by Kota Neelima
This led to a frantic search for weaknesses in the news reports instead, and Salat defended it based on the extensive verification process that preceded it. Then the scrutiny reached the bylines and the question arose why know-reporters wrote stories that were based on hard evidence. Salat explained that Mira was the best political know-journalist in the country, and she was the reason why the tapes had come to the newspaper. She was also the only one who could trace down Sikander, as his clues were addressed to her. The question then was whether there was collusion between the newspaper and Sikander Bansi.
‘Based on the tapes,’ Salat answered, ‘the PP government’s business deals are being investigated, the NP government’s role in riots is being inquired into and the BP’s personal ethics are being questioned. Collusion should have benefitted someone, I can only see damage all around.’
Mira watched the discussion from the back of the newsroom; she knew Salat was not finished.
Responding to another question, Salat added, ‘There will be more tapes, and there will be more allegations. We could blame the media for being partisan and forget about the charges, or we could find out if there is any truth in them. What we decide to do with the tapes will decide the kind of society we are.’
Lina exclaimed that it was a good answer. Almost everyone was there, Mira noticed—the newsdesk, the city reporters, the national correspondents, the sports desk, the photographers and Bhaskar. And everyone was falling in love with Salat, Lina was not the only one. Salat appeared good on television and adopted a strategic demeanour while defending the tapes. He was humble, ordinary, conciliatory and polite. He was judgmental but understanding, hurt but considerate, and helpless but resilient. He was like any average television audience, and as the anchors realized that, they stopped criticizing him and started to seek his opinion.
‘I was shocked,’ Salat said, when asked about his personal reaction to the tapes. ‘Was this how the men and women who swear by our Constitution chosen? For how long has this been going on?’ The television anchor heard him sympathetically.
‘Does nothing matter more than wealth?’ Salat asked. ‘Why do honour, truth and integrity matter more to me than to my nation’s leaders? And why do we get hurt by what they have done?’
On another channel, he agreed that there may be different points of view about know-journalism, but that shouldn’t minimize the importance of the tapes. ‘We are not here to debate the tapes because we think they are false,’ he said. ‘We are here because we fear they may be true.’
‘Now, let’s be honest, Mr Vasudev,’ the anchor said frankly. ‘Did your newspaper doctor the tapes to make the stories sensational? You have to admit, surely, that this episode has made you famous.’
Salat nodded. ‘Valid doubt, but we didn’t have to tamper with the tapes. They were already sensational.’
‘You are not answering my question,’ the anchor pursued. ‘Media houses are routinely blamed for pandering to popularity. Is this charge true in case of your newspaper?’
‘Let’s not underestimate the people,’ Salat advised cordially. ‘The average reader of a newspaper or viewer of your television channel knows why a story is getting played up or down. And can figure out who is telling the truth. That’s what we did at our newspaper. We told the truth, and I’m glad we are now popular for that.’
The next channel got into the morality question. ‘It’s just a tape, Salat, obtained without the permission of the speakers. Is it ethical?’
‘It’s not just a tape,’ Salat explained. ‘It is evidence. The events mentioned in the tapes have been thoroughly investigated by every journalist in Delhi and outside. If there is an ethical question, it is this: shouldn’t Sikander Bansi be praised for bringing all this out into the open?’
‘Sikander Bansi could have gone missing anytime in the last four years and given your newspaper these tapes,’ the journalist objected. ‘Why now, at the very end of the government tenure and just ahead of the elections?’
‘I can only speculate, and I see two reasons—political and personal,’ Salat reflected. ‘First, Sikander wants these facts to be made public just before the elections for the benefit of the voters. Secondly, well, it takes time and courage to destroy the career of one’s father,’ he paused, as if confused. ‘Not sure which reason is personal and which political, though.’
The newsroom broke out in laughter. Leaning against the wall at the back, Mira smiled. Salat seemed to be that rare thing in journalism, a print journalist who was good on live television. The newsroom soon returned to work, every word written was backed by evidence and on-the-record statements. That evening, additionally, the legal team vetted their news reports in the upstairs conference room, and Munshi walked in and out at a feverish pace. As the deadline grew closer, there was silence of caution among the reporters who fine-tuned their stories before submission and once the deadline passed, the room was abuzz with conversations. Driving through the misty night, Mira reached home late and found Nalan waiting across the road from her gate. He leaned against a black car and read something on his cell phone. Puzzled, she stopped her car, and he glanced up. Mira stepped out as he crossed the road and greeted her.
‘Sorry for this unscheduled meeting,’ he said. ‘I had something to ask you.’
‘Which you couldn’t on the phone?’
‘Never.’
She frowned faintly.
‘Bet you can’t find it in my thoughts,’ he challenged.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘They are too murky.’
He chuckled. ‘What did you expect after a day spent doing politics?’
Mira smiled warily. This wasn’t the first time he had successfully hidden his deeper thoughts from her. They were alone on the road, and the streetlights made his brilliant eyes sparkle. Even the night waited to know more.
‘So, tell me,’ he said, interested, ‘why do you wear khadi all the time?’
