The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  Nalan’s unavailability for comment, Mira had learnt over time, was his general reaction to the free press. He was not available at his office in the party headquarters, at his residence or even in Parliament. He was only partially available on his cell phone and that too, to only those whom he trusted with his number. He had created a moat of silence around himself, which could only be crossed through swing bridges selectively lowered for those he approved of. He seemed to want the rest of the media to remain on the other side of this moat, and survive on the morsels of information he let drop occasionally.

  However, in the absence of known facts about an important political person, Delhi usually invented some. Nalan Malik had to be understood from the clothes he wore, the people he met, the places he visited and the secular music festivals he favoured. Then there was that tantalizingly under-reported divorce just a few months ago. He had known his ex-wife, the daughter of a respected judge, for almost a year before they got married. They had been a normal, everyday couple for three years, until she filed for divorce in a Delhi court, stating that he was disloyal and was involved in an extramarital relationship. Nothing was known beyond that, although Nalan had been photographed a few times with Kim Sharma, a businesswoman close to several PP leaders. That didn’t count because everyone knew Kim, including the editors of news channels and newspapers that reported the divorce. Nalan moved swiftly and silently, and Kim was never mentioned in the news again.

  That was not the only instance when the media was kind to Nalan. Nalan didn’t manage the press by engaging with the journalists; he did it by engaging with the businesses that owned the press. All except Bidur Munshi, who hated cultivation of all kinds. That was another reason why Mira wasn’t on Nalan’s very short list of trustworthy journalists.

  While he was usually unavailable on all his numbers, even his secretary was not available to her that day. Amused at the widespread precautions taken to not speak with her, Mira left a message that simply stated that she was writing the Kirit Singh resignation story and that she had a deadline. She was filing the report after an hour when the call came through.

  Surprised, she wished Nalan and waited.

  ‘After our last conversation a few months ago,’ Nalan explained in his soft, comforting voice, ‘I had resolved never to speak to you again.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s because I resent the idea of know-reportage,’ he said coolly, ‘which is designed to target politicians who are averse to engaging with the media either as part of party discipline or personal principles. I find your style of journalism intrusive and unethical.’

  ‘Exactly like your thoughts, Mr Malik,’ she countered, ‘which you want to keep from the less intrusive and more ethical journalists.’

  ‘I don’t want to debate the point, ma’am,’ he said scathingly. ‘I returned your call because I had the suspicion that you were once again about to smear my name without any factual evidence.’

  ‘Here is your chance to escape that fate then,’ Mira generously suggested. ‘Why are you helping Kirit Singh? Or, haven’t you heard his name before?’

  ‘Of course I have heard his name!’ he snapped back. ‘And I have no comment.’

  Mira closed her eyes to focus on his thoughts that had always been a little too complex to be known at once.

  ‘Will Sikander Bansi’s defeat in elections serve your purpose?’

  ‘What nonsense! His defeat or victory will mean nothing to me.’

  She was silent, then said, ‘That’s a lie, Mr Malik.’

  ‘That, Ms Mouli,’ he said cordially, ‘is the end of our conversation.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She didn’t hang up.

  Neither did he. ‘Last time,’ he said, in an admirably controlled voice, ‘you wrote that I had negotiated a deal with a visiting foreign minister, even though you knew I am not part of the cabinet and merely a general secretary of the PP. I survived that story because I got credit for the rescue of a failing diplomatic relationship. I won’t be that lucky every time you write one of your know-reports. And neither will you be.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re the knower. Figure it out!’

  ‘Is that why you won’t meet me for an interview?’ she was curious. ‘To keep me from figuring you out?’

  ‘The day you have to meet me, Ms Mouli,’ his tone was causal, ‘you’ll wish you hadn’t.’

  ‘Can’t be that bad, surely,’ she mocked. ‘You are too hard on yourself.’

  There was a few seconds of silence and then he hung up abruptly.

