by Kota Neelima
‘Won’t the activists come after you?’
Patel was silent, then said, ‘I am guessing here, but have you just returned from abroad, after completing your MBA or whatever you do these days to prove you have administrative experience?’
‘How did you know?’ Sikander exclaimed.
‘Never mind,’ Patel dismissed cynically. ‘No, the activists won’t give me a tough time because they understand and cooperate. Why do you think they have quickly politicized the issue? Why do you think they never ask why I followed my orders without questions? They know everything.’
‘Everyone seems to know everything,’ Sikander noted, ‘except for the people.’
‘Don’t be so naïve, Mr Bansi. You think people don’t know whom they vote for? Communal riots take place because they do not finish a politician’s career. Everyone is complicit in this, everyone is guilty.’
Sikander agreed with him. ‘Did you tell Nuri about the press conference?’
‘Yes, I had to. He told me to be patient and not to tempt fate.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Well, do be careful, and thanks for your time,’ Sikander mentioned gratefully. ‘It has been educational.’
‘I am sure it was,’ Patel remarked. ‘Please keep it to yourself, sir. You are far too young to get hurt.’
Sikander laughed. ‘What do you take me for? A fool?’
‘Don’t ask.’
The chairs moved back as the two men stood up and took leave of each other. Then there was a break in the recording before it restarted:
‘This is the clue for Mira.’
Sikander’s voice was somehow pained as he said:
‘You asked when you were wounded. What’s the difference between blood and rain? One flows over the skin, the other under it. Both are free and can’t be captured. You said, fill my veins with rain when my eyes are closed. Let the clouds take possession of my mind and set me free. If I must live, please let me choose the rainbows that are yet to come, over the blood that is yet to be shed in the battlefield.’
‘Questions?’ Bhaskar asked.
No one spoke.
Bhaskar put the pen down and sat back in his chair pensively. ‘I find this very predictable,’ he observed. ‘This is just political rivalry; a PP politician against an NP politician.’
Dubey disagreed, ‘This is much more serious than that, Bhaskar . . .’
Bhaskar interrupted him. ‘But is it true?’
‘We’ll know,’ Lina said, ‘when we speak to this cop, Sunil Patel.’
‘Patel is dead,’ Dubey told her. ‘He died four years ago.’
‘What!’ Lina was shocked. Others started at Dubey, stunned.
He explained gravely, ‘The news didn’t make it to national media, but I remember. It was discovered that he had a weak heart.’
Mira leaned forward keenly. ‘When did he die?’
‘A few days after his Delhi visit.’ Dubey answered, ‘On December 11, the day before his press conference about the riots.’
There was silence in the room.
Bhaskar finally spoke. ‘We published the last tape because Kim Sharma confirmed that conversation with Sikander. If we can’t prove this conversation took place, we won’t run it.’ He added nervously, ‘Munshi will be livid if we can’t find the facts to fortify the tape.’
‘Perhaps,’ Salat pondered, ‘Mira can give us some leads.’
Surprised, Mira realized once again that although he couldn’t read her thoughts, nothing could be hidden from Salat. He knew she had figured out how to date the tape.
‘What are you saying, Salat!’ Lina was exasperated. ‘We need facts, not fairy tales!’
‘Let’s talk facts then,’ Mira told her and turned to others. ‘First of all, I don’t see why should Sikander fabricate a tape that can’t be substantiated. Why would he give us a recording that can’t be cross-checked?’ She glanced at Bhaskar. ‘Even if it was just political rivalry, as you suggested, it wouldn’t be served by unfounded allegations.’
‘But that’s what they will be,’ Bhaskar said, ‘if the tape cannot be confirmed.’
‘It can be,’ she said.
Dubey was puzzled. ‘How?’
‘Play the tape again,’ she suggested. ‘Focus on the background noise in the crowded corridor as Sikander meets the cop. For instance, there was a man who recalled how he barely escaped getting caught in the snow storm that shut down most airports in northern Europe. We can date that . . .’