Mira stared at him. ‘That’s what you wanted to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘At 11 p.m. on the road outside my house?’
He shrugged and waited.
‘I guess,’ she said tentatively, ‘I like handspun cotton.’
‘I see. Have you always worn khadi?’
‘Since college.’
‘Right,’ he noted meditatively. ‘Don’t you want to follow the latest fashion?’
‘I’m happy to set my own trend,’ she answered. Mira was mystified that she still couldn’t discern his thoughts. He improvised on so many levels that it was impossible for her to know what he would think next.
‘Don’t you wish for change?’ He surveyed the road, as he asked, ‘Try to wear something different?’
Mira decided to help him focus. ‘I like predictability in some things.’
He glanced at her, curious. ‘What things?’
‘Like the white shirts,’ she gestured to his shirt, ‘every time we meet.’
Nalan regarded her in silence and Mira, amused, found his mind concentrate on her.
‘I’m glad to know that,’ he said finally, his brown eyes still unsure of her.
‘This is what you couldn’t talk about on the phone?’ she repeated her earlier question now. ‘Why I wear khadi?’
He smiled meaningfully. ‘Doesn’t seem a very safe conversation now, does it?’
Mira raised her eyebrows and he apologized smoothly.
‘As you have probably noticed,’ he explained, ‘you are under constant surveillance by the people affected by the tapes. They wanted to confront you tonight and interrogate you about Sikander’s whereabouts.’ He spoke quietly. ‘I got to know of their plans and offered to ask you myself on their behalf.’
‘So you’re asking me?’ she inquired.
He met her eyes. ‘No.’
‘They’re watching us?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s why you wouldn’t call,’ she inferred. ‘My phone is being monitored.’
He nodded. ‘Besides, on p
hone I couldn’t have expressed adequately my feelings about the way you have interpreted my request to be careful, by driving home alone at midnight.’
‘It’s not midnight yet.’ She couldn’t help smiling. ‘But what are your feelings about it?’
‘Utter and complete dismay,’ he said seriously. ‘You have no sense of precaution.’
‘I shall acquire some.’
‘Please do.’ He pointed to her car. ‘Need help parking that . . . thing?’
‘No, thanks.’ She returned to her car. ‘And I’m still paying instalments on this “thing”. So be respectful.’
He held the door for her. ‘Find Sikander fast, Mira, for your own good.’
Nalan wished her a good night, shut the door and crossed the road to his car. Mira watched him drive away, impressed with his strategy. He had managed to convey to her the dangers she faced without producing any evidence and without making it sound like a threat. Then as Nalan’s car turned the corner, the headlights momentarily lit up the surveillance jeep parked in the darkness. Troubled, Mira recognized it to be the same vehicle that had followed her through the day and wondered whether she had, perhaps, read Nalan wrong.
Ten
On Tuesday, Mira requested Mahesh Bansi to let her visit Sikander’s house once more. Salat had been exact with his intuitive conclusion; that was the only place she wasn’t afraid of the clues. Fear stalled her mind if she studied them anywhere else as they plunged her deep within herself and choked her. His words were like devices of destiny, mechanical and not given to common mercies, unwinding her past with precision. The words did the same with his life when she heard them in his home.
The surveillance jeep halted at a discreet distance as Mira entered the Bansi residence at 10 o’clock that morning. As before, the aide kept the house keys on the table near the intercom, and left. She stood alone in the questioning silence and felt the house once again surround her. Then she smiled; Sikander shouldn’t have sent that third clue. But how could he stop? He was enjoying himself too much.
As she replayed the clue on the laptop, Mira could sense his thoughts far more clearly than she had before. Things that couldn’t be changed, he justified them for her, like her destiny. And yet he challenged her merely for fun, Mira noticed as she paced the study. There was laughter behind the voice in the recording, a little mocking laughter. He seemed to be entertained by her nature. . . no, that was not all. She stopped and listened keenly. There was compassion as well, and even affection, but there was also derision. He found her weaknesses pointless yet inevitable; thus, the solutions about origin and destination. And at the very back of the words, where they were still attached to thoughts? There was sympathy towards her need for answers.
The place you go to recover your faith.
That should have been Rishikesh, she thought. That was an easy place to find faith, as she had discovered many years ago.
It was difficult not to believe in God in Rishikesh. There was tangible evidence everywhere. Temples, ashrams, prayer halls and religious organizations. Then there was the river, flowing with conviction and belief. Rishikesh was not the place for doubt; it was where one discerned the grand design of God. I knew I should be grateful for the grace of God, for the way every need of my life was taken care of by the benevolence of a charitable man and for finding home in a sheltering institution like the orphanage. Gratitude, however, was no answer to curiosity. I believed in God, but I also questioned his creation. I loved God but I also hated his design. I knew we should emulate God, but also knew we never would.
