by Kota Neelima
Everyone glanced at Munshi. He played with a pen, distracted.
‘Among other stories making headlines is the statement of the defence minister, that it was an attempt to tarnish the community to which he belongs,’ Dubey said. ‘He is on a visit to his constituency and is expected back in Delhi for this evening’s emergency meeting at the PMO over this issue. Should I send a reporter to the airport to get a quote from the minister when he arrives?’
‘No.’ Munshi didn’t even glance at him.
Dubey fell silent, helplessly. It was clear that Munshi wouldn’t care what the top news stories were if they were about the sixth Parliament tape and the arms deal. So, Dubey read out the list of stories that had nothing to do with the tape. Munshi finally approved the coverage of a bilateral pact scheduled to be signed that afternoon and a follow-up of the staff strike at the local municipal corporation. They had no good story for the first page of the newspaper, and everyone wondered how to break it to Munshi.
After much thought, Lina mentioned it with her usual tact. ‘We have no good story for page one.’
Munshi turned to her. ‘No?’ he asked indulgently. ‘That’s where I come in. You don’t worry. Just send a photographer and a make-up artist to my room in about half an hour.’
Everyone waited, curious.
‘We’ll have a full page spread, my friends,’ Munshi said vengefully, ‘of the photograph of my face! I assure you, it will be an exclusive!’
They all looked away, disappointed.
‘That won’t work sir,’ Bhaskar remarked, as if after due consideration of the idea.
‘Then we will have your photo as well!’
‘No, I mean, it won’t work to keep silent. We need to make a statement about this issue,’ Bhaskar said. ‘Every media organization has contacted me since morning to ask for our version.’
People quietly marvelled at his courage.
Munshi, however, looked murderous. ‘They want me to explain how I run my newspaper? What I choose to or not to publish?’
‘No sir,’ Bhaskar replied. ‘They want us to clarify why we have asked Mira to go on leave.’
Munshi frowned slightly.
‘As you remind us often, we are keepers of our own conscience in journalism,’ Bhaskar continued valiantly. ‘There can be no secrets in the media. We have to be transparent ourselves before we can point fingers at others.’ Bhaskar paused and then confessed, ‘I told a few friends last night that we have sent away Mira on leave indefinitely.’
Munshi’s small dark eyes were wide in surprise. Amazed at Bhaskar, Salat leaned forward to hear him better.
‘By taking action against her,’ Bhaskar said, ‘we have accepted the possibility that the rumours of collusion between her and Sikander were true.’
Munshi heard him in angry silence.
‘But I knew for a fact the rumours were wrong,’ he continued in the same samurai fashion. ‘I had briefed her about the story, and I knew she had never even met Sikander. And I believe her.’
‘So do I,’ Dubey said. Lina agreed.
Salat mentioned, ‘I too believe her, but that’s not enough. We need to speak about this to the press. I agree with Bhaskar,’ he said to Munshi. ‘We need to make a statement.’
‘You mean,’ Munshi said sternly, ‘I do.’
Salat hesitated. ‘Yes sir.’
Munshi surveyed his team with misgivings. Then he shook his head. ‘And to think I hired every one of you! Makes me shudder at my sense of judgment.’
There was absolute silence in the room.
‘It also makes me proud of it,’ Munshi declared, and then glanced appreciatively at Bhaskar. ‘Fine! Put out a statement. I’ll draft it in an hour. Now, can we get on with this damned meeting? I can’t stand so much conscience so early in the morning!’
There were smiles all around, and Dubey continued with the rest of the list, pausing significantly at the inauguration of a convention of footwear manufacturers in the city. The meeting ended soon after that.
In an hour, Munshi made one of his typically scathing statements on behalf of the newspaper that was immediately telecast by news channels. Salat read a copy of it sitting in Bhaskar’s room. Munshi started his statement by emphasising that as the editor and owner of the newspaper, he had every freedom to publish or not to publish any news. Aware of the scope of free advertisement, Munshi then recapped how the newspaper had published five tapes and the impact of those stories. He also cleverly underlined, for the benefit of the uninitiated, the kinds of pressure he had faced while he printed stories against politicians, bureaucrats, investigative agencies and businessmen.