‘I didn’t hear it,’ Lina objected. Dubey and Bhaskar concurred.
Mira turned to Salat asking, and he admitted. ‘I heard it. And yes, that can be dated.’
‘We can also hear another man speak,’ she continued, ‘about setting the date for his house-warming before the lunar eclipse in December. We can check the calendar.’
‘Snow storm? Eclipse?’ Lina chuckled. ‘What’s next? Someone gave birth in the corridor?’
‘There was a woman, probably an actress, who spoke about her movie that was released earlier that year. That can be cross-checked.’ Mira glanced again at Salat. ‘We could hear vehicle numbers being paged at the nearby exit for the MPs leaving Parliament. With your skills, Salat, you may be able to find an anomaly that can fix a date, such as the end of a term or a change in vehicles.’
He agreed that it could be done.
‘If we put together all this data,’ she concluded, ‘we should be able to confirm the date. That’s what Sikander might have expected we would do. We can explain the methodology to the readers and run the tapes in tomorrow’s newspaper.’
Everyone stayed silent as they realized it was possible. Then Dubey turned to his notebook and noted down the points. Bhaskar reached for his computer and replayed the tape.
Mira stood up to leave. ‘I will be in my room if anyone wants any clarification or assistance.’ She paused and considered Lina, ‘Or wants to know what happens next in the fairy tale.’ Lina uneasily looked away, and Mira walked out.
Mira settled at her desk and opened the inbox that was choked once again with messages. Her byline was only on the main story, but readers mailed her questions about all stories related to the tape published in the newspaper. As she answered the mails, alongside, she played the second tape once again to check for further ways of dating it. She heard the conversation, and noticed something enticing about Sikander’s voice as he lured the policeman into the discussion. He had displayed, alternately and with perfect timing, fetching ignorance and sharp understanding. It had proved to those who met him that it was easy but also rare to convert him into an admirer. This was a trap few could resist, and Sikander used it to great advantage. Then, as the tape ended with the clue, his words forced Mira to stop her work.
Later, she walked to the balcony; it was windy that day, and the rain paused, as if to let the other elements make their arguments before the world. Leaning against the wall, she stared down at the crowded roads. That accident Sikander referred to in the clue had happened a few months ago. She was walking that morning in the last rain of spring when a van had lost control and crashed into a shop window right next to her. The flying glass had cut her, and she had fallen to the sidewalk. A crowd had gathered, and someone called an ambulance. As she had lain there bleeding, the rain and her blood had mixed on the grey sidewalk and flown along the straight cuts in the cement towards the base of a nearby tree. These were exit routes, she had thought just before she became unconscious. Was death the response to the willing of a lifetime? Was it a desire or a command?
The winds lost the case; it began to rain lightly now, and some of the shower reached into the balcony for Mira. She felt like moving to the metal railing, leaning over and looking up at the rain to meet it halfway to earth. But no; she faintly shook her head, she should want to live, not die. That’s what everyone wanted: to live. Another moment, another day. In the hope of what? The rain resounded deep in her mind, like music from behind a closed door, drawin
g her closer. She moved away from the wall and towards the edge. Her clothes were wet, but she didn’t notice, didn’t stop. She slipped in the rain, and held the railing to steady herself. Mira froze, as she discovered she stood at the edge, her grip on the railing weak against the rain. She was amused by her fear; it was proof of the end. One more step and she could finally be part of something. Her hand slipped from the wet railing and she gasped. Her feet were inches from the fall, a tantalizingly short distance away but her foot wouldn’t move. Mira laughed at herself clinging to a life that had never wanted her.
She could still hear the rain in her mind as she returned to the corridor later; she could still hear it ask her to return. Her legs shook as she rushed towards the newsroom and stopped abruptly at a thought. Perhaps the rain was right, this was the time to return. She had always chosen against it, but it still waited, insistently. Mira willed herself to move and found the newsroom across the corridor too far, tiringly distant. She had to stop again, fatigued with the battle within her, but also elated by it; what could Sikander know about such proximity, such reassurance? He regarded death with suspicion, not longing. That was why he made that mistake in the second clue. She didn’t choose between blood and rain. To her, they were both the same.