  Later, Mira examined his replies; he had not answered the Kirit Singh question, but he didn’t have to. He was ambitious, driven and ruthless in his politics. But behind all that, she could also detect an intense vulnerability from his fear of failure and disgust with what it made him do. That’s what kept him from meeting her; he knew she would discover his desperation for success, and also, his weakness for it.

  She had just finished the report when Bhaskar’s secretary called Mira about an urgent meeting. One flight of stairs up from the noisy newsroom led to the expensive silence of the third floor and the offices of the editor-in-chief, the two deputy editors and their staff. The rest of the space was used for two meeting rooms, a conference room, the library and an exclusive dining area. Bhaskar’s secretary gestured to the door, and Mira walked in.

  ‘Good,’ Bhaskar said, his chubby face relieved. ‘I was worried you might have been out of office.’

  Mira sat down. ‘You seem worried for other reasons as well.’

  Used to her ways, he admitted. ‘Munshi,’ he explained. ‘He wants to meet you after this briefing; he is waiting with Mahesh Bansi.’

  Her dark eyes were intense, as she discerned his thoughts. ‘It’s about his son.’

  Bhaskar nodded. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Sikander Bansi? No.’ She paused. ‘Is this regarding the Kirit Singh story?’

  ‘Talked to Sikander on the phone perhaps?’ Bhaskar asked again. ‘Maybe met him at a party in the city?’

  ‘Never talked to him or met him, Bhaskar.’

  ‘Maybe, you know his friends then?’

  ‘More likely I know his enemies,’ she mentioned dryly. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘Sikander is missing.’

  ‘What do you mean missing?’ she demanded. ‘He is a member of Parliament and son of the People’s Party president. He is not exactly a poodle.’

  ‘He can still go missing, can’t he?’ Bhaskar asked, incensed.

  Mira conceded that.

  ‘Now this is crucial,’ Bhaskar began, ‘under no . . .’

  ‘. . . circumstances must the details of the meeting be revealed without prior permission,’ she completed.

  He nodded again.

  ‘But what is it to me if Sikander is missing?’ she inquired restlessly. ‘And why do you or Munshi think I will waste my time speaking about it?’

  ‘No one said you will!’ Bhaskar was exasperated. ‘Must you take everything amiss? Especially when you know I am only following instructions?’

  ‘I do,’ she assured him coldly. ‘Just as I knew it was you, and not Munshi, who gave away my Sunday page-one spot to Salat.’

  ‘I thought Salat’s story warranted such focus,’ he protested. ‘And I was right! Look at the impact, and that was just his first story for this newspaper!’ He paused and added conciliatorily, ‘It’s no reflection on you, Mira. But I cannot give you page one if you don’t do good stories.’

  ‘I can’t do good stories if you give me assignments like Kirit Singh, whom I didn’t even have to interview to know him,’ Mira said, upset. ‘And now you want me to help with a missing person!’

  ‘This can be a big story, Mira,’ Bhaskar argued patiently, ‘but only if you can focus a little bit here!’

  She reluctantly agreed.

  Bhaskar forced himself to smile to lighten the atmosphere; it didn’t work. ‘Mahesh said he won’t talk to anyone but you.
That’s why Munshi and I wanted to check if you were working on any story about Sikander.’

  ‘No, I am not,’ she clarified, ‘and his father hates my stories too much to ask for my help.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Bhaskar replied. ‘He didn’t’.

  Mira frowned, as she sensed his thoughts.

  ‘Sikander did,’ Bhaskar confirmed.

  She stayed silent, puzzled.

  ‘We’ll know the rest when you meet Mahesh. Let’s go.’ He stood up and walked to the door.

  Intrigued, Mira followed him out.

