by Kota Neelima
‘He doesn’t talk to the press usually,’ Dubey said, ‘But I will try myself.’
Munshi was particular in his instructions. ‘Let’s be fair in our reporting of this story to both Sikander and Nalan. We can’t let a story go because the source may have hidden motives. Truth has no motive; people do.’
‘I suspect Lochan’s motives,’ Lina declared. ‘He could have staged this with Sikander.’
Bhaskar objected. ‘Until now, all of Sikander’s tapes have proven to be genuine. The tapes have also been authenticated technically’, he pointed out. ‘No one can deny their existence.’
‘All except the policeman in the Nuri tape,’ Dubey mentioned with his usual diligence. ‘He’s dead.’
‘That shouldn’t have stopped you from getting his confirmation, Ashok,’ Munshi remarked, amused, and then turned to Lina. ‘You were saying?’
‘What if Lochan and Sikander had a deal to tarnish the corporate businesses in the state?’ Lina contended. ‘We all know the amount of money that could have been spent on publicity of this kind.’
Munshi studied her shrewdly. ‘That point can be made about every story we do,’ he paused, ‘and is usually made.’
‘But I have personal knowledge that this tape is biased and untrue,’ Lina insisted. ‘The businessmen referred to in the tape have been friends of my family. They have always stood up for fair and just business practices. I don’t believe this tape!’
There was a surprised silence in the room.
Salat hesitated, ‘My apologies, Lina,’ he said, ‘but as you know, my family too is in business, and I have known such things to happen.’
‘Perhaps, they do,’ she accepted, pragmatically. ‘But this tape could be an attempt to expose selective facts by rival companies.’
‘That’s how we get our stories, isn’t it?’ Bhaskar pointed out. ‘Most of our sources are selectively against someone or something.’
Lina had to concede that. The discussion turned to the reportage of the tape and Mira agreed to the parts that she had to work on. She continued to write the main story. Her byline now attracted huge attention, especially because of the mystery that surrounded Sikander’s disappearance. The clues also gave tantalizing insights into her life, about which the readers had always been curious. All this, along with the controversial tapes, was doing wonders to the newspaper’s circulation. Mira hoped Munshi never found out she had already discovered Sikander’s whereabouts and didn’t tell him. He could kill her with his bare hands!
‘Now, about these clues, Mira,’ Munshi said at the end. ‘Very philosophical, but what do they mean?’
Mira was prepared. ‘He refers to the Bhagavadgita.’
‘The Gita!’ he mused. ‘I thought ordinary young men these days were not interested in the Gita.’
‘He is not ordinary.’
‘That’s true,’ Munshi agreed and added appreciatively, ‘He has turned this city inside out, and that takes some doing. Everyone is looking over their shoulders, and there is a general fear of exposure. Everyone wants Sikander, Mira. You have to find him first and get his first interview,’ Munshi stressed. ‘That decisive moment must belong to this newspaper.’
‘It will, sir,’ Mira promised in a hollow voice.
Later, back in her cabin, Mira weakly slumped down in her chair. Munshi had been right; there was an equal chance that someone else might find Sikander. Delhi was a dangerously restive city, and it usually got what it wanted. Sikander’s clues were now all in public domain and anyone could work out what they meant. All it took was a little research about her sketchy life, and one visit to her living room to connect the words to that picture on her wall. She just hoped that the four men last night had other things on their minds then to appreciate art inspired by Indian philosophy.
Sixteen
By that afternoon, two things became very clear. It was not going to rain that day, and Nalan Malik was not going to speak to Dubey. He stormed into Mira’s cabin, looking upset, and slumped in a chair.
She was sympathetic. ‘I sense that you have been dealing with Nalan’s staff.’
Dubey nodded. ‘That’s a nasty bunch. First, they gave various excuses why Nalan was unavailable. Then, they diverted me to the party spokespersons for the official reaction to the tape. And when I persisted, they told me that Nalan will speak about the tape, but not to me!’
Mira waited, she knew what he meant.
‘Nalan wants to speak with you!’ Dubey said, exasperated. ‘He could have revealed this three hours ago and spared me an ulcer!’
Mira was uneasy about meeting Nalan and tried to think of a way to refuse. She couldn’t, however. She had to get Nalan’s version for the newspaper, and she was sure Nalan must have known that when he asked for her. She didn’t want to meet him. She felt guilty for her words on that night when he had rescued her. It should have helped that Salat would come along, but even he was unhappy with her. Dubey briefed them about the interview and the supporting statements that had already been recorded by reporters from Lochan and others.
They arrived ten minutes ahead of the appointment, and, as the waiting room next to Nalan’s office was crowded, stood in the corridor outside. The PP headquarters on Sansad Marg was a sprawling building with pillared corridors that overlooked patches of a well-manicured lawn. The bright sun brought alive the insect world of the grass, and much like the lawn outside, the corridor was also a busy place. It was full of action, and crawled with visitors and party men who made the most of the election year. Door signs announced offices of a former commerce minister now in charge of coordination, a former Speaker in charge of publications and an ex-bureaucrat in charge of campaigns. They were appointed by Mahesh Bansi himself to rehabilitate them when they were either sacked from government or lost an election. The ex-commerce minister, wearing a saree the colour of a praying mantis, emerged from her office briefly to see off a visitor. The office assistants in their brown uniforms were everywhere like ants and made everything possible. The former bureaucrat had just arrived and walked briskly to his office, like a busy beetle headed for a lucrative crevice.