That afternoon, Mahesh Bansi met Mira, and she introduced Salat to him. They settled in the spacious living room of his residence to speak about his son.
Salat said, ‘Could you tell us something about the kind of person Sikander is?’
Mahesh’s face was drawn. ‘I don’t know my son, Mr Vasudev. There is no point in asking me about him.’
Taken aback, Salat didn’t know what to say. Mira watched Mahesh seriously; she could feel his sadness in her mind.
‘Sikander ensured that I didn’t meet him daily,’ Mahesh explained. ‘He kept different hours and never crossed my path. When I asked for him, he was polite and correct. I don’t know who taught him these things, but his conduct was faultless. And every time I met him, I discovered that the distance between us had only increased.’
He paused, his voice heavy. ‘My wife and I had decided to have only one child so that we could give him or her all our affection, attention and love. I still want that, but I don’t have my child anymore; I don’t have my son.’ Mahesh was forlorn. ‘I know he finds his life complete without me. In time, he may even find people who love him more than I do, but I will never find the child I have lost. And I don’t have the time left in my life to search for him.’
Mira stayed silent, overwhelmed by his pain. Salat studied Mahesh sympathetically.
‘Despite the respect he showed me unerringly, I knew in my heart that he hated me.’ Mahesh paused, disturbed. ‘When I asked him to contest in the last elections, he refused and said he didn’t want to be part of any plan of mine. I told him it wasn’t a plan, it was my dream to see him in Parliament. That’s all it took.’ Mahesh’s voice faltered as he added, ‘He changed his mind and his life for me.’
Mira observed him meditatively.
Salat asked, ‘Why did he show you so much respect if he hated you?’
‘It was his etiquette that made him respect and obey me, not his love,’ Mahesh said resignedly. ‘He would never degrade his own conduct for me or anyone else. That would be unacceptable to him. Instead, look at what he has done! He has forced me to openly accept that we are estranged. He knew I would have to distance myself from him to survive politically. And he wants me to do it! That’s the way he hates, Mr Vasudev, without a chance for reconciliation.’
‘And how does he love?’
‘I have seen him in love only once,’ Mahesh recalled. ‘He was really happy then.’ He stopped where the memory ended. Then said, ‘I have seen him often with women, but I knew he didn’t love any one of them. Just one of those intuitive things I can tell about my son.’
‘What about his love for the cause?’ Mira asked. ‘It must have taken calculation and planning to make the tapes. And discipline.’
‘He is disciplined and quite brilliant,’ Mahesh answered her. ‘Always had the best scores throughout his education. He is also very determined. So, if he decided to expose corruption in Parliament, nothing could have prevented him.’
‘Does he mean it, as he mentioned in the letter, that he won’t return home if I can’t find him?’
‘Absolutely,’ Mahesh said dejectedly. ‘I might see him once before I die, because that would be the right and proper thing for him to do, but not before that.’
‘What would he do with his life?’ She was intrigued. ‘Where would he live?’
Mahesh smiled, despairing but also somehow proud. ‘He must have got his sense of survival from me, Mira. He can live on nothing; he needs no one. Before he became an MP, he used to vanish for months and live in some corner of the country under an assumed name. I used to try and find him, but it was impossible. He left no trace, no phones and no friends, nothing paid for by cheque or credit card. Then one day, he would return home and join me for breakfast or dinner, as if he had been here all along.’
‘But why did he do that?’ Salat asked. ‘Why did he escape?’ ‘What can I say?’ Mahesh shook his head. ‘Perhaps because he didn’t want to be my son or he didn’t want to belong to my world . . .’ He stopped abruptly, too distressed to speak.
‘Or,’ Mira suggested, ‘he gave the world what it expected, so that he could be free of it.’
Mahesh glanced at her, his fatigued eyes, now sharp.
‘You are not being honest, Maheshji. You should stop being politically correct.’
There was silence as she paused; Mahesh looked upset.
