by Kota Neelima
‘Well, at least there will be a newspaper to question,’ sighed Munshi.
Bhaskar contemplated. ‘I’m against drone strikes, sir, but I have never objected to our stories supporting them.’
‘That’s because you don’t own this newspaper,’ Munshi explained. ‘I do!’
There was little to discuss after that. The list of other news stories for the day was summarily accepted, and the meeting ended. Dubey, Salat and even Lina came to Mira’s cabin later to condole the end of Parliament tapes, and she thanked them. Later, Bhaskar sent her an email to officially grant her indefinite leave from work, starting the next day. In view of Munshi’s decision, Mira thought it was fair to inform Sikander not to send any more tapes as the newspaper would no longer publish them. She wondered how she could visit the lane and discounted asking Salat for help. He was occupied with his stories for the day. Besides, as Nalan had conclusively established that morning, no one seemed to believe her lie about Salat. Mira was sure it would take only a few hours, she didn’t need a very elaborate cover. Deciding to try an old trick, she called a media spokesperson in the health ministry this time and made an appointment for a briefing about a story. After the meeting, she planned to leave the ministry building from a different exit without the car and return before the offices shut to collect it from the parking lot. Like last time at the tourism ministry, the watchers wouldn’t follow her into the health ministry building and believe she was still inside.
It was 1 p.m. when she drove to the health ministry, and the skies were brooding over Delhi.
Nineteen
It was raining heavily by the time Mira reached Sangam Vihar around 3 p.m. The waters swirled around her ankles when she entered the lane. As she had expected, Sikander’s room was locked and she opened it with her key. Mira was glad she didn’t have to meet him. She wouldn’t have known how to face him with the news or what to say to him. Mira reached for Sikander’s backpack kept in its usual place in the chair and opened the notepad to write the new message. She turned the leaves absently and then froze. She stared at the page on which she had left the message about the letter Nalan had threatened to make public. Under that was now a new message in a few handwritten lines:
‘How do you find it? Is it comfortable? Is there light? Is it pleasant? It might be a little crowded with the incomplete and the unfulfilled. Is there enough room in my heart for everything you brought with you? My universe.’
The lines were even, the writing habitual, the ink blue and the paper cheap — the kind that left an imprint on the subsequent pages. Mira touched the words in disbelief to check if she was imagining them and if they would just vanish in a mist of blue ink. She couldn’t see them clearly any more, as her eyes filled up. But she didn’t have to, she already remembered them forever.
Mira averted her face and controlled the tears. This could be a game too, she warned herselfjust to get over the pain in her heart. It didn’t take a genius to guess that she would have never known such words before. He toyed with her emotions for some end she couldn’t see yet. She nodded, getting convinced. Besides, she asked herself, who wrote such words these days? She glanced at them again, now more clinically. Also, how did he even know she would see them? It was a shot in the dark. He had nothing to lose . . .
But Mira closed her eyes, anguished. There was no escape from the point, she had been wrong not to trust him. It was her caution as always, but her tears were the proof, her heart, her mind, everything told her she was wrong. This once, this man was different. Feeling weak, she wanted to fall to the floor and stay there. Or walk to the book shop in the mall and tell Sikander she had been a fool. Instead, she turned the page of the notebook, unable to write anything below those beautiful words. The pen felt heavy in her hand as she wrote:
‘Munshi won’t publish the last tape. It’s over. I’m sorry.’
A little later, she emerged from the house and stopped abruptly on the threshold. She stared at the flooded lane in disbelief. The rainwater already lapped at the steps of the house and threatened to enter it. People were trapped in their homes, and no one came in or left the lane. Mira, worried, observed the rapidly rising water levels and the pouring rain. The four watchers, who had followed her to the health ministry building earlier, were waiting in the parking lot where she had left her car. If she didn’t return before the ministry offices shut in a few hours, they would know she had escaped from the building. They would suspect, and correctly, that she had come to meet Sikander. Troubled, she realized that there was little chance for her leaving the flooded lane. Deciding to wait, Mira waded through the water and reached her room, breathless from the effort. Tired, she slumped next to the window in the room and surveyed the flooded area with concern. A cool breeze touched her face gently, and her eyes were heavy with sleep and fatigue. She hadn’t slept well in two days. But this was no time to fall asleep, she told herself. She had to leave the instant the rain stopped; yes, but that didn’t look imminent, she argued back. Perhaps, there was no harm in resting for ten minutes, Mira concluded. Just ten minutes, that’s all.
