural scene and international trends. After his election, rivals of his father in the party like Nalan Malik had begun opposing Sikander as well. But they soon discovered that he posed them no threat. He was hardly present in Parliament and never in the party office. And he always, and notoriously, went against his father’s wishes. Sikander’s conduct constantly violated some rule or tradition; he didn’t seem to care for either etiquette or expectations. He never made political statements, demands or suggestions in the press, and was only rarely ever photographed. In a way, it was quite stunning that Sikander Bansi, son of one of the most powerful politicians of the country, almost didn’t exist politically.
Kirit Singh’s rebellion was bound to have an impact on the party’s decision about both Middle Delhi and Sikander’s future. That was the importance of the man Mira had invited for an interview at her office that afternoon. Kirit Singh arrived at sharp 4 p.m. and agreed to a cup of tea. He was between thirty and thirty-five years of age, fair and short, with an impatient smile and a manner better designed for confrontation than conciliation. As an introduction, he gave a brief description of how he had grown up in Middle Delhi and that it was more than just his home. Mira listened to him intently, watched his hand gestures, his clothes, words on which he averted his eyes and the issues he was comfortable with. At the end of the first five minutes, she began to get angry with Bhaskar for assigning her such non-stories.
‘The Opposition National Party has offered you a candidacy from Middle Delhi,’ she noted. ‘You have resigned from the People’s Party on that issue. What do you plan to do next?’
He shrugged. ‘I want to represent the people of Middle Delhi and ensure their problems are solved. It doesn’t matter which party gives me this opportunity; people are far more important than any political party.’
‘You mean you would join any political party that offers you a ticket to contest the election?’ she translated the rhetoric.
He reacted sharply. ‘I will go to any party that respects my commitment to the people of Middle Delhi.’
She pursued, ‘Are you confident of winning the seat?’
‘Absolutely,’ he smiled one of his poster smiles. ‘That might be the reason why other parties are keen for me to join them.’
‘You mean, you can defeat Sikander Bansi if he contests Middle Delhi?’
‘I can and I will. He will see a contest of the kinds he has never seen before,’ he said derisively. ‘He won’t find it same as winning an election in a far-flung constituency during a popular wave in favour of the PP. He needs to learn a few things about our democracy, and I plan on teaching him.’
Mira was amused at the thoughts he was prudent enough not to share. ‘What do have against Sikander Bansi?’ she asked.
‘Nothing at all. Never even met the guy! But then, that’s true for most of the PP; only a few party men have ever seen him.’ He chuckled and added, ‘Except for the party president, of course.’ Then he turned serious. ‘The PP had always been against promoting political dynasties, and that gave hope to common people like me. The PP leadership was dedicated to social service and public welfare, and it made us proud. That was the reason why senior office-bearers of the party never contested elections, because the pursuit of power was not their aim. Unfortunately, the present president is far too ambitious to be good for the party,’ he said, sounding disappointed. ‘He has run the party with the help of cliques and confidantes, and by rehabilitating former ministers at senior positions. He is enamoured with power and while he himself could never achieve it, Mahesh wants it now for his son. Well,’ he observed acidly, ‘he might have even succeeded had he not messed with my plans.’
Mira surveyed him. ‘What about loyalty? After all, the PP and the same party president gave you many opportunities to progress in politics.’
‘I’m grateful for that, of course. But I’m loyal to the people, not to the son of the high command.’
He had just recollected that line from a conversation with Nalan Malik. Mira smiled; she looked good when she smiled, people mistook her to be friendly when she smiled.
‘Isn’t that one of the secret slogans of the rivals in the party?’
He acted perplexed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Your resignation has embarrassed Mahesh Bansi and helped his opponents, like Nalan Malik,’ said Mira, as she sipped the tea that had just arrived. ‘What do you think of Nalan Malik, Mr Singh?’
‘What should I think? He is one of our senior party leaders,’ Kirit calmly asserted. However, he was not a politician for nothing, so he added, ‘There should be space for every shade of opinion in a democratic political party.’
‘Sure. But then, all democracy requires a winner and a loser,’ Mira remarked. ‘Seems like you are the latter, doesn’t it?’