  Three

  Munshi’s room was at the end of the carpeted corridor that was lined with photographs of various famous men and women who had visited the newspaper office over the years. Munshi wasn’t in any of the pictures; he did not believe in that kind of endorsement. They found him sitting on the sofa with Mahesh Bansi. Munshi made the introductions, and Mira waited as she registered the three familiar thought processes. Bidur Munshi, fifty-six years old, was not just the editor-in-chief of the newspaper but also one of the most popular journalists of the country, as well as a businessman. He had a flamboyant nature that, along with his unapologetic display of wealth, made him an easy target of attention and criticism. It helped that he was endowed with a keen intellect and sharp analytical skills, evident in his incisive editorials and bold comments. His advice was sought often by politicians and industrialists. It was required for both the construction and destruction of careers. His cooperation, however, was far more valuable, and he never offered it as inexpensively, or as often, as his advice.

  Bidur was dressed in his typical style, a pale blue linen suit and white shirt, without a tie. The yellow sapphire cufflinks sparkled as he checked his formal watch. The impatient gesture was not lost on Mahesh, who sat next to him. Mahesh was sixty-seven years old; he had non-committal eyes and a fixed smile, the result of his forty years in politics. He wore clothes in various shades of brown paired with white traditional jackets and a customary miniature flag of PP pinned to them. He had wished Mira when she was introduced. Despite the number of times she had written about him, spoken to him on phone and attended his press conferences for research, they both had never actually met before. It was not required for her know-reports, whose accuracy proved how well she actually knew him. Despite that smile and those courteous eyes, Mahesh detested her, although not as much as he hated Munshi.

  Munshi glanced at him and politely said, ‘Now that Mira has joined us, why don’t you explain the problem, Mahesh?’

  Mahesh nodded, his grey hair reflected the concealed lights of Munshi’s office.

  ‘My son has decided to go . . . into hiding,’ Mahesh told her hesitantly and his smile faded in spite of himself. ‘He wants you to find him and . . .’

  Then he fell silent abruptly, troubled.

  Munshi chuckled, ‘Don’t be nervous now.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ Mahesh demanded. ‘I am talking to a bunch of journalists!’

  ‘Perhaps it would help to remember that you asked for this meeting, which I will have to leave in . . .’ Munshi checked his watch again, ‘10 minutes.’

  ‘I don’t know where to begin, Bidur. My entire political career, my entire life depends on this . . . this outrageous game!’ He closed his eyes desperately. ‘Sikander will destroy my political future if I follow his directions. And if I don’t, I will lose my son.’

  ‘This sounds promising,’ Munshi said cheerfully. ‘What does he want you to do?’

  Mahesh looked at Munshi with dislike. ‘I don’t trust you, I don’t trust your team. I am here because my son wants me to give you this recording.’ He took out a CD from his pocket and threw it on the table in front of them. Everyone watched as the disc in its transparent plastic jacket slid across the glass table and stopped at an idol of meditating Buddha. Munshi followed that journey and then glared at Mahesh; he was beginning to get annoyed.

  Before he could speak his mind, Mira intervened. ‘You don’t like being blackmailed, Maheshji, I get that. The question is,’ she wondered, ‘why are you scared?’

  This was too much for Mahesh. ‘Scared! How did . . .?’ he stopped with effort. ‘Before we go any further, you must answer a question I have been waiting to ask you. Who gives you stories against me? My rivals in the party? Leaders in the Opposition? How do you get to know so much about my decisions? Someone has been helping you, and I demand to know who it is.’

  Mira observed him contemplatively. Even in agitation he was calm, as if he had his feelings under steely control. What the world saw was not real; these were just moving pictures on a screen.

  ‘Who are your sources?’ Mahesh interrogated her. ‘Omkar Nuri of National Party? That mischievous Nalan Malik of my party?’

  ‘Mostly,’ Mira answered finally, ‘it has just been you. Your words, expressions and gestures are enough for me to know you, although initially I had to hear you speak several times to map your thinking. So I attended your press conferences, political speeches and events, and listened to recordings of your interviews. That let me determine the pattern of your thoughts and helped me know how you make your decisions. And now Majeshji,’ she said, meeting his eyes insistently, ‘tell me why you are scared.’

  Munshi and Bhaskar turned to him, curious.

  ‘Don’t you know the answer?’ Mahesh challenged her.

