The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  Mira sat in the study with her eyes closed. It was the last memory she needed, Mira weakly told herself. She seemed to have abdicated the control over her pain to Sikander. His words shook loose all instances that she made herself forget. Then she realized something else. Deep within her mind, where everything was a different shade of reality, she no longer heard the calling rain. Instead, she heard Sikander’s soft voice as his words dismantled her memory of rain, one saved pearl at a time.

  Seven

  Sundays used to be islands of leisure around which one circled the entire week, wading through troubled waters to eventually reach and rest. But this was not one such Sunday. Mira woke up to phone calls and text messages, indicating a day ahead of tension and aggravation. She had to do the laundry at home, get groceries for the week and sweep the floors. Instead, Mira was standing at the gates of her apartment building at 9 a.m., waiting for Salat.

  Bhaskar had called her about an hour ago; Nuri was livid about that morning’s story of Sikander’s conversation with the policeman about the riots. The second Parliament tape once again provided a crucial missing piece of another puzzle. It reopened the unsolved case of the riots and showed who instigated the violence between communities. Predictably, Nuri was shaken and had complained to Munshi that the story revealed a grudge the newspaper held against the NP. Even though Munshi clarified that he never held grudges in secret, Nuri threatened to sue the newspaper for sullying his name unless Munshi could prove he was fair in publication of the tapes. Munshi agreed and promised to send the journalists who had written the story to meet him. As a result, Bhaskar instructed Mira and Salat to reach Nuri’s residence to explain the process behind the story to him. Salat called her and offered to drive so that they could discuss on the way. He arrived three minutes late; they remained silent as he reached the main road and headed towards Nuri’s residence in central Delhi.

  ‘What do the clues mean, Mira?’ Salat spoke finally, as he slowed at an intersection. ‘I can’t figure them out.’

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ she observed, ‘because they are addressed to me.’

  Mira surveyed the bright sky; the light was linked strands of silver and grey. ‘I hope Sikander has factored in Munshi’s treachery. What are we to tell Nuri?’

  ‘Bhaskar says that we have to tell Nuri everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Bhaskar wants us to.’ Salat glanced at her briefly. ‘That’s evident, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s evident is we write for a newspaper and not for Nuri.’

  ‘Please Mira!’ he chuckled impatiently. ‘Nuri is the chief of the Opposition National Party. Elections are around the corner, and he could easily be the next prime minister. Don’t you see that? How can we displease Nuri?’

  ‘If that’s so, then why did we publish the tape?’ she inquired. ‘What has changed between yesterday and today? Did we reveal the evidence yesterday only to oblige him today?’

  ‘We published the tape because we owed it to the readers,’ he replied calmly.

  ‘Then we should write about the phone conversation between Munshi and Nuri in the morning today,’ Mira countered. ‘We owe that to the readers as well. We must also report our meeting with Nuri, the readers must know that too!’

  ‘Bhaskar specifically told me that everything should be off the record,’ Salat cautioned her, ‘unless Nuri wants to make a press statement.’

  ‘All right then,’ She said reasonably. ‘Let’s publish tomorrow that we extended this privilege to Nuri to decide what should be off and on the record.’

  He turned to her. ‘Are you telling me this has never happened before with you? Is this the first time that you have discovered how journalism works or newspaper owners work?’

  ‘No,’ she conceded fairly. ‘But every time it happens, I am happy that I am still outraged by it.’

  ‘But you do take part in it,’ he persisted. ‘You couldn’t have survived in your job if you had not. Then why do you indulge in this righteous posturing?’

  ‘Because it still hurts my conscience.’

  ‘Even if you are complicit?’ he asked.

  ‘Especially because I am!’

  ‘Spare me the classroom idealism, Mira,’ he said. ‘With every line of news we write in support or opposition, we benefit someone or the other. That’s the business of communication. It’s communication when we publish a story, and it’s business when we sell it. There is no grey area.’

  ‘Then I’ll choose either black or white, not both.’