Then he got down to the point. ‘This is not the first time that our newspaper has done something explosive and detrimental to the subterfuge of the people in power. This is also not the first time that I have been ascribed motives for choosing to publish such stories. Some of those making the accusations are my best friends. Some of the people against whom we have done stories are my best friends. But that’s the nature ofjournalism. No one is greater than the story that has to be told. And no one dictates how to tell the story. But I don’t mind the accusations, I understand that everyone has to survive. If my reputation were not tarnished enough, then every word I published in the newspaper would have to be the truth. That would be a nasty inconvenience! So, I need to be devalued by such allegations, even if they are never proved. That’s how Delhi works, and it has worked for me. But not when one of my best journalists is involved.
‘That’s where I drew the line, and I sent Ms Mira Mouli on leave in the wake of the allegations that she and Sikander Bansi, someone she never even met, had colluded to bring out the tapes. You might argue, some of you anyway, that an agreement must have been made for the tapes to be published by us. We explained to our readers what that arrangement was and how we got the tapes. We informed the people we were writing about, notably Mr Omkar Nuri, Mr Nalan Malik, Mr Bharat Kumar, Mr L. Fernandes and others, on how we worked on the tapes before publishing them. I can tell you what they had to say to us, but I shall keep it for my next statement on this issue, if I am ever forced to make one. I wanted it to be clear that we have always considered ourselves very fortunate to have the country’s first know-journalist working with our newspaper. Nothing has changed, we continue to be very fortunate—Bidur Munshi.’
Impressed, Salat asked Bhaskar, ‘That’s the truth?’
‘Let’s just say, it’s not a lie,’ Bhaskar remarked.
‘Then why did he send Mira on leave?’
‘Because he was under pressure,’ Bhaskar explained.
Salat was surprised. ‘So why did he make this statement then?’
‘Because he doesn’t stay under pressure for long,’ Bhaskar smiled.
Salat nodded, realizing.
Bhaskar casually observed, ‘I knew she worked out the clues that Sikander sent. Everyone in the office knew it; everyone except Munshi.’
Salat was astonished, but didn’t tell him that he knew it too.
‘She was too smart for the clues,’ Bhaskar shrugged. ‘And she was too smart to tell Munshi if she found Sikander. We published these stories, which were potentially impossible to publish, because of her,’ Bhaskar admitted, appreciatively. ‘She knows Munshi.’
‘Mira would be happy to see his statement,’ Salat commented. Bhaskar agreed. ‘Are you meeting her today?’
‘Yes, I plan to go round to her place later,’ Salat replied. ‘I called her in the morning but couldn’t reach her. In any case, she never answers my calls, and says I don’t have to worry.’
‘Anyone would worry, with those vicious clues from Sikander and veiled threats from Nalan.’
‘And watchers round the clock.’ Salat shook his head. ‘But she acts so cool, as if she knows the end right at the beginning.’
Bhaskar inquired, ‘What end is that?’
Salat’s cell phone rang. ‘This is rare. Mira is returning my call!’ He chuckled and answered the phone. �
��Hi Mira. What? Already missing the morning meetings . . .?’
‘This is not Ms Mouli,’ a woman’s voice interrupted him. ‘I’m Sita Patnaik from the police, Mr Vasudev.’
Salat was puzzled. ‘Why are you calling from her number?’
‘I was looking for someone to inform,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Her phone was dead, and we just recharged it. The phone book was empty except for one number. Yours was the last call on her cell phone.’
‘Where is she?’ Salat asked anxiously. ‘Is she in some trouble?’
Bhaskar frowned, listening.
‘I have identified her, but I would like a quick confirmation from you. You can do it later formally,’ she said. ‘Can you describe Ms Mouli?’
