The Honest Season

by Kota Neelima

  Salat briefly explained the reason behind the meeting and Munshi’s instructions. He spoke about the newspaper’s process of investigated the tapes and their verification. Even though it appeared like he already knew everything Salat told him, Fernandes politely thanked him at the end.

  Then he glanced at Mira.

  ‘As you might be aware, ma’am,’ he said formally, ‘I could be under suspension from the PCB pending inquiry following the recent Parliament tape. Even if I am found innocent at the end of the inquiry, it will remain part of my record to be mentioned every time I am considered for any position or promotion.’

  Mira remained silent and hastened to perceive his thoughts. ‘There is one thing, however, that could prevent the inquiry, and that is, if I can prove the newspaper had concocted the tapes with the help of Sikander Bansi,’ he said steadily. ‘All it would take is a confession from you.’

  Mira wasn’t surprised.

  ‘I know,’ Fernandes added kindly, ‘you must be thinking why would you ever make such a confession as it would discredit the newspaper and destroy your career.’

  She wasn’t thinking that. He was. Mira waited.

  ‘You must be aware,’ his voice was toneless, ‘that you are under surveillance of the government, political parties and also private agencies. A lot of people are interested to know the whereabouts of Sikander Bansi. Every moment of your day is being recorded and reported to higher authorities. I have studied your life, and I admire you, Ms Mouli.’ He paused, his face devoid of expression. ‘You are from a humble background, but have never done anything wrong to reach where you are today. You have only an uncle for a relative and have lived alone all your life. You take pride in your independence and never used the funds regularly sent by your uncle. Despite the obvious lack of guidance and affection, you haven’t made many mistakes. You have an extraordinary gift, which could have made you famous, but you opted to remain unknown. Fame and wealth don’t inspire you. You are driven by purpose. You seek larger meaning in life, a goal beyond your personal motives.’

  Mira was speechless, impressed not only by his analysis but also by what he was about to say next.

  ‘That, Ms Mouli,’ Fernandes concluded, ‘is the reason why we think you will never find Sikander Bansi, even if you could. You believe in his ideas and support his fight to expose corruption at the highest levels of our government. You have found your purpose, and you won’t let it go easily.’

  Salat glanced at Mira to check whether he should answer that.

  She gathered herself. ‘That’s very good, Mr Fernandes. If the rest of the PCB is anything like you, the intelligence apparatus of our nation is in safe hands.’

  Fernandes allowed himself to smile faintly.

  ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I am committed to finding Sikander, as I assured his father. Now about the confession, unfortunately, I am not intimidated by the surveillance. In fact,’ she pondered, ‘I think the only man who needs to make a confession here is you!’

  ‘How interesting!’ Fernandes regarded her coldly. ‘That’s exactly what your editor, Mr Munshi, said to me this morning. To that, I answered that we have had him on our radar for almost a year now, and that the findings are hardly pretty. But just then,’ he added absently, ‘we recalled that some things should never be discussed on the phone. Instead, we will meet for dinner this weekend at the Gymkhana Club.’

  Mira didn’t know what to say.

  ‘So you see, a confession from you will be appropriate,’ Fernandes negotiated. ‘As you are the one entrusted with finding Sikander, it won’t be difficult to believe that you colluded with him. Such a confession is the only way to ensure that the case is closed.’

  Salat objected. ‘But it would be a false confession.’

  ‘Please don’t confuse confession with the truth, Mr Vasudev.’

  ‘And what if she doesn’t cooperate with your scheme?’ Salat challenged him.

  ‘Then the PCB will be forced to summon her for questioning as part of the inquiry into the allegations made in the tapes. But one never knows about such interrogations,’ he noted menacingly. ‘People have walked into this office thinking it would take an hour and left after serving fifteen years in jail.’

  ‘That explains, Mr Fernandes,’ Salat was contemptuous, ‘why you are so effective with stitching up coalitions for political parties.’