  ‘What’s your problem, really?’ he asked restlessly. ‘Uneasy relationship with parents? Sibling rivalry? Difficult love life? Sorry for being inappropriate, but I want to know.’

  ‘Oh I see!’ Mira nodded. ‘My morality has to be the result of some insufficiency in my life. Then what’s the secret of your immorality?’ she demanded. ‘The sufficiency of your life?’

  ‘So you know everything about my family,’ he noted derisively, ‘everyone does. To be brief, we run a few industries, just as the company website says. But I do a job because I want to be someone more than merely the “next boss”. It’s that simple, really.’

  Mira was unconvinced. ‘What about the dog?’

  ‘The dog?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘The four-year-old retriever,’ she clarified. ‘You live alone with your dog, you do a job that you don’t need, and you can’t sustain relationships. And you talk about problems in my life?’

  Salat forgot his annoyance. ‘That’s really good, Mira! Honestly!’ he said, impressed. ‘How did you find out? You can’t discern my thoughts as another knower, so what gave this away? Clothes, habits, reactions . . .?’

  ‘Facebook.’

  He glanced at her amused face. ‘All right then,’ he said vengefully, ‘if you are so smart, why don’t you tell me how Sikander knows you this well?’

  Mira lost her smile.

  ‘You are not on any social network. In fact, you’re barely on our newspaper website.’ Salat continued, ‘Then how does Sikander come up with his clues that cut you to the bone? It has been hard for you to even hear the clues a second time unless you are in Sikander’s house, fortified by his life as he demolishes yours.’

  Mira stayed silent, unnerved by his perception.

  ‘Don’t have an answer, do you?’ Salat challenged her.

  ‘No,’ she was brief.

  He repented at the change in her voice. ‘Well, you can always ask my dog,’ he recommended lightly. ‘Don’t read his thoughts though; he too is immoral like me due to the sufficiency of his life.’

  Mira glanced at him, surprised, and Salat chuckled, making her smile.

  Nuri was waiting for them at his residence, and by the number of empty tea cups before him, it was clear that his day had begun early. He gestured for them to sit and continued reading the newspapers. Unlike his counterpart in the PP—Mahesh Bansi, who lived in his own home—Nuri stayed in government-allotted accommodation. Although, as a former cabinet minister and a six-times MP, Nuri was entitled to a large bungalow, he lived in the same small flat where he had begun his political career three decades ago. A simple man with simple needs, that’s how he wanted people to think of him. People, however, knew better.

  The long living room was crowded with seating arrangements of four different types. The brown sofas at the far end with their plush, rounded corners were like lazy animals resting after a heavy meal. A dozen upholstered skinny chairs were lined up against two walls, as if waiting for the firing squad. Two wooden easy chairs sat uneasily in the middle and divided the room into the plush and the rugged ends. Nuri was perched on a couch, surrounded by different phones and newspapers. They could see he read their newspaper and were forced to wait in a silence that made them appear guilty.

  Evidently, he had postponed many things from his morning schedule. He was still in his pyjamas, a rare sight as he had never been seen wearing anything but his traditional starched cotton outfits. Nuri appeared much
younger than his sixty years. His hair was without much grey; his face without many lines. The reading glasses accentuated his frown, and as he turned a page of the newspaper, the large pearl ring on his finger triggered a déjà vu. Over the last three decades, that ring had been as much in the public domain as Nuri himself—seen, photographed and televised with him. The hand used to be younger, and the pearl used to be set in silver. Now, the hand was aged, and the pearl was in platinum.

  ‘I was reading your story again,’ Nuri said, as he kept the newspaper away, ‘because I need to brief my lawyers on the defamation charges. They believe I deserve compensation of up to ₹100 crore from your newspaper for this libel.’

  He regarded them accusingly. ‘When your office called me yesterday for a version, they never told me it was part of a political game. You should have the basic decency to be honest about who you work for. After all, you are paid salaries as journalists, and people should know who does the paying! And what for!’