The moments of great hope in my life were when new children were brought into the orphanage. I knew, like we all did, that these children had been saved from the misery of streets and possible death. Most new infants were girls, but there were some boys as well. They all looked the same, they all looked like us. I felt like believing in God’s design at that point. Everything was made equal. Everyone had an equal chance of survival. Until one morning when the boys among the infants would be taken away, adopted by people eager for an heir. Perhaps these desperate couples were poor and could not afford to raise a girl along with a boy. Perhaps these helpless parents had a daughter or two already, and wanted a son. Perhaps these realistic men and women thought daughters were a liability, while a son would be an asset. Perhaps these sensitive citizens knew they couldn’t protect a daughter in a nation that didn’t want them and found new ways of killing them. No, God had not created this world equal, at least not for women. As I mentioned, it was difficult not to believe in God in Rishikesh. But I have never been grateful again, or curious. I was fourteen years old.
Mira closed her eyes, tired. This was yet another memory that she had kept tightly sealed under the dark waters of her mind. The clue handicapped her, blinded her, just as the other two clues had done before. But there was a difference this time. Even Sikander seemed blinded by her pain.
The place you go to recover your faith.
He should have known faith was just another one of her masks. This mask was most worn out and frequently damaged. So the tools of its repair had to be handy. The truth couldn’t repair her faith, so it had to be a lie—the only lie she allowed in her life. She opened her eyes suddenly as she discovered that she was wrong. Sikander wasn’t blinded, he could see the lie she needed to keep her faith alive. Dazzled by the solution, Mira held her breath as pieces clicked into place in her head to complete the puzzle. Everything made sense now, including that impatient instruction Sikander had left for her with the doctor:
Don’t waste time tracing my steps, just go home.
The day was cold as calculation, but the sky was the colour of wood smoke and promises. When the aide returned after half an hour to check, he couldn’t find her. She was already gone.
The new Parliament tape had revealed yet another secret, this time about the ruthless politics of Bharat Kumar. His party’s reaction to the publication of the third tape that morning had brought the city to a standstill. Even the first tape had led to protests; the PP spokespersons had defended their government, and the Opposition NP had demanded resignation of the ministers involved. The second tape too had generated heated reactions; the NP spokespersons had defended their president, and the PP leaders demanded his resignation. This was normal for Delhi, and life remained undisturbed on the streets. Normalcy, however, was not something that the Bharat Party believed in. And even though the third tape was actually a confession of his disregard towards the farmer suicide that took place at his public meeting, Bharat Kumar charged that it was sabotage of his revolution. Like most BP street protests, this too started at morning peak hour when Bharat Kumar’s supporters blocked arterial roads and drained the city of life. Forced to take control of the situation by detaining the BP cadres, the police restored the traffic flow of office-goers.
After battling with the police live on television for a couple of hours, the supporters conceded to contain their protest to the road in front of Munshi’s newspaper. The building gates withstood the charge of the protesters who demanded to meet Munshi. Then a BP spokesperson made an emotional media statement that the outrage was legitimate because Munshi’s newspaper had published lies against their beloved leader. He said this ‘river of rage’ would only stop if Munshi personally apologized, failing which, that day’s newspaper wouldn’t be allowed to publish. In response, Bhaskar sent out a message that Munshi was not in office, and was in Andhra Pradesh for a business meeting. The protesters called Munshi a coward, who ran scared from the popular backlash.
‘Come out Munshi and say “sorry”!’ Their slogans could be heard inside the building. ‘Liar! Liar!’
Bharat Kumar expressed helplessness at the chaos unleashed by his men in the city and stated it just showed how much people loved him. As the protests continued, the staff of the newspaper was forced to use side entrances to the building. In contrast to the noise outside, the office was unruffled and peaceful, although the morning meeting was held in the afternoon, presided
over by Bhaskar. Mira had called him early to say she would be away for half a day. That had not affected anything; she was not required for the follow-up stories about the tapes. Bhaskar treated BP protests as he would any other news; one reporter covered the BP demonstration at the building gates and another verified the allegations made against Munshi. At 2 p.m., Bharat Kumar held a press conference and, in a stunning statement, blamed the police for the traffic crisis in the capital. He also advised the media on how his news should be reported so that his supporters were not upset.
‘The media should exercise restraint and think before writing against honest and upright politicians like me,’ he suggested. ‘We are here to rid politics of corruption; that is the reason why the entire corrupt establishment is targeting us. The newspaper report is one such attempt.’
The newsroom television screens were tuned to the live coverage of the press conference. The room was busy as usual. Those in charge of foreign news, business news and sports were in a meeting with Bhaskar. Lina’s team compiled stories from other cities and Dubey tracked developing stories with his reporters. Salat and Lina returned from lunch and stopped before a television screen to watch. A questioner at the press conference asked Bharat Kumar, ‘You had no problem when the same daily newspaper published other Parliament tapes against the PP and the NP. You had even hailed Munshi for his fearless journalism. And yet, you denounce his newspaper today for writing against you. Why such double standards?’
‘The two situations don’t compare!’ Bharat declared. ‘The earlier tapes against my opponents were true. This tape against me is not!’
The questioner pursued, ‘But when the NP and the BP said the earlier tapes were a lie, you refused to believe them. Why should we believe you now?’