‘She . . .’ Salat faltered, too worried to speak. ‘She is about twenty-nine years old . . . about five feet, six or seven inches tall, dark hair, dark eyes . . .’ Salat couldn’t go on. ‘Please, tell me. What has happened to her?’
‘She is in the South Hospital. It’s a case of attempted murder, she was stabbed.’
‘Attempted murder!’ he repeated, dazed. ‘Who stabbed her?’
‘I’m investigating that.’ She hesitated, ‘Look, I know you are just a colleague, but can you please come to the hospital now or to the police station later? We just need a statement, it won’t take any time.’
Salat got up from the chair. ‘I’ll meet you at the hospital,’ he told Sita.
Then he saw Bhaskar stand as well. He gave his secretary a few instructions and left the office with Salat.
It was windy that afternoon. Drops of rains were swept away from their destination, destitute forever. As they rushed from the parking lot of the South Hospital towards the main entrance, Salat recognized the surveillance jeep that had been following Mira. Furious, he walked up to it but found it empty. When they entered the hospital, he found the four watchers standing with Sita Patnaik.
‘These men, Ms Patnaik,’ he pointed to them, ‘are your culprits. These are the men Mira complained about, and you wouldn’t believe. I can identify them because they have been following her. They had assaulted her before,’ he said, agitated, ‘and I am sure they have now tried to kill her!’
The watchers uneasily turned away from him.
Salat spoke to Sita again. ‘I want to lodge a police complaint against them now. Please, help me do that.’
Sita observed him, unaffected. ‘I tried to lodge a complaint the last time you tried to frame these men, Mr Vasudev. I failed because there was no evidence. These men say they were protecting her, and I tend to believe that.’
Salat was aghast. ‘Protecting her? Against whom?’ He gestured to them. ‘These were the four men who broke into her house and threatened her. Don’t you see they are lying?’
‘I do see, Mr Vasudev,’ Sita smiled patiently. ‘Two of these four men report to the top investigating agencies of the country, and they vouch for the other two. It is the job of such men to protect citizens, not try to kill them.’ She paused. ‘So I suggest you revise your opinion about these men. That way, we can focus on the real culprits.’
Salat stared at her helplessly.
Bhaskar said, ‘Where is Mira?’
Sita pointed to the door marked surgery at the end of the corridor. ‘They wheeled her in about an hour ago. Her condition wasn’t good when she was brought to the hospital.’
Bhaskar asked, ‘Is there anything that needs to be done? Anything we can help with?’
Sita didn’t think so. ‘The paperwork required signatures, but that’s been taken care of.’
‘Thank you,’ Bhaskar smiled. ‘That was kind of you.’
‘No, I didn’t sign,’ Sita clarified. ‘The man who brought her to the hospital did.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Sikander Bansi.’
Amazed, they turned as she gestured to the waiting area in the distance.
Twenty
Sikander sat in the last row of chairs along the wall; it would have been difficult to recognize him if the policeman had not guided them. They were astounded to find that he looked nothing like his handsome photograph on political posters. He was much thinner, his face gaunt, his clothes dusty and his shoes worn, but in his grimy hands was an expensive cell phone, and his two aides waited at a distance. Sikander was lost in thought as he studied the phone, as if he was weighing a decision. Then as they reached him, they saw the blood on Sikander’s shirt. Distressed, Salat knew it was Mira’s and lost control of his anger.
‘You little coward,’ Salat said sharply. ‘Now you turn up? Now, when she is dying?’
Sikander slowly glanced at him, his large, dark eyes neither hurt nor angry but just curious as they surveyed Salat. One of the aides stepped closer, alerted by Salat’s tone.
‘I have been waiting to say this to your face, Sikander!’ Salat was furious. ‘Don’t think for one moment that you can get away with everything because she has no one. Yes, you might have needed her help as a journalist and as a knower, but you had absolutely no right to play those personal games and hurt her.’
