‘Does she know?’ asked the rapist suddenly. He wanted to know what her thoughts were on this. After all, they were going to be on the show together.
‘Oh yes. All that’s taken care of,’ said the media mogul breezily. ‘We’ve got her husband to come on the show too! To talk about his experiences with her after the deed is done. The mother-in-law is tagging along as well. We tried to get rid of her, but her son insisted. Ah well, the more the drama, the better it is for us.’
The rapist laughed along. By the time she hung up, he felt wonderful. Powerful.
‘A TV star,’ he whispered to himself. He went to the black-tiled toilet in his office and looked at himself in the mirror. A newly formed zit bloomed on the edge of his left eyebrow. He popped it, washed his hands and went back to his files, feeling like a new man altogether.
Twenty-two
It was her father who answered the call. When he slumped to the chair, handing over the receiver to her, she knew what to expect. Still, it did not stop her from screaming into the phone and banging it against the wall.
‘So you are not pregnant?’ said her mother when the second daughter told her about it.
‘No,’ she said, wondering if that was the only thing that had registered in her mother’s mind.
Inexplicably, her mother went to the kitchen and brought them lemonade and snacks.
‘Eat,’ she said, pushing the plates towards father and daughter. ‘Starving will not make this better.’
The second daughter took a bite and discovered to her surprise that she was hungry. She ate as her mother spoke.
‘There is no point in rebelling if either of you is planning to do that,’ she said.
Her husband started to say something but closed his mouth, thinking the better of it.
‘You can try escaping to another city, or another country even, but they will track you down,’ she went on. ‘Remember my friend’s daughter? The whole family had to pay for what she did.’
The second daughter felt the words wash over her, finding it oddly reassuring to hear her mother’s voice.
‘Best would be to play along,’ said her mother. ‘Go for the show. Get it over with.’
Her father could not bear to stay silent any longer. ‘You are making it seem as if she’s been invited to give an interview!’ he burst out. ‘How can you be so calm?’
His wife shook her head and said, ‘Do you think I don’t feel any pain over this? She is my daughter too. But if we fall to pieces now, how is she going to survive this?’
The second daughter looked at her with gratitude. Her mother’s iciness had often put her off, but today she was glad for her stoicism. ‘I will go,’ she said, getting up to wash her hands. ‘It’s me they want. I don’t want any of you to suffer for my sake.’
She left without waiting for a reply. Curiously, she felt stronger than she had ever felt since the beginning of this ordeal. The waiting and not knowing had gnawed at her incessantly and she was glad that she now knew what was going to happen with clarity.
The second daughter went up to her room and dialled the number that the woman on the phone had texted to her mobile, asking her to call if she changed her mind. Nobody answered for a long time and she was just about to hang up, thinking everyone had left the office, when someone picked up.
‘I’m calling about the show,’ the second daughter said calmly, ‘tentatively titled The Lesson.’
‘One moment,’ said the operator. She was put on hold while the call was being connected. The music had a soporific effect and she had nearly dozed off by the time the woman who had called came to the phone.
‘Sorry about the wait,’ she said politely. ‘I was at a meeting.’
‘That’s okay,’ said the second daughter. ‘I just called to confirm my participation. I was – I was not in a position to do so earlier.’
‘We understand,’ said the woman professionally, choosing not to bring up the matter of the number of expletives the second daughter had spewed on her just an hour ago.
‘What happens next?’ asked the second daughter cautiously.
‘Why don’t you come over to our studio tomorrow?’ said the woman brightly. ‘We can chat over a cup of coffee and I can fill you in. We’re on a tight schedule and the sooner we get this done, the better.’
‘I can come right now if you want,’ said the second daughter. She pictured the woman’s surprise on the other end and smiled in spite of herself.
Regaining her composure, the woman said, ‘Of course. That would be great. I will be working late today anyway. How soon can you get here?’
The second daughter said that if she took a cab, she could reach in twenty minutes.
‘Do that,’ said the woman. ‘We will reimburse you, of course.’
The second daughter remembered the first time she had walked into the building. She had taken the bus, got off at the wrong stop, walked back three kilometres and tripped over a stone on the footpath. She had nearly twisted her ankle.
As she sat in the cab now, casually dressed in jeans and an oversized kurta, feeling absurdly prepared to meet her fate, she remembered limping into the building that first time, clutching her umbrella in one hand and her purse in another. The blue starched sari she’d carefully picked out ballooned around her as she stopped to drink some water at the dispenser by the door. There were so many people in the building that day but nobody paid her any attention. The board at the reception listed the offices with their respective floor numbers. The second daughter was glad the Adjustment Bureau was on the fourth floor. Four was her lucky number – she’d been roll number four in school and later, in college, she’d sat in the fourth row for three years and had graduated at the top of her class. It was a good omen, the second daughter had told herself. Now, she grimaced, thinking about her foolishness.