  But Fernandes was unfazed. ‘Yes, I have been fortunate to have had many opportunities to try my skills.’ Then he glanced at her. ‘So what will be your choice? Confession or interrogation?’

  Mira considered him evenly. ‘You tell me. You are the expert about my life.’

  He conclusively nodded. ‘I was afraid of that, Ms Mouli. Unless you can find Sikander, you will have a tough time at the questioning.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry, Mr Fernandes.’ She smiled. ‘I won’t refer to this conversation at the inquiry.’

  Fernandes met her eyes steadily, then took their leave and left the meeting.

  Salat didn’t speak as Mira drove back to the office. It was 3 p.m., but the rain had continued at an even pace, as if making a point. She stopped the car at a signal, and watched as the surveillance jeep halted right behind them.

  ‘That’s new,’ she remarked. ‘Now they no longer want to be inconspicuous. They are right behind us.’

  ‘Who are?’ Salat asked absently.

  ‘The watchers,’ she answered, and Salat turned to look.

  ‘There are now four of them instead of three. One for each tape, I guess.’

  Salat abruptly opened the car door and stepped out into the rain. Surprised, Mira checked in the rear view mirror as he walked up to the jeep and tapped on the driver’s window. They had a brief conversation as the other three men watched them with various degrees of incredulity. Salat was almost drenched when he returned and apologized for dripping rain on the seat. Mira waited in silence.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Mira,’ he spoke angrily. ‘We are only doing our job and shouldn’t be harassed like this. They think we can’t do anything about it . . . I just wanted to show them that we could.’

  Mira knew he resented Fernandes’ threats at the interview. ‘Come on, Salat. You put it perfectly when you asked me before,’ she paused. ‘This isn’t your first time, is it?’

  Salat smiled and recalled his words about negotiations with Nuri after the second tape.

  ‘But I’m curious.’ Mira chuckled. ‘What did you say to the driver?’

  ‘I invited him and his friends to ride with us,’ Salat replied. ‘I said it was the most logical thing to do as we were all headed to the same places. And they would be less anxious if they were in the same vehicle with us.’

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked, wondering.

  Salat now laughed. ‘The driver mentioned that his surveillance manual specifically prohibited sharing transportation with the subject. I pointed out that the PCB informed us that men working for different patrons were in that vehicle and that my invitation extended to them as well. They have promised to examine my offer,’ he added hopefully, ‘So let’s wait and see.’

  Mira looked away in disbelief and drove again as the signal changed.

  They were silent for a second, then Salat said, ‘Fernandes was right, wasn’t he? You don’t want to find Sikander, do you?’

  She didn’t respond, unsettled by his question.

  ‘I know you, Mira,’ he reminded her. ‘Fernandes might have bought your answer that you are committed to find Sikander, but I didn’t.’

  Mira quietly said, ‘That’s the truth.’

  ‘Then why are you not working on the clues anymore?’ he inquired. ‘Why have you not visited Bansi’s residence again?’

  She remained uneasily silent.

  ‘There is just one answer to this,’ he reminded her severely.

  ‘You should not read too much into my way of working, Salat. It’s neither precise nor predictable.’

  Salat studied her. ‘Where is Sikan
der Bansi?’

  ‘For one thing,’ she said testily, ‘he is not at his residence!’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  Mira shook her head helplessly.

  ‘You weren’t bothered about the fourth clue, I could see,’ he pursued, inexorably. ‘You didn’t meet any “friend” yesterday, I know. So where were you?’

  This was inevitable, Mira thought as she drove the car in silence. She knew Salat would discover her lie.

  When she didn’t answer, Salat said, ‘The tapes are worth the trouble, Mira. I see what you are doing. You can keep Sikander from being discovered so that the tapes continue to be published.’

  He paused, worried. ‘But just remember who you are dealing with. Sikander knows how you think and can lead you to do what he wants.’

  Mira didn’t tell him she already did what Sikander wanted.