He didn’t answer at once. Then warily said, ‘The voters will decide who the loser is. I believe in electoral justice.’
‘Only if you can afford it,’ she pointed out. ‘Are you rich enough to believe in electoral justice? Or perhaps someone else is, on your behalf?’
He was uneasy. ‘I am not the only one who resents that Sikander is being foisted on the party. But I may be the only one who can do something about it.’
She read his thoughts as if they were printed on paper. ‘Surely you discussed this with other party leaders? Like Nalan?’
‘I did. They all requested me not to leave the party. Though I refused to change my decision, I was especially touched by Nalan’s offer of financial help to my family. He understands these things because he too is a common man. He knows that while I am involved in my politics, I will also need to support my family.’
‘That’s generous indeed,’ she admitted, then said sympathetically, ‘You are one of Nalan’s loyalists; you think that is why Mahesh Bansi picked your constituency?’
‘Exactly. I like Nalan not because of ambition or compulsion, but because he is just like me and thousands of other young men and women from humble backgrounds who seek to join national political parties.’
‘Does it mean that Sikander’s privileged background will make him a bad politician?’
‘Perhaps not,’ he granted. ‘But I have worked hard and sacrificed enough to be able to contest the Middle Delhi seat. It’s my turn now, and Sikander shouldn’t be able to just replace me because of his family. This is not why I joined politics, to always be a follower and never a leader. This trend is not good for the party’s future.’
‘Then your revolt against Sikander is for the greater good of the party?’
‘It’s a small price to pay.’
‘What will Nalan get you in return?’
‘I resent your suggestion,’ Kirit said cordially. ‘Besides, revolts like mine cannot be bought.’
‘Really?’ She closed her notebook. ‘Must be the economy.’
Back in her cabin, Mira flipped through her notes of the interview. Kirit Singh’s resignation gave the rivals an opportunity to corner Mahesh Bansi, but Nalan Malik could play it both ways. To orchestrate Sikander’s defeat in the January elections would be the best way to make Mahesh redundant. And the fear of this possibility would get Nalan leverage with the party leadership. It was precisely such cold and calculating tactics that had ensured his steady rise in the PP. Mira had talked to Nalan only once, when he was promoted a few months ago to be one of the four general secretaries of the party. That promotion required that she researched him as part of her job, and she had called him for an interview. He declined to meet but had politely informed her that he had five minutes, if she wanted to ask him the questions on the phone. His answers were cautious, clear and intelligent. He was neither humble nor proud, but just factual about the promotion, and explaine
d it as part of the party’s election preparation.
‘Will you contribute to election strategy?’ she had asked.
‘Everyone will contribute to election strategy, Ms Mouli, before the election.’
The cryptic answers didn’t work for her; Mira needed him to speak more. ‘Although you do not contest elections as part of your party policy, is your promotion a recognition of your ability to deliver electoral victories?’ she asked. ‘You have managed to turn around losing battles into winning propositions in the past.’
He had chuckled, ‘I wish you were my biographer.’
She focused on his engaging voice. ‘How will you help the party in preparing for elections?’
‘I shall do the usual, ma’am.’ He explained helpfully, ‘I shall attend meetings, discuss issues and not reveal a thing to the media.’
She had remained silent.
‘I have thirty seconds left,’ he said.
‘I’m done.’
‘You mentioned you were a know-journalist.’ He asked, intrigued. ‘So, what did you get to “know” about me from this conversation?’
‘That you are amused by this promotion.’
She could sense his surprise as he had listened to her in silence.
‘But it won’t stop you; nothing can,’ she continued. ‘You want to move forward in the party at any cost, even at the cost of an election defeat, if the blame for it can be pinned on your rival.’
He didn’t speak immediately. ‘It has been a pleasure talking to you, Ms Mouli,’ he had said finally and ended the call.
Nalan had never spoken to her again. She had sought his version on political stories about the PP, but his staff always maintained that he was unavailable for comment. Mira now wondered if she should call his office to get his side of the Kirit Singh story. It felt pointless; Nalan would never speak to a know-journalist about this episode. But she had to try, so she did. And failed.