As soon as she’d entered the bureau that first time, she was told by the security guard to take a number from the token-dispensing machine. The touch screen gave her a range of options for the purpose of her visit: had she succeeded in becoming pregnant within six months of marriage? Then she could avail the president’s special discount for her maternity bills. Was she a parent who had not received the memo from the marriageable age notifier for their ward despite the ward having reached marriageable age? Would she like to build a career with the Adjustment Bureau by joining their event management team? Or maybe she had come to the bureau to offer her services as a scientist? The second daughter read through the list, feeling a little lost, a little dazed.
The last option on the list was thankfully the one she’d wanted. Divorce. Within a minute of her making the selection, a painfully thin woman in a black suit came to her side and requested that she follow her. The second daughter was impressed by the efficiency of it all. But before she could say anything, the woman had pushed her into a room and shut the door. In the inky darkness within its four walls, the second daughter sat on the floor, her knees clutched to her chest, her heart beating in her mouth, not knowing what to expect.
The first people who appeared before her in the Prison of Illusion, as she later discovered it was called, were her parents. Weeping, lamenting, beating their chests. For some reason, they couldn’t hold their heads up. Their necks had disappeared. Their heads bounced this way and that, defenceless, out of control. Before she could get up, run to them, console them somehow, they disappeared, shattering into dust.
After them came her sister. She wasn’t crying but was clearly upset. She told the second daughter that ever since her divorce, she’d been unable to step outside the house without people asking her how she could go about life so normally when the family’s honour had been destroyed. And her three sons, the first daughter said in anger, had been thrown out of school for belonging to a tainted house. The dupatta regulator appeared too, telling her that things had become very difficult for him at the university, thanks to her. His students were rebelling against him, asking what right he had to question their morals when there
was a woman in his own family who did not have any. The second daughter had risen from the floor, determined to argue with the dupatta regulator. But he too disappeared before she could reach him. And in his place came the hands. So many of them, whichever way she turned. The second daughter tried to run from them but they sought her out, touching, pinching, groping, wherever they could. She screamed till she lost her voice, her sobs turning into a desperate silence. When the woman in the black suit opened the door at last, she’d given the second daughter a glass of tea and had asked her to sign a form that said she didn’t want the divorce any more. But the second daughter had torn up the form and asked to meet the president.
The president’s face floated into her mind now and the second daughter pushed it back firmly. She would not let him undermine her resolve. She didn’t want to think about his indifference, his cold, unhelpful eyes. The look on his face when she’d thrown away the box with the baby. No, she wouldn’t think of him at all.
When she reached the building, walking in elegantly this time, she pushed the button for the top floor. The marriageable age notifier had been repaired, she noticed. There it was, churning out its memos as usual. She got into the elevator and it zipped upwards, uninterrupted. ‘You have reached the Good News office,’ announced the metallic voice as she stepped out onto the plush carpet.
The girl was waiting for her at the reception. ‘Come in,’ she said shyly, keeping the door open for her. ‘There’s nobody else in office. Just us. This is my first big assignment,’ confided the girl – the second daughter decided that she looked too young to be called a woman – as she directed her towards the conference room. ‘And I’m really nervous.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be great,’ said the second daughter automatically. The girl reminded her of a school junior of hers. A junior who had adored her for her debating skills, and had burst into tears on the last day of school.
The girl blushed and flashed her a look of gratitude. ‘I’m so sorry about what’s happening to you,’ she whispered.
The second daughter knew that the office was probably bugged. She nodded and pressed her hand reassuringly. ‘You are just doing your job,’ she said, sitting down on one of the chairs. The girl brought two cups of steaming coffee from the vending machine and set them on the table. ‘Shall we begin?’ she asked, taking a deep breath.
‘Please,’ said the second daughter. She caught sight of a small red light at the top left corner of the room and realized that they were under surveillance. She did not want them to think she was scared. She would not run any more. The second daughter looked up at the red light for a moment. Was someone watching them right now? If they were, she wouldn’t let them know that she was very close to throwing up all over the posh table with its important-looking files and tea cozies any minute.
‘Well, the show has been divided into seven episodes,’ said the girl. ‘One per day, starting Monday.’
‘Seven?’ said the second daughter, surprised. ‘For how long will he rape me?’
The girl giggled and then apologized immediately. ‘The rape is the grand finale. We can’t just have one episode and finish everything with that! We need to create interest in the audience,’ she explained, switching on the projector and playing a presentation. ‘Look, this is the plan for the show. The first episode has to be explosive, so we will be recreating your … err … scene with the president,’ said the girl. The slide showed an illustration of a buxom woman storming out of the building, her breasts spilling out of her tight top.
‘I certainly wasn’t wearing that,’ said the second daughter. ‘But I like my new figure.’
The girl laughed with her, relaxing at last. ‘We have to give the audience some masala!’ she said. ‘And who do you think is playing you in the scene recreation?’
She whispered the name to the second daughter in an awed voice.
‘I’m a huge fan!’ confessed the girl. ‘I’ve seen all her movies at least four times each.’