Sikander stood up now. ‘Then who does?’
Salat frowned. ‘Is that what this is about? Who can hurt her?’
‘Not entirely,’ Sikander remarked and extended his hand. ‘Salat, I presume?’
Salat didn’t take the hand. ‘You presume bloody correctly!’
Bhaskar stepped forward to shake his hand and introduced himself. ‘Forgive us, Mr Bansi, if we can’t think of anything else but the danger Mira faces right now.’
‘I thank you both for that.’ Sikander then glanced at Salat, and met his enraged eyes calmly. ‘But I don’t owe you an explanation.’
‘Oh, I already have one!’ Salat snapped back. ‘You are an arrogant, bored son of a big shot, who developed a conscience one fine morning. So you wanted to expose the system, get people’s attention and be hailed as a rebel.’
Bhaskar uneasily glanced at Sikander who listened to Salat in respectful silence.
‘And while recruiting for this project,’ Salat continued harshly, ‘you wanted someone who could be manipulated, someone weary of this world and ready to even die to change her destiny.’ Salat stopped, choked. ‘She was the perfect choice, wasn’t she?’
Sikander’s face was drawn by those words, but he remained silent.
‘What part of your game is this?’ Salat demanded. ‘How did you get her to the hospital?’
Sikander hesitated. ‘I guess you know that she discovered me through the clues. I’m not sure she told anyone, even at the newspaper.’
‘She told me,’ Salat assured him, avoiding Bhaskar’s surprised eyes. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, yesterday Mira came to the lane where I live to leave me a message that the sixth tape would not be published by your newspaper. Clearly, she must have taken a series of precautions to visit the lane without being followed there. She cared for my safety too much not to.’ He paused, forlorn. ‘But even then, she couldn’t go missing for long stretches of time. She had to return soon not to arouse suspicion among those who watched her.’
Sikander’s eyes turned hard, as he said, ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘they would have discovered she knew my whereabouts if she had not returned from the lane yesterday. But she couldn’t leave because the lane was flooded in rain.’ Sikander stopped speaking again, tormented every time he spoke of her. His voice was low as he continued, ‘She must have known those waters that rose at her feet and the rain that fell mercilessly forced her to take the only decision left. Never to return, not just today but ever. She must have known she couldn’t survive if she returned home. Not without me.’ Sikander affectionately touched the blood on his shirt. ‘And yet, she left.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ Salat said bluntly. ‘Every clue you sent her proved you understood her life was just a constant search for death. If the choice was between you and the possibility of death, you should have known she would choose the latter.’
Unable to respond, Sik
ander turned away. The afternoon light from the windows reflected in his emotional eyes, and the loss on his face made Salat feel better.
‘I’m a knower too, you see,’ Salat informed him with satisfaction. ‘So what happened this morning?’
Sikander collected himself. ‘When the waters receded, I went back to my room and found her message. That’s how I realized that she must have been trapped in the lane due to the rain. I rushed to check the room she had rented across the lane, which I had discovered earlier.’ His voice was filled with desperation. ‘I was shocked that she wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe she chose to leave instead of . . .’ He stopped again, defeated. ‘I immediately called my aides and came to her house. But I was too late, she was already unconscious.’
‘Then how did you enter her house?’
‘I have a duplicate key. I had once got a fix on the lock posing as a cable technician,’ Sikander said absently. ‘That’s how I had accessed the picture in her living room to leave my address there.’
Salat heard him in silence and didn’t have the courage to ask Sikander how hurt she was when he found Mira, and even Sikander fell silent, reluctant to revisit that scene.
But Bhaskar asked, ‘Did you find her badly hurt?’
Sikander spoke with effort, ‘She was barely alive . . . lying in a pool of blood.’
‘Who could have done this?’ Bhaskar asked. ‘Who attacked Mira?’
Sikander considered the blood stains. ‘I can’t answer that.’
Bhaskar frowned, and Salat was speechless.