  They had to brief the legal team and Bhaskar about the meeting with Fernandes. Then they waited for the legal team to get back to them with advice. After that, following Salat’s request, there was a special meeting about the surveillance on Mira, which ended with the conclusion that nothing could be done without evidence. Salat argued that the ‘evidence’ was sitting in the parking lot outside the building and they could submit a photograph as proof. Then that was debated. Mira sat through all and barely spoke a word. It occurred to her, as one meeting led to another, that she couldn’t visit the lane that evening. She was free finally at 8 p.m., but she didn’t feel like going home. She didn’t feel like being alone amid the gathering doubts about Sikander. As Mira walked to her car, she decided to try the only escape there had ever been from her thoughts, the thoughts of others.

  The café at Hauz Khas Village was crowded with people coming in from the inauguration of an art show at a nearby gallery. The scene was most creatively deceptive. Men and women were dressed in their best clothes, brandishing their best conduct. The surface was so dense that it almost appeared to be real. Also, Mira noticed from her corner table, there were no cracks in the veneer. It was a well-rehearsed scene that had run successful seasons at other such theatres.

  The painter was a young man with long hair and slow beer, who answered questions in a way that they led to more inquiries. There was a special table in the centre for special guests at the show. There sat a grey-haired patron/investor, a well-dressed gallery owner/ businessman and a silent girl/girlfriend next to the artist’s empty chair. She was still on her first glass of white wine and observed everything with her lovely eyes. The artist frequently came back to the table from his rounds of the room and always spoke to her before leaving again. And every time he left, she checked whether he went to the table at the back. A woman sat there sipping a lemonade, her blue dress the colour of sapphires in moonlight. She was gorgeous even when she didn’t move, but when she raised her eyes to see where the artist was, she was devastatingly beautiful. Mira gave it five more minutes. That was fine; she would be finished with her tea by then. She also noticed, as she glanced around, that the four watchers who followed her were waiting outside the café. This wasn’t normal, Mira was mystified.

  The artist now moved in a less systematic way and returned to tables already visited. He was establishing an erratic flight path, which could later explain how he ended up at the woman’s table at the back. But before that, he returned to the girl/girlfriend once more and shared a joke that made her smile. This was going according to her schedule, Mira thought, and once again checked the men in the lane. They watched her from outside; one of them smoked a cigarette. They were never together out of the surveillance vehicle at the same time, she recalled. They always left one man with the vehicle, as if she might make a run for it.

  The artist drifted around a bit and finally reached the woman’s table. Mira paid the bill and waited for just a moment longer. The future of that scene, and probably of the artist, depended on one decision of a person in that room in that instant. The most obvious person with that kind of power seemed to be the dazzling woman in blue or the wealthy grey-haired patron/investor, or the evidently successful gallery owner/businessman. But it was the girl/girlfriend, who kept down her glass of white wine, made polite excuses to the guests at her table and decisively walked out of the café.

  It had taken ten minutes instead of five, Mira analysed, mainly because of the ineffective circumspection of the artist. It was of no use; the girl/girlfriend knew exactly where he was headed the entire time. Perhaps, there was a knower in everyone; it was just that not everyone was ready for the truth.

  Mira left the café; it was a pleasant night with light rain and gentle breeze. The four men walked up to her, and one of them stepped forward.

  ‘Ms Mouli,’ he said swiftly, as if in a hurry, ‘we need to talk.’

  ‘At this hour?’ she inquired. ‘You know my schedule. Talk to me tomorrow at my office.’

  Mira turned and walked towards the parking lot at the end of the lane. She could make out her car amid the drizzle. Most of the shops were shut for the day, and the lane was well lit but deserted, except for the watching mannequins in the shop windows. Music came in from an occasional open doorway of a restaurant. The first watcher followed her briskly, brushed past and blocked her way. She turned quickly to return to the café but was prevented by the others. There was silence as the situation became clear to her, and she finally faced the man. He wore an informal shirt and jeans, and seemed fond of silver rings; one was on his finger, one in his ear and another on his keys. He had to speak to her once more for her to sense his thoughts, so she said, ‘I just told you that I don’t want to talk now.’

