The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  You don’t have to see my face again.

  You don’t have to be ashamed of me anymore.

  If the tapes are not published or if you try to find me through the police, I promise I won’t ever return home.

  Only Mira can decipher the clues. So take this tape to her and explain. But that’s only if you want me back. It’s a rather simple choice actually. Just throw the disc in trash and return to your important day.

  Love, Sb.’

  There was an uneasy silence in the room when Mira finished reading. As if to stop the hurting words from resounding in their minds, Bhaskar asked Mahesh, ‘How did he manage to make the recordings inside Parliament?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ Mahesh was concerned. ‘But I once saw him test this new gadget a few years ago. It’s part of an advanced surveillance technique that doesn’t require wires, receivers and transmitters. This tape here contains the recording made when PP had just won the election and was about to form the government.’

  ‘How did you receive the tape?’ Bhaskar asked.

  ‘In the morning post. It was sent from some place within Delhi two days ago; I checked the postmark. The recording, as you will discover, concerns the manner in which the PP had bargained for ministerships and, in particular, the scandalous deal related to the agriculture ministry. It’s even mentioned that I may have been aware of this deal,’ Mahesh met Munshi’s eyes and completed, ‘which I was not, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Munshi agreed wryly. ‘Who else is mentioned?’

  ‘My colleagues, who else!’ Mahesh said, anguished. ‘And it’s just the first tape. It makes me unwell to think of the impact of more such tapes, especially, if they are made public. When Sikander’s subterfuge is discovered, he will be the most hated person in politics. His life will be in danger,’ he concluded bitterly, ‘and my life will be useless.’

  Munshi gestured to the disc on the table. ‘And if I don’t publish it?’

  ‘I will have to go to the next newspaper or television channel,’ Mahesh explained. ‘But as you just learnt from my son’s letter, I will still need Mira’s help.’

  There was a thoughtful silence in the room as the contours of a deal became clear.

  Mira studied the unusual letter. ‘I will have to hear Sikander speak once, then study the way he makes choices like, for instance, in books, music, hobbies, writing, clothes. You will have to tell me about him, about his career, relationships and share a few photographs. These are some things I would need to know how he thinks and decides.’

  Mahesh was dismissive. ‘Whatever you want; just find my son!’

  ‘I will,’ she told him politely.

  No one spoke for a few moments, and she perceived Munshi’s decision before he spoke.

  ‘We’ll publish the tapes,’ Munshi announced.

  Bhaskar suggested, ‘Let’s listen to the recording.’

  ‘Please excuse me then,’ Mahesh requested. ‘I have a very busy day ahead of preventive damage control with the PP and the government.’ Then he added tragically, ‘I have even made a copy of this tape to play for my colleagues. You must send me copies of the next ones, Bidur, to help prepare my defense.’

  Munshi agreed. Mahesh told Mira to meet him at his residence the next day to talk about Sikander’s life and visit his part of the house. When Bhaskar and Mira left the room, Munshi led Mahesh to the elevators.

  Mahesh thanked him and stated unhappily. ‘It’s a fashion among children these days to hate parents and politicians. And I’m both.’

  ‘This is your chance,’ Munshi observed quietly, ‘to choose one.’

  Mahesh ignored that. ‘I know the tapes will be good publicity for your newspaper. I also know you Bidur; you might not want Mira to find Sikander in a hurry so that he sends more tapes and exposes more politicians.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ Munshi confessed plainly.

  ‘Please be pragmatic,’ Mahesh urged him. ‘The tapes are only in public interest. They won’t help you or me.’

  ‘As the owner of this newspaper, I am at the pragmatic end of journalism. I decide what’s in public interest.’ He added gravely, ‘Your son will make a good story, Mahesh.’

  Mahesh waited pensively.

  Munshi smiled. ‘But there are limits to a good story.’

  Mahesh smiled back, relieved.