It was dark when she woke up, and the streetlight outside the window sent a column of illumination across the room. She sat up, shocked, and checked her watch. It was 8 p.m. Mira frantically glanced out of the window. It was still raining hard, and the lane was completely inundated. Sikander’s room was still locked, and the water was now a few inches away from the window, it had long crossed the threshold. Mira anxiously watched the dark waters below. The rain didn’t want her to leave, as if it owned her now to do as it pleased. But why would the rain want the watchers to discover her lie? She noticed the streetlight sharpen the raindrops into glass before they fell to earth. She feared the morning, knowing it would change her life. Mira would have to decide whether to return home or not. Should she return to the only life she had, because she would be lost without it? Or should she escape, as she had always wanted? There was still time for the decision, this was just the night. Mira settled down on the floor again and fell asleep.
The rain ceased just after dawn, as if a job was done. In about an hour, the water drained out of the lane, and people ventured out of homes to assess damage. Mira felt refreshed, she had slept the entire night. From her balcony, she watched the misty sunrise over the unauthorized colony. Everything seemed possible at that moment. Everything was a choice, and every choice was inevitable.
Mira knew she didn’t have to return to that parking lot outside the ministry building. The watchers must be waiting for her with a final plan to make her reveal Sikander’s whereabouts, and they could hurt her or even kill her. They must know the tapes wouldn’t be published anymore. They no longer needed Sikander to stop the tapes, they needed him for revenge and, they must either find him or force him to surrender. The mist refused to lift despite the sun and clung to the local addresses on earth instead of returning to heaven. Mira had always found two promises renewed every day: the promise of life and the promise of death. It was reassuring that if one failed, there was always the other to count on. She realized, as she watched the sunrise, that this was the first time in her life when both promises appeared equally possible. She could stay for Sikander, she wanted to. She could discover the truth of his words, the face behind his masks, and tell him the truth of his clues, the faces behind her masks. But if she left, she could escape the inevitable failings, his human errors, his mortal greed, his natural malice and his unfinished circles. She could escape knowing if he meant his words to her or had just tied up loose ends.
My universe.
Perhaps, if there was ever an escape required, it was from finding the truth about love. She took the decision to leave and, there was a moment as she walked by his door, when Mira wondered if she would ever see Sikander again. He didn’t have to, he didn’t need her any more. And neither should she.
A bus took her to the metro station, and she reached the ministry building around 7 a.m. There were two more vehicles in the parking lot beside her car, the usual surveil
lance jeep and a van she did not recognise. She waited near her car and regarded the watchers, who seemed prepared but still stunned that she returned. She felt nervous, frightened of the end, but she was also eager, and even thrilled. A man she had never seen before stepped out of the van and came to her. He requested her to drive home and Mira agreed. Taken aback a little, he waited to see if Mira had any questions. She had none. As she got into her car, she found her cell phone dead. Mira didn’t care, she wasn’t going to call for help. The two vehicles followed her home, and the van driver accompanied her to the apartment and shut the door. Mira stood in the living room in a silence hand-picked for that morning.
‘My employers have set two conditions,’ the man said without preamble. Mira studied him in silence, learning his thoughts as he spoke in a flat voice. He appeared disciplined and efficient in a beige shirt and dark trousers. From a shopping bag that he carried with him, he took out a waterproof jacket and wore it, zipping it up carefully. Then he put on disposable covers over his shoes, and finally, he wore plastic gloves. It was obvious that he was not a watcher like the other men who waited outside on the road. This man meant business.