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions. That’s all.’ He was restive.

  He had to finish this job and get somewhere in time. ‘No need to be nervous,’ he advised habitually.

  Mira was alarmed as his thoughts flooded her mind. They wanted to give her a little demonstration of the dangers of further delay in finding Sikander.

  ‘You know,’ he stepped closer, ‘you were supposed to look for someone.’

  Mira stepped back and saw the other three men draw closer.

  ‘I’m working on it.’ She moved back further and stopped at the wall of a shop.

  ‘How long will you take?’ His silver shone in the light from the shop window beside her. The rain slowly drenched their clothes.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She knew her answer didn’t matter.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he repeated, as if marvelling at her audacity.

  He moved again, and she quickly said, ‘You do realize that I’m the only one who can find Sikander?’

  He didn’t know that. He stopped, irked.

  ‘I won’t find him if I feel intimidated in any way,’ she informed him calmly. ‘I’ll give up the case, I swear.’

  The man impatiently glanced at his colleagues for advice. They shrugged. Irritated, he reached for Mira and viciously pushed her back. She crashed into the wall and fell down on the wet ground. Her shoulder was hurt, and she winced in pain.

  ‘You won’t give up the case and you will find this guy,’ he said nastily. ‘Don’t play games with us!’

  Mira glanced up, acting unfazed. ‘Now I’m really upset and I’m not sure I want to find Sikander. Tell that to whoever sent you!’

  That stopped him again, but he was also getting restless. He had expected this to be over by now. Mira held her breath as he reached for her again.

  ‘There you are!’ A familiar voice called from the road. ‘Didn’t you say dinner? What are you doing here? And who are these people?’

  The man veered round, startled. Equally surprised, Mira stared as Nalan stepped out of his car into the falling rain. The man glanced at his colleagues asking, but they just turned and quietly walked back into the lane. The man moved away from Mira, but didn’t leave the scene like his colleagues. Mira could detected he had further instructions to follow.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said encouragingly, ‘tell me what you were asked to convey.’

  H
e stared at her, astonished, then glanced furtively at Nalan who stood nearby, waiting inquiringly.

  Finally, the man said, ‘Remember these questions. Someone will come to get your answers if you don’t find Sikander soon. I’m warning you . . .’

  ‘Try warning me!’ Nalan invited him and briskly walked up.

  The man rushed away into the lane and shouted back to her. ‘You won’t be lucky next time.’

  ‘Why don’t you come back, you little . . .’ Nalan restrained himself.

  Then he turned to her as she struggled to her feet and helped her lean against the wall. ‘Are you hurt? Do you need to go to a hospital?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just a few scratches,’ she whispered and pushed his hand away. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was in the parking lot . . .’

  ‘A little overplayed, wasn’t it?’ she was sarcastic. ‘Saving me from thugs?’

  He stared at her, shocked, his anxious face illuminated by the shop window.

  Mira held her arm that hurt. ‘I said too much yesterday, I knew. I shouldn’t have told you I didn’t trust you.’

  Nalan was quietly outraged.

  ‘Guess what,’ she said defiantly, ‘I still don’t trust you. So try something different next time. Make me bleed a little, perhaps. That could help, but I don’t promise . . .’

  ‘And you read this in my thoughts?’ he demanded harshly.

  She didn’t, of course; she could only read concern for her in his thoughts.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you really want to?’ Nalan challenged her. ‘That I had sent these men to hurt you.’

  ‘You could have,’ Mira accused him angrily. ‘I know you can do anything to serve your ambition.’

  He was stunned. His eyes were on fire as they met hers through the rain. ‘Anything?’ he repeated, furious. ‘You are right, I can do anything! But do you know why?’

  ‘Oh, let me guess!’ she said scathingly. ‘You were a poor kid who wanted the world, the common man who dreamt of making it big. It doesn’t matter how you get there, does it?’ Her incisive dark eyes reached deep into him. ‘It only matters that you do.’