  As he continued with the tirade, Mira looked out of the window next to her chair. The sun was now out, and there was a slight breeze. She could sense Nuri’s thoughts, which were predictably murderous. Her mind sauntered off to Nalan Malik and his unlikely white shirt; she wondered if he had her under surveillance.

  ‘Am I boring you, Miraji?’ Nuri demanded.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mira turned to him. ‘You were talking about the reporter who called you from my office.’

  He glared at her. ‘The reporter who called me from your office asked me innocent questions! How did I know Patel? Did I meet him on his last visit to Delhi? What did we talk . . .?’ Nuri said, working up a rage. ‘I answered the questions truthfully. I said we talked about personal issues, which were not meant for the press. Did I say we had differences? No. Did I say it was about the riots? No. Did I say it was about his press conference? No. But that’s the story I read today with my statements reported out of context.’

  ‘They were in context and you know why,’ Mira noted quietly. ‘You were sent the transcripts of the tape.’

  ‘But did it help that I said the tape was baseless?’ His dark eyes were furious. ‘Does it matter at all that I am innocent, or do I have to be condemned just because I am a politician?’

  ‘I understand your feelings,’ Mira tried again, ‘and we are here to explain to you . . .’

  ‘No, Miraji, let me explain to you instead,’ he said harshly. ‘I have never protested or questioned your know-reports about me. You exposed my intentions, probably with the help of my rival, Mahesh Bansi. And today, you tried to destroy my career with the help of his son. You must tell me, why are you against me?’

  ‘I am not against you or for you, sir; I am a journalist,’ Mira stated. ‘I have never needed any help to write know-reports about you, Mr Nuri. If you remember, you gave me an interview once, and that’s all I needed to know you, which was to hear you speak once. And as for our report today, we have evidence to back every word.’

  ‘Every word, is it?’ he fumed. ‘What evidence do you have of my guilt? How could you insinuate that I was involved in the riots?’ Nuri paused, agitated. ‘How can you call Sikander’s Parliament tapes evidence? It’s a random conversation between two biased people against a common enemy.’

  ‘A conversation with a man,’ Mira rephrased, ‘who was witness to carnage and probably facilitated it. A man who had no idea he was being recorded and had no reason to lie.’

  Nuri waved his hand in disgust. ‘Please don’t talk about lies, not when your byline is on this story. Just say sorry and get lost!’

  Stunned and enraged, Mira made to answer when she felt Salat’s restraining grip on her arm.

  ‘Your one story has tainted my image, possibly forever,’ Nuri alleged. ‘My career of many decades of social service is being questioned. It seems now as if I had lied, as if I knew Patel’s plans and, perhaps, even got him killed!’

  He fell silent, troubled, and his face stiffened with thoughts he didn’t share. The breeze made the white curtains of the window flutter and let the sunlight slip into the room.

  Nuri took a deep breath. ‘Your newspaper published that tape to damage me. And there is nothing you can say today to repair it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Nuri, then we won’t try any repairs,’ Mira said. Contrary to what she felt, she sounded cool and composed. ‘However, our editor Mr Munshi thought you should know that we handled the situation with fairness. To give you the general picture, we are publishing Sikander’s tapes as a condition for him to return home and on the request of Mr Mahesh Bansi. The tapes constitute important information, which we professionally verify from multiple sources before publication. We side with no individual or party . . .’

  ‘Side with no one?’ Nuri thundered. ‘Don’t play these games with me, Miraji! You have written the story for Mahesh with the help of evidence his son had concocted against me. You are siding with him and the PP government!’

  ‘The first tape was against Mr Bansi and the PP government, Mr Nuri,’ Mira countered calmly. ‘I wouldn’t call that siding with them.’

  Nuri didn’t respond.

  ‘The story came to us with a few conditions,’ Mira continued. ‘First, all tapes must be published by our newspaper. Secondly, every tape will have a clue to find Sikander; and, thirdly, the tapes will cease once Sikander is found.’ She paused. ‘We have been working on the clues and are reasonably confident that we will get to Sikander soon.’