‘The first condition is that no one else but I deal with you. You’ll find that I’m a professional. And secondly, I don’t touch you except to hurt you,’ the man informed her. ‘My employers desired me to explain that these two conditions are based in respect and concern for you.’
She liked the irony of the message. His employers would feel neither respect nor concern for her, considering they figured on the Parliament tapes she had reported about. But Mira thanked him nevertheless. ‘You are fortunate to be working for such kind people.’
‘I don’t work for anyone, ma’am,’ he clarified. ‘I freelance. I specialize in women targets.’
‘It’s a specialization?’ Mira was surprised. ‘I thought women died the same way as men.’
‘They do,’ he confirmed, ‘but many people in my line of work don’t like hurting women.’
‘Not you, though.’
‘No, it doesn’t bother me. My childhood cured me of that, I grew up watching my father hit my mother.’
Mira noticed there was no bitterness. ‘May I ask why I am to be hurt?’
‘A message has to be sent,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know.’
She nodded. That was expected.
‘Now, if you please,’ he requested, ‘my time has been cut down significantly due to a sudden development. I have been given just twenty minutes to do this job. So, I have to get on with it.’
She asked apprehensively, ‘It takes that long?’
‘No ma’am.’ He smiled faintly. ‘The actual job takes just 5–10 seconds. The rest of the time is for setting up the place before the event and to sanitize the premises after it, if required. This will be a crime scene for the police very soon.’
Mira stayed silent. His thoughts were organizing themselves into a sequence.
Once again from the shopping bag, he took out an object covered in a black cloth. He put it on her desk and unwrapped it. Mira surveyed the knife from the distance as it shone coldly, its eager edges darker where they had just been sharpened. She couldn’t help her panic and turned away to the windows. The mist hung by the trees and pressed against the glass, obscuring them. Then, as if it waited for her to look, it began to rain. Mira smiled.
She still clutched her bag nervously. He took it away and kept it in a corner. Then he pushed back the chairs to the walls and calculated her fall.
His thoughts were meticulous, but unsure of the end. ‘While you visualize the scene,’ she said, ‘can you tell me if you see me dead or merely hurt?’
He considered her, a bit mystified that she should know his exact thoughts. Then said, ‘Well, it gets a little messy if you try to escape. But I have been assured that you may not.’
‘Your employers know me well,’ she noted dryly.
‘They believe there may be others who know this about you as well. They could try hurting you,’ he said and reached again for his shopping bag. ‘That’s why I need to ensure that it doesn’t seem like a suicide.’
He took out plastic strips from the bag and secured her hands behind her. She winced as the tight grips cut into her wrists. He apologized but didn’t loosen them and went on with his work. Finally, he made a call from his cell phone and reported that he was ready. There were a few instructions to which he agreed, and ended the call. Mira frowned suddenly, astonished, as she detected the name of the employer whom he had called. She stared at the man in shocked disbelief. The person had identified himself, and the assailant now repeated the name in his mind. Her legs shook, and she thought she would fall, shattered, as she discovered who wanted her dead. All the doubts she had fought against had been true all along. But she always knew she couldn’t trust affection in this world. Mira pleaded with her fate, she didn’t need this lesson!
‘I have been instructed to ask you,’ her assailant said. ‘Would you like to have something? Something to eat? A glass of water, a cigarette, a drink?’
Mira couldn’t answer at once, still shaken, then said, ‘A last wish!’ She whispered, ironically, ‘I wish that you make sure I don’t survive this.’
‘I have my instructions, ma’am. You are to bleed to death, so it’s really as much up to you as me,’ the man reasoned practically. ‘Also, I have been asked to find out if you have any last thoughts?’
‘Last thoughts?’ Mira pondered. ‘That’s going to be easy, there is just one.’
Mira glanced at the rain that had delivered her to this moment of truth. ‘Do you think there was a time without rain?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Was there summer before this?’
