by Kota Neelima
After washing, he placed the cutlery and plates in the same spot on the table as before. Then he set his room in order, and as he moved around, she caught the first clear glimpse of his face. Sikander looked just as the doctor had described him; his dark hair was long, his cheeks gaunt, his beard days old, his eyes fatigued. He didn’t merely wear the disguise, she realized, surprised. He brought it to life.
She couldn’t leave, couldn’t look away from the square, lighted window in the night. And after two more hours, around 11 p.m., the light went out and the window remained open. It took a while for Mira to move. Her body was frozen where she had been sitting for hours on the balcony floor. Returning to her room, she settled in the dark on the sinking couch and thought about the life he lead with such punishing accuracy. Sikander did not pretend to be Gopi. He was Gopi—one of the millions who came to Delhi to be rescued from the poverty of their villages. He didn’t allow himself anything that Gopi wouldn’t have got. He too didn’t have any money, any place to go and any job that lasted. He didn’t just borrow the suffering; he immersed himself in it and lived it, one day at a time. She couldn’t help admiring his strength, his decision and his silence. No one knew he was there in that lane—no cameras, no media and no opinion makers. No one was ever in that dark room to see how men like Gopi lived in Delhi. And no one was there for Sikander either.
Twelve
That Thursday morning Salat was surprised when he entered the conference room at 11 a.m. for the editorial meeting. Everyone was already there, everyone except Munshi. Bhaskar fixed the volume on his computer and played the fourth tape that was received in the morning post. This recording too began with Sikander stating the date, time and place, but his voice was unusually low.
‘Today is 13 July , and the time is 4 p.m. I am in the Parliament canteen to have tea. At the next table are three men: Anand Mohan, president of the All Rights Party, and its MP, Dwakaranath—alias Don—and Fernandes, a senior official of the People’s Crime Bureau or PCB.’
There were sounds as the equipment was suitably arranged to record the voices from across the other table.
A relaxed voice said: This is the last place we should be seen talking.
A much-ruffled voice replied: Yes, Anand bhai, but I am afraid I may be arrested. At least here in Parliament, there are permissions to be obtained, and I’ll get time to escape.
Anand Mohan: Good to see you quoting rules, Dwaraka, but you will have to go home sometime.
Dwarakanath: Perhaps, I will leave when it’s dark.
Anand Mohan: (chuckling) Tell him, Fernandes, that it’s not such a crisis.
Fernandes: It is not, sir. We are yet to issue arrest warrants in your name.
Dwarakanath: But you will one day, won’t you?
Fernandes: Yes, I am afraid so.
Dwarakanath: (desperate) This is all because PP made that stupid statement that criminals have no place in Parliament. What a cruel stand to take, especially when we are one of the allies in government! It stalled the ordinance that allowed people with criminal backgrounds to contest elections. Someone in the party even said the PP was ready to sacrifice power, but wouldn’t issue that ordinance.
Anand Mohan: So what’s bothering you? The PP did not say it would sacrifice the criminal. You are safe.
Dwarakanath: I hate that word! Don’t tell me I am safe. Are you?
Anand Mohan: (quelling) Calm down now. The case against you is rape and murder. And yet, you are a third-term MP because of me. Try gratitude sometime.
Dwarakanath: I am grateful, Anand bhai. Don’t get me wrong. But I was drunk that night. It was a mistake . . . Is it fair to hold it against me after ten years?
Anand Mohan: Yes, because you were not punished for it.
Dwarakanath: If you’re going to talk about the law, then I’ll have no option but to call Omkar Nuri. No, bhai . . . listen to me. Remember the witness I had kidnapped for you, the one who got killed? Or when you were caught at the airport with excess cash? Anyone else would value a commitment like mine. If I told Nuri all your secrets and asked for his help in return, I’m sure he would lend me an ear.
Anand Mohan: (amused) This is getting a little funny now!