  ‘Your editor claimed Sikander sent you the clues because you are a gifted knower. So, when will you find him?’

  ‘She can’t say when, Mr Nuri,’ Salat intervened. ‘Sikander had planned this episode very carefully and thoroughly. It won’t be easy to find him if he doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘And in the meanwhile, there will be more tapes against me?’

  ‘We do not know what will be in the next tape.’

  Nuri asked, mocking, ‘You expect me to believe that, Salatji?’

  ‘Yes, although I’m fairly certain that the next tape will once again expose the deals made by parliamentarians.’

  ‘Such as myself?’

  Salat shrugged.

  Nuri fell silent, thinking. ‘Perhaps, I can get the tapes to stop.’

  ‘By suing our newspaper for defamation?’ Salat contemplated. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘I meant, by finding Sikander,’ Nuri clarified acidly. ‘Why didn’t Mahesh go to the police to find his son?’

  ‘That was one of the conditions set by Sikander in his personal letter to his father,’ Salat revealed. ‘No police.’

  ‘Well, I can go to the police, can’t I? Let me help everyone by tracking down this meddling son of Mahesh.’ Then he regarded them with hostility. ‘Tell your editor that I will rethink the legal case against him. And on the way out, please leave your contact numbers with my assistant. He will collect the copy of the tapes from your office.’

  ‘There is nothing left in the recording,’ Salat assured him. ‘It’s all published in today’s newspaper.’

  ‘I’m not talking about today’s recording, Salatji, I’m talking about the tapes that are yet to come. That was the deal with Munshi.’ He noticed their surprise and chuckled, entertained. ‘Oh, so he didn’t tell you people! Well, perhaps as knowers, you should start by getting to first “know” your own editor!’

  After some time, Mira stormed out of Nuri’s house, livid. Even Salat was upset. They didn’t speak as they reached the car, but had to pause to appreciate the beautiful day. The sun let the freshly painted leaves dry, the sky was an unframed canvas, fine-grained and primed. The light preferred photographs instead, and the breeze dropped raindrops like postcards from the trees. The warmth of the day was dipped in something soft and sweet, as if to change the subject from victory and defeat.

  The office was deserted when Salat and Mira reached at 11 a.m. The staff on Sunday duty was yet to arrive, and a surprised guard unlocked the door to the editorial department for them. Salat walked off
to have a cup of coffee in the canteen, and Mira headed to her cabin. She shut the door and stood thinking. The conversation with Nuri had reminded her of Sikander’s letter to his father in which he was confident she could solve the clues and find him. Mira switched on the computer and uneasily read the scripts of the two clues once again. His words were always final and bare, as if to evoke fear of non-existence that entailed she derive her being wholly from his perception of her. She had to admit she was already driven by what he let her think, which made analysis of the clues difficult. The second clue was more tangible than the first because it was based on an actual event. But if Sikander thought like her, why would he refer to the accident and give away his vantage point? She would have never done that unless . . .

  Mira stared at the clue, realizing, then grabbed her bag and rushed out of the cabin.

  Salat sat alone in the canteen on the ground floor and sipped coffee by the window. He turned, surprised, as she came and sat next to him. He asked for another cup and waited as she glanced out of the window at the parking lot behind the building. Several motorcycles stood there in rows, their rear-view mirrors turned to the skies, like sunflowers in a farmer’s field.

  ‘A doctor in the government hospital had treated me after the accident a few months ago,’ she said to Salat. ‘His name was Gautam something . . . I forget. It is evident that Sikander has met him and, perhaps, wants me to meet him as well. That’s why the clue mentions the accident in such detail.’

  ‘Detail?’ Salat was mystified.

  ‘Well, Sikander knew I was hurt in the open. He knew it was raining. He knew there was substantial blood loss before the ambulance arrived, and that I was conscious while I lay on the sidewalk.’ Mira paused as the coffee arrived. ‘These details can’t be found in hospital records. He got those personally from the doctor who had treated me.’