The man was perplexed.
‘But I don’t remember the spring,’ she wondered. ‘Do you?’
He cleared his throat. ‘No.’
‘Or the winter?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she concluded, distantly. ‘Don’t you think it is the rain that makes us forget?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Or perhaps, there are no other seasons,’ she said. ‘Just the honesty of rain and the absence of it.’
He listened to her in silence, then turned and went to the desk.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘you would like to close your eyes and pray or something.’
‘I would rather see the rain for one last time.’
He examined the knife. ‘Why do you love rain?’
‘Because I was born of it.’ She glanced at him. ‘And I shall return to it when I’m dead.’
He regarded her seriously, as if to tell her it was time. Then he quickly walked up to her, and Mira noticed the instinctive fear that made her step back from him. He restrained her and held her shoulder. She didn’t see his other hand move, but the fierce pain in her stomach made her gasp. He supported her as she leaned to him in agony, then he stabbed her once more. She heard him exhale, and she could sense he was relieved that she didn’t fight him.
Then he let go of her shoulder, and she fell, the floor cool on her face, her insides on fire. She thought she screamed in trauma, she thought she fainted, but she did neither. She could see her blood on his covered shoes as he went back to the desk and wiped the knife clean with the black cloth. Placing it back in the shopping bag, he moved around arranging the room. The puddle of blood on the floor spread slowly, and Mira felt her heart heavy as it beat with effort. He stood nearby and watched as life drained out of her, emptying her. Then he knelt and checked her pulse, as if to assess the time it would take for it to stop. Mira felt cold. Even the pain in her stomach was getting dull, as if it was someone else who was hurt, someone close. She sensed her mind slip away from her too, like her body, and she felt sadder for this loss.
As she paused on the brink, Mira heard the man make another phone call and report that it was done. His thoughts floated to her, and she expected it to be the same employer as in the
first call. But as the assailant repeated this name in his mind, Mira held her breath suddenly, agonized. She must have read him wrong, she fought with herself desperately; after all, her mind was half dead. But there was no doubt as the assailant answered a series of questions about the attack, describing it. How much blood, how much pain, how long has she got? Mira stared numbly at her blood on the floor as every word sliced through her mind and hurt much more than the knife had. The assailant paused again for a question, and then replied that he was about to leave. Then he ended the call and walked out. Mira heard the door shut and closed her eyes, ready, and the tears fell to the floor a short distance from her blood. It was the rain and Mira in that silence, until her heart faltered and her breath slowed down. Then everything was just the rain.
That day had the texture of a thick quilt, as if it took many days to make it and would take many days to live. The copies of the last Parliament tape reached other newspapers and television channels. Nothing was as big as this and, for the first time, the tape received response from across the borders. As with most defence deals, there was a doubt of treason attached, and that made it dramatic fodder for the Opposition. The story was devastating, easy to understand and vaguely familiar. It was, therefore, the complete entertainment package, and the journalists couldn’t type as fast as the news poured in.
That is, all except the journalists at the newspaper’s editorial meeting, which Munshi presided over moodily. They felt like a collective blind spot in Delhi, that was somehow missing all the excitement. But as it was one of those occasions when Munshi couldn’t blame anyone but himself, the atmosphere at the meeting was relaxed. Like the diligent journalist he was, Dubey read out the top ten stories that made news that day. All of them, however, were about the tape that they hadn’t published.
‘The top story today is the Opposition’s reaction,’ Dubey began methodically as always. ‘The NP wants the resignation of the prime minister, the home minister, the finance minister, the law minister, and, of course, the defence minister, blaming them for their support to drone strikes against citizens and for using it as an excuse for defence procurement.’ He paused, then said, ‘The second important story is the government’s response. We have statements from the PMO saying that it was not involved, from the home ministry that it gave no recommendation, from the finance ministry that it only checked the budget, from the law ministry that it was never asked and from the defence ministry that it will look into the matter.’
