by Kota Neelima
Besides the landlord who occupied the entire first floor, the second and third floors were rented out as two units each. Her neighbours knew as much about her as the landlord—that she was a newspaper journalist and lived alone. She knew much more about them from their misplaced mail, their lobby chatter and the things left behind in their parked vehicles. During the initial interactions with the landlord and his unexpectedly kind wife, Mira gave Raghunath’s name as reference of a family member and said he lived abroad. That seemed to make it easier to get through interviews and applications. In truth, however, she had not met Raghunath Mouli since her tenth birthday. A few months after that day, he had contacted the orphanage staff before he left the country to send her a gift. It was a print of a scene from the Bhagavadgita that now hung in her living room. There had been a brief note with it:
‘Be Arjuna the victor, be Arjuna the vanquished; and like him, you too will find your Gita, your song of life.’
There were other children at the orphanage whom Raghunath had helped get through school and college. But she was the only one to whom he still sent money, or someone did on his behalf and made a deposit in her bank account every six months. It was as if the financial assistance was owed to her; it didn’t seem to matter that she earned enough to support herself. It also didn’t seem to matter that she never used the savings, which had now added up to be a substantial sum and made her a wealthy woman. Mira didn’t feel grateful somehow, although she knew she ought to. She was indifferent to his support and to his absence; both had come to her unasked.
Mira checked the clock on the table; it was 8.50 a.m. Time stood still that morning and crawled only once in a while round the clock. The editorial meeting was scheduled for 11 a.m., and it was still far too early to leave home for office. She didn’t mind the wait. She didn’t fill her solitude with distractions. Those that life brought on its own were scattered in time, and she did not chase them, like others did, to find escapes. She didn’t and couldn’t see herself in relation to a place, a memory or a person; she was defined by herself. That was the reason why the nonchalance of Delhi had not intimidated her when Mira first came to live in the college hostel twelve years ago. She had just finished school in Rishikesh and had decided to study further in an unknown city or at least a city that didn’t know her. After the unavoidable notice that her powers had always attracted, she fell in love with Delhi that couldn’t care less. Delhi itself was restless, as if had it not been tethered to the power centre, it would have wandered away along any one of the national highways that crossed it. The tyranny of planning had captured the vagabond in Delhi’s character, but not completely, Mira discovered. There was still some moonlight left, some sunrises and some birds that could sing. Mostly though, the unresisting, undifferentiated mass of people was comfortably unconcerned with one more seamless addition.
Inevitably, there were a few friends from school who remained in touch, and invariably, there were a few mistakes in college that were somehow worth the pain. She learnt early that boys fell for her good looks but couldn’t stand the scrutiny of her mind. It wasn’t easy to take her out on a date; she couldn’t be surprised, impressed or in any way misled. And most importantly, she couldn’t be deceived. This decimated most of her relationships early. There had been only a few instances when she had felt affection for a man despite his thoughts, like the one in the last year of her master’s degree. He had fallen in love with her, deeply and helplessly, and she found herself drawn inexplicably to this form of emotional dependence. It was somehow comforting to know that he couldn’t be happy without her, and also, it was the first time that anyone had needed her. Eventually, however, Mira understood why she couldn’t sustain such relationships. First, she feared that lack of affection in life could delude her to mistake common kindness to be something special. Secondly, even if it were genuinely something special, she didn’t trust love in a world that abandoned newborn babies in orphanages. She had always been angry at her unfair destiny, but her job as a journalist gave her something else to be angry about, the unfair destiny of others. It was her final month at the hostel, her last chance to either find a job or leave Delhi, when she saw Munshi’s advertisement for knowers. Waiting among others called for the interview at the newspaper office, Mira had perceived from their thoughts that no one needed the job as desperately as she had. Unlike her, none of them was looking for a reason to live. Or an excuse to die.
The work at the newspaper wasn’t easy at first. Munshi’s much-publicized experiment drew many skeptics who questioned Mira’s powers. These had initially included Munshi himself, which made her job tougher. A few weeks after she joined the newspaper, Munshi had decided to test her powers and asked her to ‘know’ if he would be chosen by the PP government for one of the nominated seats in Parliament. Mira had told him that he didn’t stand a chance, and that Mahesh Bansi didn’t trust him enough to back his name. Munshi disbelieved her and countered that he had never given Mahesh any cause to suspect him. As a warning, he advised her to be careful with her predictions. Then the nominations were declared, and his name didn’t figure among them. Furious, Munshi investigated who had struck his name off the list. Although he never shared his findings with her, Munshi never again doubted Mira’s powers.
Her cell phone rang; it was Mahesh Bansi. The impact of that morning’s newspaper report was clear in the strain in his voice. He called to postpone their scheduled meeting; she could sense the story had made him almost hate his son, too much to talk about him that day. Instead, Mahesh suggested that she could visit Sikander’s part of the house and do her own research. Mira agreed and said she would reach his residence at 1 p.m. She also answered his unasked question and said she wouldn’t stay beyond an hour. Flustered, Mahesh said she could stay as long as she wanted; Mira thanked him wryly and ended the call.
The daily editorial meetings of the newspaper were held at 11 a.m. Munshi met with select members of his staff to outline the agenda for the day. He was often absent but the meetings still took place at the same time, in the same place and for the same purpose. That morning, Mira was the first one to reach the third floor conference room, and by the presence of Munshi’s special chair, it was clear that he would attend the meeting that day. The staff arranged the chair at the head of the long table, handling it carefully, as if they could already see Munshi sitting in it.
Salat Vasudev walked in after a few minutes and stopped when he found Mira. He looked around uncertainly, troubled a bit. They had been at other such morning meetings since he joined the newspaper the previous week, but were yet to speak with each other, except that one time when he was introduced by Bhaskar to the entire team. They hadn’t been alone before, and this now meant making conversation. When she wished him, he answered her politely and sat across the table. They observed Munshi’s staff in silence until they left and the room became still.
Mira glanced at him just as he turned to her. She had already discovered that she couldn’t discern his thoughts; knowers were immune to the powers of other knowers.
‘I want to clarify something, Mira,’ he said in a direct manner. ‘You are a legend in know-journalism, and I respect you. I have learnt a great deal about how to handle our special powers from your know-reports.’
She waited, a little surprised.
‘One of the reasons I joined this newspaper was because of the opportunity it provided to learn from you.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s why I was concerned when Bhaskar said you were upset and wanted to reassure that I merely aspire to work with you.’
Mira surveyed him. ‘Bhaskar told you to speak with me?’
‘Yes, in fact, he did.’
She nodded. ‘You must wait for Bhaskar to tell you whom to speak with next.’
His face was set. ‘I couldn’t have stopped him from telling me, could I?’
‘Don’t play your little games with me, Salat,’ she advised him. ‘I won’t get in your way of promotions and postings. And you please let me mind my own busin
ess.’
Salat turned away, offended. Mira reprimanded herself; she knew Bhaskar was always transparent about his decisions so that there could be no scope for office politics. That’s why he had informed Salat about their conversation. Munshi’s staff returned to the conference room and, having finished with his chair, now started to set the table for him. One man arranged a notebook and pen, another placed an empty glass and a bottle of mineral water, and the third opened a laptop. The chores were, evidently, divided according to departments.
Mira attempted reconciliation. ‘Nice first story on Sunday.’
‘Routine,’ Salat said and continued to observe the staff.
‘Couldn’t have been easy to get those documents from the ministry,’ she tried again.
‘A friend copied and scanned the files for me.’
‘She has done this before?’ Mira inquired.
He glanced at her warily. ‘Twice.’
‘Why does she do it?’
‘Haven’t asked.’
‘That’s a lie,’ Mira guessed again.
He smiled. ‘How about you?’
‘Copy for a man?’
‘Or scan?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’ He asked sarcastically, ‘Wealth, looks, character?’
‘No, the usual,’ she told him. ‘The file he wants.’
They didn’t trust each other still, but politely discussed how technology made it easy for journalists to access secret documents. His powers were different from hers, Mira noticed; he dealt with facts and information, rather than thoughts, choice and decision.
The door opened and others came in; the room appeared smaller as they settled around the table and chatted. Curious about another knower, Mira continued to study Salat. He was dressed well, wore an expensive watch and carried a gold pen. His dark hair was combed neatly, his sleeves folded evenly to the elbow. He listened intently to Lina Kamat who sat next to him. He must know Lina liked him, it didn’t take any special powers to see that. And Mira could tell he loved Lina’s beautiful eyes and dazzling smile. It might take him a few more days to discover another, and a little less endearing, quality about Lina; she never held back her opinion about anything. It was Lina’s way of protecting herself from the invariable attention she drew because of her stunning good looks. It was her special threshold. A man had to see beyond her beauty and survive her abrasive manner for her to like him. As she observed Salat nod and smile at Lina, Mira wondered if he was just the man for it.
A few minutes after the chair-and-table ritual was completed, Munshi came in looking perfect in a well-tailored, dull-green linen suit. The emeralds of his cufflinks blinked once as he reached for the paper before him on the table. It was the list of the anticipated top ten stories for the day and the special stories the newspaper worked on that week. Everyone at the table had a copy, and almost every story concerned Sikander’s tape. It was the story of the day across the country, mainly because of the way the newspaper had reported it. Dubey’s editorial team, under his strict guidance, had excelled in that morning’s coverage, tracing down every name, reaching out for every version. Salat had worked out the background of the agriculture ministry scam, something he had written about before at the magazine he used to work for; and Mira had put the main story together. It had also been her responsibility to get Nalan Malik’s comments on the story, and his office had informed her that he had none. That morning’s list for the day included impressive follow-up stories, new reactions, new revelations and, most importantly, the investigation of the new facts revealed in the tape.
Sikander’s tape provided the missing piece in a case that was considered closed. It explained why the then agriculture minister had so blatantly flouted the norms to award contract to a foreign company for seeds. Mira also understood Sikander’s smart strategy of choosing to reveal Kim Sharma’s tape. He must have known this would revive the rumours about Kim and remind everyone of Nalan’s divorce. In the end, the tape did more than expose Nalan’s role in the ministry negotiations, it chipped away at his very character.
‘What’s the progress with finding Sikander Bansi? What do we know about him?’ Munshi’s question startled Mira out of her thoughts.
‘Not much, sir,’ she confessed.
‘Well, move swiftly on this, Mira,’ he instructed. ‘We cannot afford to publish too many tapes, and we cannot afford to lose the story. If we fail even once for some reason, Sikander might force his father to go to another newspaper. So find him fast.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I’ve done a bit of research on him,’ Salat offered. ‘Sikander has spoken only once in Parliament in the last four and a half years and, that too, in support of a government bill. He seemed to have deliberately maintained a very low profile.’
‘We know why now,’ Bhaskar commented. ‘He was a little preoccupied with making the tapes!’
‘Businesses, investments, relationships and hobbies?’ Dubey asked Salat.
‘Nothing newsworthy; he invests along with his father, and they have old partnerships in industry,’ Salat answered. ‘He has been in two known and serious relationships with women, and several non-serious ones. He has a limited circle of friends, several famous acquaintances and a few expensive hobbies.’
‘Is that all?’ Munshi was surprised. ‘It’s as if he doesn’t belong among the young politicians of Delhi.’
Dubey shook his head. ‘Can’t say he does.’
‘Are you telling me this, Ashok?’ Munshi demanded. ‘The man who dug up links between terrorists and bureaucracy?’
‘Yes, but this man is neither a terrorist nor a bureaucrat,’ Dubey protested. ‘There is no money or paper trail to chase.’
‘We do have one thing to go by,’ Bhaskar pointed out. ‘The clue that came with the tape. What does the clue tell you about Sikander, Mira?’
Mira was prepared for the question, as she knew Munshi was keenly interested. ‘Sikander likes to challenge himself; normalcy bores him. He can play long strategies, never lose focus of his aim and achieve with precision. He wants more than what destiny has chosen for him. Or at least, he wants to have a say in it.’ She stopped, frowning, as the words began to describe her. Unnerved, Mira continued more carefully, ‘He is aware of his good fortune and doesn’t want to abandon it. But he seeks to be free of it by denying himself its benefits.’
There was a surprised silence in the room after her words, and only Salat smiled faintly at her.
‘This sounds a little over the edge, doesn’t it?’ Lina exclaimed. ‘Are we talking about the same guy? The handsome and powerful MP who drives a Porsche and is rumoured to be dating a former beauty queen?’
Bhaskar chuckled. ‘Probably not.’
Everyone returned to the discussion, but Mira couldn’t participate anymore. Sikander’s friendly voice as he spoke the clue now filled her mind with an unknown fear, as if it was the point of a knife about to break skin. He had proved that she was not alone in her suffering or in her obsession with death. To know why he thought like her, she had to research him and find him. Mira didn’t want to know anything more about Sikander, she decided nervously; she didn’t feel strong enough for it.
No one noticed that she did not speak again for the rest of the meeting; no one except Salat.
Mira was working in her cabin when Munshi’s secretary called for a meeting on the third floor. She was sure, as she climbed the stairs again, that it was about Sikander’s clue. She wouldn’t have spoken about it but for Salat’s aggressive display of his research about Sikander. The cool air of the third floor calmed her a little and the deep carpet slowed her down. The secretary asked Mira to wait in one of the smaller meeting rooms. Mira paced it restlessly, around the white table and the four white chairs, and listened to the forced silence of the room. This was an unreal silence extracted with soundproof walls and glass, with muted air-conditioning and soft flooring. Sound seemed to press in on the boundaries of this silence, searching for cracks to
creep in and reclaim what belonged to it. Mira observed the silent rain from the windows and wondered what sound she would have attributed to rain if she had never heard it fall before. The door opened and Munshi’s secretary held it open for someone. Mira waited, expecting Munshi. Instead, a tall man walked in and thanked the secretary. When the door was shut, he glanced at Mira’s stunned face, his brown eyes amused.
‘Good afternoon, Ms Mouli,’ Nalan Malik said. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you.’
Mira recovered and returned the greeting, noticing the PP flag that was pinned to the dark jacket he wore over a white shirt.
‘I had come to see your editor, Mr Munshi, and requested him for this meeting with you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not,’ she said and gestured towards the chairs. He thanked her but remained standing. He surveyed her in silence, and Mira met his eyes, learning about him. He was a slim man with luminous eyes that brought unexpected character to his good-looking face.
‘There is so little information available about you,’ he mentioned finally, ‘that it had got me curious.’
‘That is just to ensure people don’t have direct access to me,’ she explained. ‘It can get difficult for a knower.’
‘I see,’ he said contemplatively. ‘So it’s not because you are hiding from the law or have a murky past.’
Mira smiled. ‘No. Sorry to disappoint.’
He smiled back. ‘I was curious, however, for another reason as well. If nothing is known about you, then how did Sikander Bansi think of that clue?’