  Bhaskar called for an immediate meeting of the editorial team to play the tape, but as some members were not in office, it had to be postponed by half an hour. While Mira waited in his office, Bhaskar played the tape on his computer.

  An easy, friendly voice filled the room:

  ‘Today is May 21. The time is 9.30 a.m., and I’m in the Parliament building. I was waiting for Ms Kim Sharma, who has just entered the People’s Party office. I am headed there now for a chat.’

  There was a long pause and some noises, as if Sikander walked with the recorder through the corridors and into a room.

  ‘Good morning, Kim! What a surprise!’

  ‘Hi Sikander,’ she responded warmly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. Are you here waiting for someone?’

  ‘Yes, in fact, Nalan is late.’

  ‘Well, it has been an age since I saw you. Let’s catch up while you wait.’ Sikander paused and added apologetically, ‘Can you give me a moment please? I was called to sign some papers here. Will be back in a second.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They could hear Sikander enter an office and talk about paperwork for newly elected MPs. He returned after some time to Kim, and they settled down in an adjoining room.

  ‘You’re looking good, Sikander. Good and successful.’

  He laughed. ‘Just a matter of time; I’ll be normal again. You look a little anxious though.’

  ‘No, no,’ she was uneasy, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Sikander asked gently. ‘How is work?

  Are you still employed with that liaison firm in Mumbai?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She stopped, hesitant. ‘It’s just that something important is not working out, you know.’

  Sikander waited for her to elaborate.

  She laughed nervously. ‘Might as well tell you. After all, this cannot be happening without your father’s knowledge. You see, your party needs a fall guy for the agriculture ministry, and I thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘Why? What is happening in the agriculture ministry?’

  ‘Something will happen there soon.’ Kim paused. ‘As you know, I liaison for business houses, especially in political circles.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, before the elections, I mediated a deal with the PP for three cabinet portfolios in which certain business clients were interested. Now, after the elections, I am being told by your party that only two of the three are available.’

  Sikander sounded surprised. ‘It’s unusual for the PP to go back on a promise.’

  ‘It’s more than unusual; it is bloody unfair!’ Kim was angry. ‘I spent money on lunches, dinners, airplane tickets and gifts . . . things I can’t even mention as expenses. I won’t get paid unless the deal is done.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ Sikander said sympathetically, ‘especially when other business houses get the minister of their choice. Look at Asif; he bagged civil aviation.’

  ‘No, that’s different,’ she countered. ‘I mean, who could have got civil aviation but Asif? He brings with him a contract to buy 200 new aircrafts from a foreign country, government to government, with a hefty commission for the PP leadership. Such deals cannot be ignored; it takes money to contest elections, and you win elections to make more money.’

  Sikander asked, ‘So, why agriculture?’

  ‘Well, the PP didn’t want to offend the business houses, and so Nalan was asked to negotiate with us to accept agriculture as the third ministry in the deal. I think it is a good offer; agriculture is a lucrative ministry.’ Kim analysed reasonably. ‘A good agriculture minister, also in charge of food a
nd supplies, can control speculation on food production, stocks, imports and exports. By merely calibrating his public statements, he can hike up or drop prices of commodities.’

  ‘Besides, it’s useful politically,’ Sikander pointed out. ‘Food prices can lead to revolutions.’

  ‘Yes, but agriculture is not like ministries of power, defence or even communication, where business houses bid to get a friendly minister,’ Kim argued. ‘My instructions were if we cannot get portfolio advantage from PP, we must be given policy advantage. The PP government plans to introduce foreign genetically modified seeds for all crops in the country in the coming years. This is being hailed as the new revolution in agriculture that will double the yield and enrich the farmers. Bottom line, the foreign seed company and its local collaborators will enjoy dividends for decades. In other words,’ Kim lowered her voice, ‘it’s a golden egg.’

  ‘I see,’ Sikander said. ‘So, why isn’t there a stampede for the golden egg?’

  ‘Because it will be an illegal golden egg!’

  Sikander was puzzled.