  ‘Actually, I do,’ she answered. ‘The tape reveals information that will anger powerful people whom you had worked hard to keep happy.’

  Mahesh was suspicious. ‘How do you know what is in the tape?’

  ‘That’s what a knower does, Mahesh,’ Munshi said testily. ‘Now will you please get on with it?’

  Mahesh gathered himself. ‘As I said,’ he addressed Mira, ‘my son has disappeared, and I discovered this in the morning today when I received a CD with a clue at the end of the recording addressed to you. There was also a letter for me that explained what to do.’ He spoke uncertainly, as if revealing an embarrassing fact. ‘Sikander requested me to bring this tape to you; it is the first of several such recordings. The next tape will reach you directly but only if your newspaper publishes this one.’

  ‘The clues will lead to him?’ she inquired.

  ‘Yes,’ Mahesh said. ‘One clue at the end of every tape should help you find him. Tapes will, naturally, cease the moment you find Sikander.’

  ‘How many tapes will there be?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ His voice dipped with sadness. ‘He won’t return home Mira. He will be lost to me forever if you can’t solve those clues.’

  Mira’s eyes sharpened with interest as he spoke in earnest.

  ‘Your son seems indifferent to the risk,’ Munshi remarked.

  Mahesh agreed weakly. ‘This used to be his way to get my attention. He was a child when his mother died. It was about the time my political career had reached its peak. He got into trouble often so that I would rescue him,’ he paused absently. ‘Then I got too busy with my life, and I guess I stopped rescuing him.’

  No one spoke after those candid words.

  ‘Let’s call the police,’ Bhaskar said, looking for a conclusion.

  ‘Well, Sikander knew that option would come up,’ Mahesh clarified. ‘The police are bound to get involved in a case like this, but he has forbidden me from going to them.’ Mahesh glanced at Munshi, worried. ‘Please Bidur, I am here to beg for your help. He is all I ’ve got.’

  That plea melted Munshi, and he assured Mahesh all possible assistance.

  ‘Why don’t you show us the letter?’ Mira suggested. ‘I know you have it with you.’

  Mahesh regarded her resentfully, then took out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Mira.

  ‘It is typed,’ she noted and read aloud:

  ‘Dear Father, I can’t believe I am saying this but your city of short memories and long ropes has no depth even in its deceit.’

  Mira stopped for a second, surprised by the words.

  ‘All it w
ould have taken to deceive me was a little character, a little integrity, and I would have committed my life to politics. Instead, I found effigies running the Parliament, men and women of straw, and I decided they should be properly introduced to their voters. From the time I was elected an MP four and a half years ago, I have had conversations inside Parliament with other MPs, political party leaders, bureaucrats, policemen and businessmen—the separate species of people who are commonly found in corridors of power. These conversations were quite candid because no one imagined I might record them. I was supposed to be in the same boat, equally corrupt and, therefore, safe. I wasn’t though, neither corrupt nor safe, as the recordings will prove. I’m sending the first of the series of tapes that will expose exactly what happens inside Parliament. I believe there will be no need for an explanation once you hear the recording. The clue at the end of the tape is for Mira Mouli, the know-journalist. I chose her not because you despise her for her stories against you, although that should have been good enough reason.’

  Mira paused, smiling.

  ‘The meaning of the clues will be known only to her; that’s why I chose her. Given her extraordinary powers, I’m sure she can find me. In case Mira does, there will be no more tapes, and I shall surrender to your wishes. But until then, you must put up with mine. You see, father, I had to tell the truth; someone had to. But this doesn’t exonerate me; I’m a part of you, and I’m equally guilty. In case Mira can’t find me, if even a gifted knower can’t reach me despite the clues, then there is nothing left of me; I must be truly lost. I shall then have to leave forever. I will never return to Delhi, I will forget home and you can forget about me.’

  Stunned, Mira stopped once again, then continued,

  ‘The next tape will reach Mira in her office, but only after I have ascertained the newspaper has published the first one without any deletion or distortion. The following are a few things you’ve always wanted to hear me say: