The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  ‘He must have researched me, Mr Malik,’ she replied. ‘That’s the only explanation.’

  ‘I factored that,’ he said coolly. ‘But the clue is not based on research, ma’am. Instead, it shows a deep understanding of your nature, acquired over a period of time. Clearly, there can be another explanation for that,’ he speculated. ‘You must know each other very well.’

  ‘I have never met him.’

  ‘That’s what Mr Munshi told me. But it’s hard to believe,’ he commented, ‘unless, Sikander was wrong about you in that clue. Now, only you can answer that. Was he wrong?’

  Mira was getting uncomfortable. ‘He was not.’

  ‘In that case, it’s possible that this entire charade has been enacted by both of you. And, therefore,’ Nalan paused, ‘you know where Sikander Bansi is hiding.’

  She could sense his anger, even though he appeared absolutely calm. ‘I understand how you might feel, Mr Malik, especially because the tape mentions you. But I’m telling the truth,’ she said sincerely. ‘I don’t know Sikander, and I definitely don’t know where he might be hiding.’

  He didn’t speak; he still stood a few paces from the door.

  ‘According to your editor, the tapes will cease the moment you find Sikander Bansi, and the clues should lead you to his location.’ Nalan now slowly walked up. ‘Does the first clue give you an idea of where he might be?’

  She was frank, ‘I haven’t been able to work it out yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ He stood before her. ‘Is that the deal? That you don’t find him until all the tapes are published?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Mira was offended.

  He studied her sardonically. ‘Or do you believe in the cause? You think the tapes will cleanse the system of corrupt politicians like me. So you support Sikander in his little project. Is that it?’

  Angry, Mira remained silent.

  ‘I’m sorry for the trouble,’ he said, smiling stiffly. ‘But you see, I have personal interest in finding answers to these questions. It’s got to do with my entire political career and everything I have worked for all my life.’ His eyes were hard as he added, ‘Sikander was smart to disappear; he knows the damage he is doing to me.’

  Mira could perceive his thoughts about Sikander; they weren’t kind.

  ‘But he has left you right at the centre of this crisis, hasn’t he?’ Nalan continued. ‘Everyone who is in the tapes will look to you for the answers to the questions I just asked. And they could get quite desperate,’ he pointed out, ‘unlike me.’

  Mira lowered her eyes in thought to his white shirt that reflected the day from the windows behind her, the dark jacket was almost night. The pen was black, the watch was black and the skin fair where there used to be a wedding ring. The much-publicized divorce made sense now, Mira thought, as she recalled the three-year-old marriage that had come to an abrupt end. He wasn’t a man who would lie about being in love.

  ‘So, once again,’ he said in his compelling voice, ‘why have you not worked out the clue yet?’

  Mira still remained silent as she read his intricate thoughts and detected the doubts about her. It shouldn’t have mattered, but inexplicably, it did. She didn’t want him to suspect her motives. He waited in silence and observed how she held the notebook tightly in her hands, her khadi brown shirt the colour of something lost, something deep.

  She didn’t look up as she said, ‘The clue is very real, Mr Malik. It hurts me every time I read it. I cannot look beyond the truth of it and the promise of it.’ Mira registered his surprise as she continued, ‘That’s the challenge of the clue.’ She paused and added weakly, ‘He knew I won’t be able to stand the pain.’

  Nalan frowned. ‘So you have thought of death in those ways?’ Then he apologized quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, it’s not my business . . .’

  ‘Exactly in those ways.’

  He didn’t speak at once, then asked, ‘Why?’

  The shock in his voice left her searching for words to explain. ‘Perhaps because I want to change my destiny. It won’t let me, and I don’t want to escape; I’m not a coward . . .’ she hesitated. She had never spoken about this before. It felt unreal as she completed, ‘but the only way to outsmart my life is by my death.’

  Then she read his unasked question. ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I do have everything I want in life, and no, it’s not because of failure. Nothing has ever meant to me more than this final choice,’ she spoke quietly, ‘and I am grateful that it’s so accessible.’

  He was silent, distraught somehow. Intrigued, Mira glanced up and met his strangely anguished eyes.

  He still frowned. ‘Whatever gave you the idea that destiny can be changed?’

  ‘The fact that we constantly hope,’ she replied.

  ‘We hope for life, not for death.’

  ‘Death is the best part of life.’

  ‘How can anyone think like this?’ he wondered. ‘Someone should have changed your mind, Mira.’

  ‘Sikander has,’ she said. ‘I always thought I was the only one who felt this way. Apparently not.’

  ‘But he hasn’t changed your mind about death.’

  ‘No one can.’

  That made him smile. ‘You shouldn’t say such things, makes me . . .’

  He fell silent abruptly; Mira was confused as she sensed his unspoken words. His brown eyes stared at her, surprised, and were immediately guarded that she could discern his thoughts. Turning swiftly, he moved to the door.

  ‘As I said,’ he paused, ‘the people mentioned in the tapes will hunt for Sikander and get to you.’ He glanced at her. ‘Please take care.’

  Taken aback, she thanked him. When he was gone, the words he had restrained himself from speaking aloud, perplexed her.

  You shouldn’t say such things, makes me want to prove you wrong.

  Mira frowned and wondered if she had read Nalan Malik right.

  Five

  Later, as Mira prepared to leave for the Bansi residence, Salat came to see her.

  ‘I wanted to share with you an assessment of Sikander’s clue,’ he said in his usual candid style.

  ‘Thank you,’ she gathered her bag, ‘but I think I can manage on my own’.

  She was curt and hoped he got the message. He didn’t.

  ‘I know you can manage,’ he pursued, ‘but this is far too important not to tell you.’

  She left the cabin. ‘I’ll be really late.’

  He walked with her. ‘I believe Sikander is trying to control your mind, Mira, and direct your thoughts.’

  Mira didn’t respond and crossed the newsroom.

  Salat kept pace with her. ‘I think the clue is not true. Please don’t believe a word of it.’ He paused and continued carefully, ‘The clue may drive you to kill yourself or to die . . .’

  She stopped walking.

  ‘I’m sure you have considered that,’ he added hurriedly, ‘but the clue has also convinced you that Sikander thinks like you do. You must be relieved to know this, even happy.’

  ‘Probably because,’ she said scathingly, ‘as you may have realized, that’s how I can solve the clue.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  Mira waited impatiently.

  ‘You have to research this clue, overlooking the way it affects you,’ he argued. ‘And while you are vulnerable, Sikander can make you think whatever he wants you to.’

  Mira stayed silent; she liked his analysis.

  ‘It will not be easy for you to separate the message of the clues from your own life. So I have a solution; I will work the clues with you.’

  ‘Please, no!’ she said vehemently. ‘I mean, can’t you find someone else to haunt?’

  ‘The clues may have many layers, Mira,’ he persisted, ‘and you can’t even get past the mere words. You must let me help you.’

  Mira surveyed him, realizing that he was right. But then, she decided, he didn’t have to know that.

  ‘That clue abou
t my death got you interested, didn’t it?’ she challenged him. ‘Is that what you will help me with?’

  ‘How heartless, Mira!’ He was aghast. ‘I just warned you.’

  She sounded upset. ‘The depths to which you can sink!’

  ‘I can’t believe this!’

  ‘The levels to which you can fall!’

  ‘I don’t!’ he said, harassed.

  ‘You must drive then?’

  ‘I resent that . . .’ he paused, confused.

  ‘Let’s go to the Bansi residence,’ she said, amused, and walked to the doors. ‘I’ll have my lunch on the way.’

  He stared after her for a second, and then quickly followed her out.

  It still rained heavily, and the roads were invisible under sheets of water. At the house on Malcha Marg, in the more expensive part of Delhi, the staff was expecting them. A guard at the gate handed them blue umbrellas, and an aide guided them around the premises. They were given a brief history of the seventy-five-years old residence, and the various renovations that had taken place over time, including an addition of a separate section for Sikander. There were two driveways, the one on the left led directly to a two-storeyed house in the front that functioned as Mahesh Bansi’s home and office. The driveway on the right curved around this house and vanished into the lawn behind it. The grounds were beautiful in the rain, and stretched on both sides of the driveway until the vague line of trees in the distance. A mango tree stood in the middle, its dripping branches touching the ground, as if laden with stories waiting to be told. The driveway snaked along a great Banyan tree, and Sikander’s house became visible only when they walked round it. His residence was smaller than the main building, although this too was two-storeyed. On one side were garages, and a door was open to reveal a sleek blue car being polished by an attendant. As Mira walked up to the threshold of the house, she noticed its glass windows had no curtains. The house was at a little height, with a nice view of the lawn and trees outlined tentatively in the green haze of rain.

  The aide pointed out the numbers on the intercom for assistance or when they were ready to leave. He handed Mira a large sealed envelope from Mahesh Bansi, and Mira guessed it must contain Sikander’s personal details she had asked for. A quick silence followed the aide’s exit, and they stood amid the restive bookshelves.

  Besides the study and living room, the ground floor also had the kitchen. Mira switched on the lights and stopped at the door, surprised at the collection of tea on the shelves. There were different types, all kept with their labels visible; then there were many different teapots, all easily accessible. White teacups, true teacups; she too believed that the colour of the cups impacted the taste of tea. He must make his own tea; he chose the leaves by their inclination, brewed them by gentle persuasion and marked their taste as another destination. Just like her. The cutlery was basic, predictable and uncomplicated. Only one plate among the crockery had its label on the reverse worn out from frequent scrubbing, much like the single plate in the set at her home. He preferred to eat in a familiar plate, just like her. Mira stood still, realizing he loved the silences of his loneliness.

  Just like her.

  Mira touched the shining knives in the holder; the similarities were disconcerting and difficult to believe. But this too could be a façade, like everything else. Mira frowned slightly at the sharp end of the blade. She didn’t choose her life, she was born with her demons. How did Sikander acquire his?

  The living room and the study on the ground level were upholstered in bright shades of green and red. But as she went up the stairs to the first floor lounge, she was struck by the lack of colour in this more personal space. The subdued greys and browns merged with the cemented floor. There were no carpets like in the study; no marble like in the living room. A simple clock hung alone on the whitewashed walls of the lounge. The view was better from the bedroom next door, but this too was small and bare. His clothes and other personal effects were in an elaborate wardrobe, left entirely behind by their owner, despite the intimidating labels. The lounge was uncluttered, although the shelves were stacked with school and college memorabilia, trophies and plaques. There was no evidence of the celebrity girlfriends; no scarves left behind, no emotional gifts. There was one photograph of a smiling lady and a child; it was clearly Sikander with his late mother.

  There were books in the lounge and the bedroom, and it was a more honest collection, unlike the books in the study downstairs. She flipped through a few; he had trouble making his way through the Inflationary Universe, the pages had been folded frequently. He had better luck with The Order of Things, with only two page folds, and had read through In Dubious Battle and Anandamath.

  Mira glanced up from the books as the rain paused and listened to the birds of the garden. She recognized them from the background of the clue on the tape. Sikander had recorded the clues in that lounge, surrounded by simple walls and personal books. She glanced out of the window at the clearing day; light made a filigree of raindrops over the window ledge. She was reminded of Nalan’s words. If the contents of the first tape were anything to go by, powerful people would search for Sikander to stop him and harm him. The clues were the only way to get to him, but he had made sure that the clues meant nothing to anyone except her. Mira realized that Sikander, who was a total stranger to her, had left his life in her hands and wanted her to leave her life in his.

  Salat was still in the study, making notes about the books, when Mira returned downstairs. She sat at the desk near the window and opened her laptop to study the clue. This was the first time she felt confident enough to listen to those words again, amid the surroundings in which Sikander had chosen them.

  ‘This collection was started by Sikander’s grandparents,’ Salat said. ‘There are roughly 8,000 books here of which almost 6,000 are bound in leather. Others had to be rebound, but not with the same material. Perhaps it was unavailable . . .’

  Mira turned and looked at him. This was his special gift, to intuitively find patterns in things.

  ‘There’s a water stain on about eighty-two books, which I believe were being transported in cartons. Their edges are bent and some pages have been shaken loose due to the packaging . . .’

  She interrupted him. ‘What are you saying, Salat?’

  ‘These books have never been read,’ he concluded. ‘They are just inherited.’

  Mira realized. ‘Yet another façade.’

  Later, when Salat went upstairs to check, Mira replayed the tape. Sikander’s voice spread in the study as he introduced the recording. It was mellow and clear, like a parent comforting a child, a voice of someone who knew how to get people’s confidence. He did not know Kim Sharma well, but believed she could be charmed into answering his questions. Mira watched as it rained again, but didn’t register it. She sensed Sikander believed the world did not deserve the truth; he could be sensitive and rude, he could be humble and irreverent. He could be anything anyone wanted him to be. Just like her.

  Sikander may have, at some point of time, had faith in the human heart and mind. Now, he only felt sorry for those who did. The recording ended, and he spoke the clue for her. He could have meant those words, Mira knew. He could have thought of killing himself too. It was so easy to believe him; Mira closed her eyes desperately and buried her face in her arms on the desk. The sound of the rain outside flooded the darkness behind her eyes and heightened the tragedy in Sikander’s voice. His light, easy words barely covered his sense of loss that was so overwhelming, it created a destiny of its own. His mask was his brilliant victory against that destiny, and he wore it with disdain.

  Just like her.

  A memory floated up from the recess where she had buried it, dredged up by Sikander’s words, as if it demanded to be understood in the new light of recent excavations.

  They said I didn’t have parents because I was a girl. They said when people came looking for children to adopt, I didn’t stand a chance. If I had been a boy, someone would have ad
opted me. Someone always needed a son. Who needed a daughter? I had not yet begun to distrust them, those who spoke the ‘truth’. So, I believed in that question when I asked it and wanted an answer.

  It was a chilly winter evening in Rishikesh, and a Sunday celebration had been organized for something or someone; I don’t recall now. We were all gathered in the mess hall for the party and dinner. The students were mostly dressed in informal clothes. I loved the light blue dress of one girl—the daughter of a guest. We all loved that dress. Our own clothes provided by the orphanage were good; they were proper but boring, nothing like the blue chiffon dress with a star.

  That evening, everyone had wanted to talk to me, to meet the unusual girl who could read minds. My teachers often spoke of my powers to the townspeople, and the guests were curious. I felt special because of my gift, as it became public for the first time. The guests gathered around me, challenged me with difficult questions and marvelled at my accurate answers. Someone mentioned how unfortunate my parents were to have lost me. Another said anyone would love to have a gifted daughter like me. That’s why I asked the question, you see. I could sense that they genuinely felt for me; they truly liked me. So I asked them if they would like to have a daughter like me. A sudden silence fell over the mess hall. I stared, mystified at the people who surrounded me. They had smiled at me and complimented me just a moment ago, but now they were frowning. I asked them again, even though I now knew the answer; ‘Who wanted me for a daughter?’ They began to step away from me and turned away their faces. One of my teachers was summoned, and she walked up to ask if I had finished my dinner. The warm food and affection were slowly withdrawn, and I realized that the question had displeased people. As my teacher took me to my room, I promised I would never ask that question again. I pleaded that it was all because of that blue dress. I too wanted to be a daughter, I too wanted a star. I had not cried that night, I had not understood that night. I cried every time I remembered that night. I was eight years old.