  ‘Just picture this,’ she requested him. ‘Millions of farmers, thousands of seed varieties, hundreds of crops and one international supplier who has already been chosen by the government.’ She paused significantly. ‘This will be the largest government contract ever, and the agriculture minister will be in charge of it. Losers of bids will complain, expose faults and demand investigation. The minister will be the fall guy, someone who does the job, makes the money and, in return, takes the blame in court cases, audit inquiries, Parliament Committee hearings. When he finally steps aside, a new minister from the PP will continue with business as before.’

  ‘That sounds logical. What do you mean by “fall guy”? Indictment, imprisonment?’

  ‘Both. But the PP guarantees acquittal of the minister one year before the next Parliament elections so that he can contest again.’

  Sikander was unconvinced. ‘Yes, but there have been doubts raised about the genetically modified seeds before. Won’t that make it difficult for you to sell the ministry to your clients?’

  ‘The objections were all non-serious,’ she said dismissively. ‘I went through some of the studies last evening in my hotel room. The seeds can lead to soil depletion, low yields, high pesticide consumption and extreme dependence on irrigation. Between us, the seeds may not even be suitable for large parts of our country that rely on rain for agriculture. They would also increase the cost of cultivation for the already poor farmers. Hopefully, we will be out of the picture by the time these effects start to show.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘We are still searching for an MP acceptable to my clients as the minister,’ she added gloomily. ‘These days, it’s hard to find someone with integrity, someone who is not afraid of a bit of prison time to get ahead in politics.’

  ‘Really? I am surprised; this is such a great opportunity.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, dejected. ‘Nalan is negotiating on behalf of the PP leadership and the government. We should be able to zero in on a candidate or look for another portfolio, like labour. That would be a disaster though; I mean, who wants to deal with provident funds and wages?’ She sighed. ‘And I have already refused railways!’

  Sikander chuckled.

  ‘Yes, can you believe that?’ Kim was exasperated. ‘Everyone knows the railway ministry is written off to the coalition party from the east. Who wants to battle it out with him? He built his career with the support of railway contractors, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I recall,’ Sikander commented, ‘that even during electioneering, voters were asked to consider him as the future railway minister if he won the election.’

  ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘The regional parties in coalitions win on regional issues, and, at the national level, they are no different from others. You have to wonder how gullible the voter is!’

  ‘That will change.’

  ‘How will it change, Sikander?’ she demanded. ‘Voters still believe their false gods will one day turn out to be true. In an earlier negotiation, a client wanted environment for an MP who had never cared for it and had never even spoken a word about it. Do you know why? A nuclear power plant was planned for an ecologically fragile region, and his party promised to approve that. But when he returns to his state for the next election, he knows the voters won’t question his decisions as a central minister; they will focus only on their state, their lives. He will make suitable local promises and forget them once he becomes a central minister again!’

  ‘Elections are not lost for ignoring the people,’ Sikander noted dryly, ‘elections are lost for ignoring the business.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be required in these negotiations if that were not true.’

  ‘I am feeling a little sad for the next agriculture minister,’ he said in a concerned manner. ‘He may make money, but his name will be sullied.’

  ‘Perhaps yes,’ she accepted. ‘But he won’t have to spend another rupee on his political career for the rest of his life.’

  They heard a door open, followed by mutual greetings.

  ‘Hi Nalan.’

  ‘Hello Sikander,’ he answered. ‘I’m sorry Kim, to have kept you waiting.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Sikander and I got a chance to talk after a long time.’

  ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘Who doesn’t know Kim!’ Sikander remarked.

  ‘That’s true.’ Nalan was quiet. ‘So, how does it feel Sikander, being an MP? You seem to have got what you wanted.’

  ‘Not what I wanted,’ Sikander corrected. ‘Not yet.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘I’ll take your leave, Kim,’ Sikander said politely. ‘It was good to meet you.’

  ‘Enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘Let’s do this again soon. Why don’t we have lunch? I’m always around Parliament these days.’