The second daughter was confused. She did not resemble the popular heroine at all.
‘But in the finale, it will be me?’ she asked the girl, to make sure.
‘Of course,’ said the girl. ‘This is your lesson. We’re only using the heroine for the run-up to the finale. The rapist needs proper authorization before he can do something like this, you know.’
The second daughter looked at the girl, wondering if she was married. She could find no indication that she was. Had she had sex outside the Institution? Couldn’t have, she decided. Recruits to the building, she’d read, had to go through a stringent background and character check to be considered eligible. She doubted that the girl before her could have hoodwinked the authorities.
The girl was asking the second daughter if she watched the heroine’s movies too.
‘No,’ said the second daughter, taking in the girl’s eager eyes, her small pearl earrings. No, she didn’t think the girl knew what any of this meant. When she’d first called her to talk about the show, the second daughter had been furious, bewildered that someone could even propose something so cruel, so ruthless. But now, looking at this girl before her, so excited about her first big project, her baby-pink shirt buttoned to the top, her hair in a tight braid, the clenched fist in the second daughter’s stomach began to open a little.
‘Won’t the audience be disappointed when they see me at the end of this?’ she asked. ‘After the heroine, I mean.’
‘Oh, you will be wearing a mask!’ said the girl. She looked at the second daughter’s face and thought it was a good thing. That missing front tooth was a big turn-off.
‘A mask?’
‘Yes. It’s against the law to show a rape victim’s face on TV,’ said the girl in her best official voice. ‘Also, thinking about viewer psychology, they are likely to imagine the woman getting raped is the heroine, you know. They … umm … will probably enjoy the show better.’
The second daughter nodded and sat through the rest of the presentation, forgetting at times that this, all of it, had to do with her.
‘Who are these surprise visitors?’ she asked, as the girl was explaining the finale.
‘Guess,’ said the girl mischievously. ‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?’
When the second daughter left the building two hours later, she walked down the road for a while, digesting all the information that she had gleaned.
The rapist watched her go from his window, wondering if she felt as nervous as he did.
Twenty-three
The moral policeman’s wife clung to him, distraught, trying to fall asleep. She was afraid and so was he. When he told her about the chief’s order, she went into pieces, tearing her hair out and screaming obscenities at him.
‘I’ll quit,’ he promised her in a small voice. ‘And we can leave the capital city.’
‘And go where?’ she asked him, her eyeballs moving crazily. ‘What will we do?’
What, indeed? The moral policeman had found out from his colleagues that his son’s girlfriend had been sent to a moral rehabilitation centre for purging her body after the abortion had been carried out. For the next twelve days, she would enter the Purification Fire to rid her body of sin and at the end of it, she would have to undergo a small surgery to restore her hymen. The Purification Fire was a technique developed by a firecracker company that had managed to salvage its loss-making business by inventing this product alone. The Purification Fire, or Purifire as it was known, would create an illusion of intense burning without actually damaging the skin. It was known to cause insanity in some but otherwise had no long-term ill effects.
The moral policeman knew what the punishment was for errant boys but he didn’t want to think about it. His son was away in another city, scared but safe. For the time being, that was the best the moral policeman could hope for.
In the morning, he typed out his resignation letter on his old trusted typewriter (computers were not for him). The letter ‘e’ was broken, so
afterwards, the moral policeman painstakingly filled in the missing letter in all the words with a black pen. He knew the resignation would mean little, but at least he would no longer be under duress to turn in his son. After this point, it would be up to the force to track him and deal with him.
The moral policeman considered handing the letter over in person to the chief but every time the thought surfaced in his mind, his hands went cold and clammy. In the end, he dropped the letter in the postbox for the force and hoped that the chief wouldn’t hold it against him.
As he was walking back from the postboxes, the moral policeman ran into the rapist.
‘We’ve got her,’ said the rapist. ‘Let’s go for samosas and I’ll tell you all about it.’
The moral policeman had no idea what the rapist was talking about, but food was exactly what he needed right then. It felt obscene to be hungry when his son’s life was in danger, but the moral policeman was diabetic and he had to eat at the right intervals.
They sat in the canteen, eating their spicy, oily samosas, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
‘I’m nervous, to tell you the truth,’ said the rapist at last.
‘Me too,’ blurted out the moral policeman.
The rapist looked at him, surprised. ‘What about?’
‘N-nothing,’ said the moral policeman, realizing that he didn’t want to confide in the rapist just then. ‘What are you nervous about?’ he countered.
‘The show, obviously,’ said the rapist modestly. He sounded a tad too modest for it to be genuine, but the moral policeman hadn’t the foggiest idea about the show. He had been too preoccupied with his own troubles to have noticed the hoardings and posters that had sprouted all over the city overnight like mushrooms.
‘What show?’ asked the moral policeman.
The rapist was irritated. ‘I’m going to have my own show, man,’ he said, trying to keep the edge off his voice. After all, the moral policeman was the one who had introduced him to the building and he did not want to be rude.
The Lesson Page 9