Dwarakanath: (warning) Please don’t provoke me, bhai. I am rattled enough by PP’s stand, which has upturned all my plans. People have invested in me. They believed I will make them huge profits, and will be very upset if I get arrested. I cannot even return the investments. I don’t even have the money here; it was way too much to be kept in this country.
Anand Mohan: (sighing) You have been in Delhi for fifteen years now, but have not learnt a thing about staying in power in the city. There is a solution to everything in Delhi, and everyone. Isn’t that true, Fernandes?
Fernandes: Very true, sir. If I may, your friend here has been convicted, and will have to begin serving his life sentence shortly. If you remember sir, eight years ago when you had asked me to file the charge sheet against him, I had informed you that if he gets convicted, he would be finished. You had asked me to go ahead.
Dwarakanath: Bhai! You did what?
Anand Mohan: (quietly) Must have been necessary.
Fernandes: It was, sir. At that time, he refused to support the PP coalition and had threatened to join the Nuri coalition instead. I had asked if you would prefer a case of disproportionate assets, irregularity in an election or one of his old cases. You had said he should not be able to change camps easily and chose the murder and rape case.
Dwarakanath: (heartbroken) I always suspected it. Bhai, how could you . . .
Anand Mohan: Shut up, Dwaraka. Now, Fernandes, can it be undone?
Fernandes: Of course, sir. There were two witnesses to his crime, who were his close associates. I had to lodge false cases against the witnesses. That was how they deposed against him, even at the risk to their own lives. I could promise to withdraw the cases, it could make them change their statements.
Dwarakanath chuckled in relief.
Anand Mohan: (impressed) Remind me, Fernandes. What was it that you wanted?
Fernandes: To investigate the case of black money, sir, stashed abroad in Swiss banks.’
Anand Mohan: Done. And is the Reddy charge sheet ready?
Fernandes: Almost. We are charging him with criminal intimidation, fraud, forgery, etc. Unfortunately, he is an educated professional, not a criminal. So we had to look really hard for something against him.
Anand Mohan: Make it nonbailable please, I want him behind bars immediately. Now, about the ordinance, can you think of an argument in support of it? That criminals should be allowed to contest elections?
Fernandes: (contemplative) One could say that it was a Constitutional right, sir. Convicts could contest from behind bars and add a new vantage point to the mainstream discourse of the nation . . .
Anand Mohan: What! Have you been reading Parliament speeches?
Fernandes: (defensive) Yes sir, I was asked by the minister to prepare an answer for the debate on the difference between being a caged parrot and the lapdog of a government.
Anand Mohan: (after a pause) I don’t see any difference.
However, can you please send me the points in favour of the ordinance? I plan to push it through. Don’t email please.
Fernandes: Don’t worry sir. Your mail is not being hacked by the Chinese anymore.
Anand Mohan: That’s a relief! But . . . what have the Chinese got to do with my mail?
Fernandes: That is what we are trying to find out, sir, by hacking your mail.
Anand Mohan: (ironically) I see. I somehow prefer the Chinese.
They could hear people leave the tables and walk away. The tape ended there and restarted after some time. Birds in the background chirped busily as Sikander’s easy voice said:
‘This is the clue for Mira: Sleeping with the lights on at night won’t help with the inner darkness. You can’t see because it’s too large, that of which you are a part. You are too close. Don’t think of run
ning away, instead, think of letting go. Be a cause that does not expect an effect. Pause the wheel of life, switch off the lights and close your eyes. I’ll be waiting there for you.’
Dubey was pensive. ‘Sikander must be speaking metaphorically.’
‘Of course he is speaking bloody metaphorically!’ Bhaskar was unusually ruffled. He glanced at Mira, who was absorbed in the clue copied in her notebook.
‘What does he mean, Mira, by “pause the wheel of life”? Why does he talk of death all the time?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Because I think of death all the time.’
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Bhaskar declared, ‘I’m beginning to see what he is doing. After defaming political parties, he is now demolishing the institutions of this country.’ Then he reluctantly accepted, ‘The PCB might have been misused for political purposes by ruling governments. But we have written about it and criticized it often. We have done enough; there is no need to publish this tape.’