  ‘Nice to know that,’ Sikander replied. ‘I’ll call you. Good day, Nalan.’

  They heard the recording end. Mira and Bhaskar looked at each other, stunned; this was critical evidence that the PP chose ministers to head its government based on commissions, on willing illegality and to serve business and personal interests. The tape restarted, startling them. It was at a different location; they could tell by the sound of birds in the background. Then Sikander spoke:

  ‘This is the clue for Mira.’

  He paused, and then continued softly.

  ‘Choose the knife carefully; none of the fancy types will do. It should be double-edged and long, and made of steel for a warrior. Or decide on the potency after some research. Get the right prescription for the pills; make up stories of insomnia. Or, just take a step forward. Before a train, before a truck, from an edge, from a height. Come die with me any way you want, but not alone.’

  The tape ended, and Bhaskar scrutinised her shocked face.

  ‘Didn’t you say you never met Sikander?’ he asked, perplexed.

  She nodded, baffled.

  ‘What does the clue mean?’ He frowned. ‘Seems like different ways of committing suicide . . . doesn’t make sense.’

  Mira was too dazed to speak.

  Bhaskar replayed the clue, intrigued. Sikander’s first clue was not about himself or his project; it was about her, Mira realized. She expected that he must have researched her life and learnt enough to trust her to be a crucial part of his plans. But the clue was not about research. He couldn’t have known this in a month or even a year of research. She had spent a lifetime planning her death. Alone.

  Come die with me any way you want, but not alone.

  Bhaskar played the tape from the beginning and made notes, as Mira heard Sikander’s easy voice reach deep and hurt her.

  Four

  It rained heavily the next morning. The grey daylight from the windows in Mira’s apartment was just enough for her to read the newspapers. Her story looked innocuous enough in print, but every line had blades on bo
th ends. She felt the imminence of the retaliation; the PP would have spokespersons denounce the report from rooftops. It was a day worth waking up to.

  The neighbours had left for work after turning the key thrice in their special door lock. They had left fifteen minutes early, probably factoring in traffic delays due to rain. Mira stood at the windows; the driveway of the typical three-storeyed building was now vacant, except for her blue car that looked grey in the rain. The bakery across the road was yet to open; the dogs waited curled up near the door. A boy sullenly reached the bus stop in a yellow raincoat; a failed excuse to skip school hovered about him. Sikander’s clue had kept her awake most of the night before. It was unsettling to discover that someone knew her that well. It hurt that the words were genuine and the invitation real. That would be the challenge of Sikander’s clue, she understood now; he wasn’t going to let her think straight. But how did he manage to do that? How did he know her the way she knew people?

  The last taxicab swung out of the stand at the street corner and left behind a long and restive queue of umbrellas. No one wanted to walk in rain these days, Mira thought. It was not just the matter of clothes, bags, shoes, styled hair and stuffed pockets getting drenched. Rain was a portable memory now, not an experience anymore. The windows of her third floor flat overlooked the street below and the main road in the distance. Trees obscured houses across the street, but she knew that in one lived a working couple who squabbled over chores, and in another, was a teenage boy who was learning to drink his father’s liquor. The foliage did well to blind her from the neighbourhood and turned the house into yet another sanctuary where she could rest her mind. She had rented it four years ago when she had got the job. It was her first real home, unlike the hostels she had lived in until then. The house liked her, she felt. It turned her loneliness into a soft cushion against the world. She loved the absence of another; any movement was only when she moved, any voice was only when she thought. Her address wasn’t on the official file at her request, there was no photograph of her ever printed, and readers’ interactions with her were restricted to emails. She never invited anyone home; the last visitor had been the cable technician who had fixed the television a month ago. The house was sparingly furnished. The long living room had a desk and two bookcases, the second room a bed and a television, and the last room sundry stuff. The kitchen was adequate for her impatient cooking. Three chairs with wheels clocked mileage across the house.