‘I believe,’ she continued, ‘Sikander didn’t want to be trapped in the destiny you chose for him.’ Mira met the shrewd eyes evenly. ‘He wore that disguise for you to be the son you wanted him to be. You wanted to change him, and yet, you couldn’t change for him.’
Mahesh didn’t speak, but his grey eyes glinted in anger. Mira stayed unfazed by his enraged thoughts about her.
‘If you had let him be someone else,’ she pointed out serenely, ‘you wouldn’t have lost him. But you wanted an heir, not a son.’ Salat carefully glanced at Mahesh, who was now furious.
‘You wish he hated you,’ Mira told Mahesh, ‘so that you could blame him for everything. But you know he doesn’t hate you, Maheshji, and you don’t want to accept that,’ she added quietly, ‘because then, you would have to blame yourself.’
Salat reached for his notebook; this was clearly the end of the interview.
Mahesh coldly studied her. ‘I resent that Mira,’ he said vindictively, ‘but you’re right.’
Salat raised his eyebrows, surprised.
‘The evidence is in the tapes, Maheshji,’ she said. ‘By naming you in his very first tape, he has ensured your innocence throughout his plan. You will appear to be his victim just like everyone else, forced to criticize him, malign him, disown him; it’s just what you want to do.’
Offended, Mahesh made to contradict her. Mira followed his thought as it reached a more reasonable conclusion and smiled as he grudgingly agreed with her again.
Later, Salat and Mira walked along the second driveway to Sikander’s house. It had just stopped raining, and Mira found the place respond differently to her that day. It was open and accessible, as if she was now verified and approved. Or perhaps, it was her own reservation about trespassing on a stranger’s life. Did Sikander feel the same hesitation before dissecting her life? Mira opened a window to let the sound of dripping foliage enter the stillness of the study. It made her feel less lonely somehow, less vulnerable, as she replayed the tape.
Once again, Sikander’s words rummaged through her head to pick and choose things that he needed to control her. But she was learning about him as well. It was now not difficult to go beyond the obvious meaning of the second clue that she had wanted to die on that sidewalk after the accident. Mira stared at the garden from the window, her face set. Sikander assumed too much. Yes, she too live
d behind masks like him, but there was a fundamental difference. She never had points of reference in life—parents, places and homes like these—which stood witness to her time. Her longest and most loyal companions were the faces she wore, like the ones she put on when she pretended to smile, to trust, to wish and to believe. What could Sikander know of such disguises, façades that ruled her life? He chose his fictions, whereas she was assigned her truths. Mira closed her eyes and listened again to the rain in her mind that churned up a memory from the depths.
That was my first birthday after Raghunath left forever. He had made every conceivable arrangement with the school and the hostel for my comfort and any eventuality. My teachers told me about his kindness and his concern. But none of this really filled his absence on the day of my birthday. That was the first day when I completely understood I had no one of my own, not even as a lie.
Aware of my sentiments, a kind-hearted teacher took me along with her to a friend’s party. They were all strangers there, but they tried talking to me and made me smile. I liked even their sympathy, the way they felt sorry for me. It was nice to know that someone felt something for me, anything. I was aware of what they thought, but I did not say a word. I did not want to change anything that evening. They talked about me; spoke when they thought I wasn’t listening. They said people often killed the girl child before her birth; that worked the best. But if the girl was unfortunately born, then the child was usually left in hospitals and orphanages for the community to take care of. They were all very ashamed of this trend and criticized those who resorted to such inhuman ways. I was impressed by their words and wondered how fortunate their children were. Then I noticed that everyone, invariably, had a son. There were two, sometimes even three, older sisters for every little brother. No, they didn’t kill their girls or discard them, but they also didn’t think they were enough. It was an act of charity, not of affection. There are no homes for girls in this country; girls are tenants everywhere.
At the end, I smiled and I thanked them. I lied that I had had a memorable time. That’s when I acquired my first mask, it was a great success! Soon I discovered people expected me to wear it for the rest of my life. I was eleven years old.