‘No need?’ Dubey was intrigued.
‘I am not comfortable with this tape,’ Bhaskar announced. ‘It attacks our institutions, and I don’t like it. Investigating agencies like the PCB shouldn’t be dragged into this controversy.’
‘Not even when we have evidence?’ Dubey was still perplexed. ‘We published against politicians because we had similar evidence. Should we employ different yardsticks now?’
‘I am not saying that,’ Bhaskar argued. ‘But these are senior policemen, Ashok. My father was a policeman and I have great respect for the force.’
‘So do I. Does that mean we ignore evidence of corruption among the police?’ Dubey inquired.
‘Of course not! We can reveal the matter privately to the PCB and bring it to their notice,’ Bhaskar suggested. ‘We don’t have to publish it and tarnish their image!’
‘Then why didn’t we just call the political parties and privately disclose what their party men were doing?’ Dubey countered. ‘Why did we publish the tapes against the politicians and tarnish their image?’
‘That was about corrupt politicians. They deserve it.’
‘Only politicians deserve it?’
There was sudden silence in the room.
Bhaskar was grave as he admitted, ‘You’re right.’
The dust settled quickly after that.
‘As you all know,’ Bhaskar addressed them, ‘copies of the tapes have been already sent to the police and other agencies, along with Mahesh Bansi, Omkar Nuri and now, Bharat Kumar. By noon, I expect the first stories to start appearing on television.’ He glanced at Salat and asked, ‘Can you handle the news channels again today?’
Salat said he could.
The discussion moved forward to the various points on which versions from the PCB, the All Rights Party and the PP would be required for running the story in the morning edition. Mira heard them without comment. So many colleagues working on the story simplified her job, she could continue her own investigation and visit Sikander’s place of work that day. She wanted to listen to him actually speak, not on tape, not on recordings, but in person. That’s all she would need to really know him, and she couldn’t wait.
Later, Mira walked out of the building to the parking lot, a little preoccupied with the new clue. Like the ones before, even this clue referred to the picture in her living room—Lord Krishna’s advice to the warrior Arjuna, to believe and to let go. And like with every other clue, this one was also personal. It wasn’t difficult to discover she left the lights on at night, a causal glance at her apartment windows could have revealed that. Mira wondered, instead, about what Sikander meant by the line:
I’ll be waiting there for you.
Did he mean he waited for her to find the address? Or that he knew she had already found it?
‘Slow down, for God’s sake,’ Salat called out and she turned around, startled. ‘Where were you lost?’ he asked. ‘I have been calling your name!’
Mira apologized, and they stood talking. It was a bright day, the sunlight reflected off vehicles in the parking lot like white gold.
‘The new clue must have upset you,’ Salat said, ‘but let me come along.’
Mira said worriedly, ‘Come along where?’
Salat shielded his eyes from the light. ‘Aren’t you going to the Bansi residence? To work out this clue?’
‘Not right now, no,’ she replied hurriedly. ‘I’m meeting someone . . . a friend.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.’
She hesitated, it felt rotten lying to him. ‘It came up suddenly. This friend. . .he is in town and called me.’
‘Sure,’ he said politely. ‘We’ll talk in the evening then, after I return from the studios.’
Mira thanked him and walked to the car, troubled deeply that Salat might detect her lie. But as soon as she started to drive, she forgot all about Salat. It had slipped her mind that the surveillance jeep now had three watchers. They could monitor her far more efficiently and pursue her through crowded buildings or market places. It meant she had to go to a place with limited access and strict security. It had to be a government office, she decided. Thinking up a few good questions, she used her cell phone to call a media spokesperson in one of the ministry offices and sought to see her immediately for a news story. She drove there sedately to give the surveillance jeep every chance to locate her in the traffic. As she had expected, none of the watchers followed her into the ministry building. The spokesperson for Tourism was helpful and Mira diligently wrote down the government data, which she had no intention of reporting. After the meeting, she left from another exit of the expansive building and took a bus to the nearest metro station.