Then a visitor entered the corridor, and the food chain paused to assess him. He moved heavily like a caterpillar, the sunlight reflecting off the rings and the Rolex. The former Speaker, anxious as an aphid, received him quickly and hurried him away protectively. The canteen boy gathered the empty tea cups with the apparent disinterest of a fly on the wall and watched victors replacing the vanquished, who would be victors again; fiction replacing fact that would be fiction again. History was a mayfly moment that lived short and died young to be born again. And again.
When they entered his office, Nalan Malik came around the desk to greet them. He wore his usual white shirt and dark jacket with the party flag, and his brilliant eyes smiled at her, as if the past was forgotten.
‘I asked to see you alone,’ he said, then added without glancing at Salat, ‘No offence meant, Mr Vasudev.’
‘Salat and I work on the story together,’ she explained. ‘He is also a knower.’
Nalan now regarded Salat briefly before he turned to her again. ‘Then promise me a few minutes to speak with you alone and off the record.’
She agreed uncomfortably, aware of Salat’s surprise. Nalan invited them to sit in the sofas in the corner and went to his desk where an aide waited with some papers. It was a wood and steel desk on which files were neatly stacked on one side, a computer was on the other and a laptop was open in the middle. His chair was simple, and, unlike most offices, exactly the same as the chairs for the visitors. The walls had the required photographs of the present and past presidents of the party, important moments in history and the government. Nalan sent away the aide and returned to them.
‘Let’s begin.’ He sat back and crossed his legs. ‘I have made sure we have more time.’
Salat handed him a transcript of the tape and waited as he glanced through it. Then he switched on a tape recorder and briefly recounte
d what the new Parliament tape contained. Finally, he asked for Nalan’s response.
Nalan pondered. ‘It has been my endeavor to ensure that every decision I support benefits the common people of our nation. To those who don’t like my decisions, I have only this to say: please think of those on whose behalf you stand in Parliament.’
The stock answer didn’t surprise them, and Salat asked the next question from his notebook. ‘Was there corporate interest involved in the division of this state?’
‘The PP has always had one and only one interest at heart—the public interest. Our history provides evidence of this, and I am certain that with Mr Mahesh Bansi as the president, the PP’s values have only become stronger and more transparent.’
It was a routine answer again, and Salat made his questions more specific. ‘Your party MP, Lochan Reddy, has alleged that you had helped organize support for the division of the state. What do you have to say?’
‘I don’t know why my friend Lochan said what he did, but I recommend that none of us underestimate the power of the people,’ Nalan mentioned politely. ‘No one can organize millions of people to support or oppose an idea. It is the idea that draws people to the streets, and I, for one, do not question people’s judgment.’
Getting impatient with these evasive manoeuvres, Mira requested Salat if she could ask the next question. Nalan turned to her, his brown eyes formal.
‘How much money was made in the division of the state, Mr Malik?’
He studied her evenly, then said, ‘I believe that money will be spent by the government, and not made, in the division of the state. For instance, a whole lot of expenditure is envisaged for building infrastructure.’
‘What are your views on the manner in which Sikander Bansi has recorded the tapes that expose what happens inside the corridors of power?’
‘Reminds me of something I learnt in school,’ Nalan told her. ‘You may be a star, but you still have to do your homework.’
Mira inquired, ‘That’s your message for Sikander Bansi?’
‘That’s my message to every child going to school.’
He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were amused as they met hers. Giving up on her attempt to get a personal comment from him, she asked Salat to continue. Mira sat back in her sofa, impressed by Nalan as he answered the questions. His composure was remarkable, even when Salat repeated the allegations made in the tape against him of collusion with industrialists. So was his focus. Every word Nalan used was carefully planned and placed. And every word did exactly what he wanted it to do.
The interview came to an end without Salat finding any conclusive answers. Nalan stood up to thank him and shake his hand. Just before leaving, Salat told her that he would be waiting right outside in the corridor.
When the door was shut, Nalan said, puzzled, ‘I wonder what he meant by that.’
Mira closed her notebook. ‘He is just being protective towards me.’
‘Is he right?’ Nalan sat down again. ‘Do you need protection?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you do,’ he said coolly, ‘and I found out about the four men who visited your home yesterday.’
She wasn’t surprised anymore that he kept track.
‘This is the time to give up Sikander, Mira,’ he said directly. ‘I know he must have told you where he is; he cares for you too much not to.’
Mira didn’t answer him.
‘This is the second tape against me that Sikander has offered you,’ Nalan mentioned placidly. ‘You may still want to believe in him. You may still think he has no political motives, but I just wanted to inform you that if this story is published, it will be the last Parliament tape that your newspaper will ever print,’ he said, and added softly, ‘I shall see to it.’
Mira heard him silently. His thoughts were serene, as if he was meditating.
‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘that’s the only way to keep you safe and also stop the damage being done by Sikander. We’ll find him eventually, and hopefully, with your help.’
‘Splendid!’ she said sarcastically. ‘You seem to either warn me or threaten me every time we meet.’ She stood up to leave and he didn’t stop her.
‘That’s strange,’ he said, as he accompanied her to the door. ‘All I ever want to do when we meet is make you smile.’
Mira glanced at him, surprised; she hadn’t detected that line in his thoughts.
‘See that as a threat or warning, Ms Mouli?’ he asked seriously. She admitted, ‘I’ll have to wait and watch, sir.’
‘In that case,’ he held the door handle, ‘let’s meet off the record again tomorrow to find out for sure.’
Mira waited for him to open the door. ‘I think I have had enough of meeting you briefly on roads.’
He laughed. ‘Lunch then,’ he invited her, ‘at any place you like.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Where do you generally eat?’
‘You may not be able to afford it.’
He nodded. ‘I usually can’t.’
She glanced at the door that he held, as he waited for her answer.
‘Fine then,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, 1 p.m. My office canteen.’
‘Now that,’ he said, troubled, ‘I really can’t afford, Mira.’
‘Thought so.’
‘But I’ll be there,’ he said valiantly.
He opened the door for her and they were met with the waiting crowd of party men outside. As she walked away, Mira heard the aide call the next appointment and the door shut.
There was unusual activity around the fifth Parliament tape back at the office. The story developed fast with stunned reactions coming in from other political parties. The tape had already reached the television channels, which headlined it in the afternoon news. Mira briefed Bhaskar about the off-the-record meeting with Nalan and his threat that this would be the last tape they publish. Then, Munshi came down to the newsroom and declared that he would personally monitor every word written that day in the newspaper about the tape.
‘This is the best tape so far. I have never had so many threatening phone calls about any story before,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Let’s ensure we don’t provide a reason for the threats to come true. Check every word and every fact. And when you are done,’ he directed, ‘check once again!’
He was right. The story about the division of the state reached the top headlines and stayed there. Every political party joined the game and played to their own audience. The PP took the heat in a sporting manner, and blamed the media for concocting stories that were designed to hurt the party’s chances in the elections. Salat, therefore, had his hands full that evening when he represented the newspaper in television studio discussions. Despite the evidence, no one found Nalan guilty or seemed to want to. Salat’s defence of the newspaper was spirited and imaginative, but he was repeatedly attacked on the question why Sikander had not been found yet.
‘There have been five clues, five tapes until now,’ said an anchor, unusually upset. ‘Why has Sikander not been found?’
‘This is not scrabble, ma’am,’ Salat retorted. ‘These things take time.’
‘And meanwhile, the tapes will continue to be published?’ asked the PP spokesperson on the discussion panel.
‘More reputations would be destroyed based on evidence given by a man who is himself absconding?’ the anchor asked, almost taking it personally.
Salat calmly heard them out. ‘It may sound crazy, but we journalists keep our promises both to our readers and our sources. The tapes are for readers, and Sikander is our source.’
His words were drowned in charges of collusion and political partisanship by the newspaper. The entire newsroom watched in enraged silence as the panelists alleged that the story against Nalan Malik was being published as part of a deal with his rivals. Lost in all the noise was Salat’s explanation that the newspaper was neither singling out nor sparing any political leader, bureaucrat or corporate hou
se.
‘The tapes provide a glimpse into what happens behind closed doors of our Parliament where common people are not allowed,’ Salat argued. ‘The question that you, the viewers, should ask yourselves today is who keeps the doors closed, to exclude you from the crucial decisions about your lives, your nation? Are these the same people who want to prevent publication of these tapes by attacking me, a journalist from the newspaper that has exposed them? The answer is yes!’
Salat returned to the office at night and requested Mira for time to speak. She gestured to a chair, and he shut the door of the cabin. He wore a dark suit that day and a formal blue tie. He looked angry and good.
Mira smiled faintly. ‘It was rough today, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ he said shortly. ‘I have wanted to speak to you about an issue for sometime now, and it can’t wait any longer.’ His sharp eyes examined her. ‘Why do Sikander’s clues refer to the Gita? Has it something to do with the picture in your house?’
Astonished, Mira couldn’t speak.
He sternly inquired, ‘When did you find out?’
Mira hesitated, saying, ‘After the third clue.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘No. I watched him.’ She told him about the lane.
‘What is he like?’
‘Complicated.’
‘Like his clues?’
‘The clues were easy. He wanted me to find him.’ She added defensively, ‘And give him up if I were in danger.’
Salat was still angry. ‘So he has left it to you to decide until when the tapes can be published?’
‘Yes.’
Salat frowned. ‘You don’t trust people who know the truth about you. Sikander does, so why do you trust him?’
Mira uneasily turned away. ‘I don’t . . .’
‘No, please.’ Salat dismissed her. ‘Don’t answer that. You can’t!’
Mira responded sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You would only lie, the way you have been lying to me,’ he accused her. ‘You like this game that Sikander plays, you want him to succeed, despite you!’