In about half an hour, she was in Sangam Vihar and at the mall where Sikander worked. It had three levels, and, as she walked in through the main entrance, Mira immediately felt the risk of being seen. She needed a disguise, she realized. At a nearby clothes shop, she bought a discounted yellow dress that came with a long scarf and changed in one of the rest rooms. Wrapping the scarf round her head, Mira checked her reflection in the mirrors. She appeared different and fashionable, and as she checked the shops, merged easily with the lunch-hour shoppers and movie goers. Gentle music played in the background; some movie had just ended, and the audience lounged about. Sunlight poured in from the glass skylight and reflected in the pool on the ground floor. An-hour-long search revealed two things about the popular mall; every second shop sold clothes or cosmetics, and there was no sign of Sikander. Disappointed, Mira took a break and entered the single bookshop. Browsing through new arrivals, she resolved to follow Sikander the next day to know exactly where he worked. A door at the rear of the shop opened, and Mira glanced up at the sound. Sikander carried a ledger, and the man next to him wore a tag named ‘Manager’. Startled, Mira turned away quickly and tugged the yellow scarf into place.
They walked past her, and she heard Sikander explain about the stocks to the manager. When they moved to the next aisle Mira glanced up cautiously. Sikander wore the shop uniform, black shirt and trousers. He noted down the manager’s instructions, answered questions and explained about stocks in other locations of the bookshop in Delhi. As they walked away, she moved to the section on Astrology to get a better look. Sikander’s disguise was complete and convincing. His large, dark eyes were intense and calm. He smiled politely at the manager’s words as they walked through Business Management. She slipped into Philosophy aisle to listen to their conversation; Sikander was saying he made no excuse, but the senior man wasn’t buying it. Sikander heard the reprimand respectfully, neither defensive nor angry. They moved away again, and she slipped into Self-Help and grabbed a book.
‘I am aware of that, sir,’ she heard Sikander say, his voice sincere and self-assured.
‘I am not so sure, Gopi,’ said the manager, perceptively. ‘Start doing the shift at the counter. Deal with customers and sell books! I can’t waste you as Storage in-charge.’
‘But I like being
Storage in-charge.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ The manager sounded impatient. ‘Why would you turn down a promotion?’
Sikander didn’t answer.
The Manager continued, ‘You work ten hours in the heat and dust of the warehouse sheds, handle the labour and manage the deliveries. Instead, I want you to work in the front of the shop.’ The manger was a little baffled. ‘Just the air conditioning is worth saying a Yes, damn it!’
Sikander gently pointed out, ‘I applied for the job of Storage in-charge, sir. If that job in unavailable, I will resign.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What is it, really?’ There was a change in the manager’s tone. ‘I can see you are hiding something.’
‘I’m not, sir.’
‘We are yet to get your certificates, and we don’t even have a valid ID from you.’ The manager was stern. ‘You do realize you will have to provide these documents before the end of the month.’
‘I do.’
‘Is that why you can’t work at the front?’ The manager was suspicious. ‘Are you hiding something?’
Worried, Mira stole a glance at Sikander but he was as serene as before.
‘I insist on an answer, Gopi.’
‘The truth is, sir,’ Sikander convincingly rueful, ‘I’m not one of those impressively smart ones who can sell anything to anyone. That’s just not me,’ he said apologetically. ‘I like to work in the background, amid people who make it all happen for those who enjoy the airconditioning.’
The manager frowned. ‘What’s that, an ideological stand?’
‘Ideology is for the elite, sir.’ Sikander’s dark eyes were serious. ‘What difference has it ever made to the poor?’
The manager surveyed him at length. ‘Are you feeling all right today?’
‘Just answering the question on why I don’t want to work at the front of the shop, sir,’ Sikander answered simply. Then added, ‘I’m not hiding anything. I went through an identity check at the time of appointment, but if you want, you can run a recheck.’
