‘And where is this real India, in your opinion?’
‘Out there,’ he said, gesturing through the window at the packed and sweltering town. ‘The reality of India is open drains and undernourished children, of which I’ve made a recent study. Over forty per cent of children here are underweight or stunted. Half of all living accommodation lacks flush toilets, so there’s open defecation, which breeds disease, something Vijaya is too refined and sheltered to discuss. There’s hideous overcrowding in the cities and the shantytowns are proliferating. It’s no wonder there’s growing frustration, communal prejudice and strife. I lecture and write about these things in the hope of pressuring government to try and make them better.’
‘Has there been all that much strife in recent years?’
‘There’s always the underlying possibility. It erupted at Ayodha ten years ago, when there were riots across Northern India. Shahpur came from near there. Thousands of Muslims were killed, and his terrified family had to flee. Hindu fundamentalists demolished an ancient mosque they claimed had been built above an even more ancient Hindu holy place. A few extremist Hindu nationalists urged them on, but it was deeply regretted by the Hindu moderate majority. Such rabid fanaticism! Such senseless rage and violence! The real enemies aren’t other people’s races and religions but hunger and the lack of plumbing and clean water, with the typhus and cholera that inevitably follow.’
Although Clare was impressed by the range and eloquence of Tammy’s opinions, she wanted a breath of air, and she suggested they move onto the terrace. The breeze had dropped. The moon seemed icy and remote. A moth trembled past on soft wings. A bat hurtled down, shuddered in mid-flight, then vanished like the shadow of a moment. A burst of cheering rent the air, briefly drowning out a pop song, all throbbing beat and quivering melody. An amplified political speech came echoing raucously over the rooftops. A large and brightly lit open-top bus was moving slowly along the street below.
Eventually, Clare spoke.
‘Surely you can discuss all of that with Vijaya?’
‘Vijaya? Cocooned as she is within her privileged, cushy background?’
‘Who isn’t cocooned a bit? We all need a cocoon to some extent.’
‘You’ve managed to escape from yours. You’re so adventurous, Clare. Coming out here, wanting to know about all things Indian… the grim as well as the good. I want to help with your book. I admire you so much.’
‘That’s nice of you. But, without being boringly full of wifely pride, there’s more to admire in Max. Not that either of us are all that wonderful.’
‘You are very wonderful to me,’ Tammy said.
As Clare looked into Tammy’s eyes, she saw bewilderment and much anxiety. She turned away, wanting to discourage the feelings she feared she was sensing but not to snub him. She gazed down at the bus, with Venkataraman up aloft. People waving flags and banners followed the exuberant procession. Clare looked across at the now-distant temple tower, seeing in her mind those gods and goddesses, carved on its sides, gazing serenely down at what went on in the hectic world below: all the excitement and frustration, conflict and confusion of the human heart.
‘I’ve been feeling this for a while,’ Tammy said. ‘It’s why I came with you on this trip.’
‘You’d no right to come because of that.’
‘I know. It’s wrong of me. I suppose it was the way we talked together. Vijaya’s so backward looking. She’s got a whole collection of ancient carvings. Her room is like a shrine… a shrine to a past age. She has so little involvement in the present, living world, apart from her fervent feminism.’
‘Then why not help her to become more involved?’
‘I don’t want to marry her, Clare,’ Tammy said bluntly. ‘That’s the truth of it.’
‘You’re surely a free agent. Do you feel bound by your dead parents’ wishes?’
‘It’s not just that. It’s the expectations of both our families. It’s Narayan, who’s been like a brother to me since our childhood. Vijaya is like a kid sister. I can’t bear the thought of hurting her in what would be a cruelly public manner. She’d be totally humiliated. All this makes me feel so claustrophobic.’
‘I’m sorry, Tammy. I see your problem.’
He looked at her. What he said came out so softly Clare thought she had misheard him.
‘I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with you.’
Time stopped for Clare for a few awkward, heavy seconds. Tammy’s words were absurd. She felt he had had no right to be embarrassing her like this.
‘That’s mad,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Please believe me.’
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, Tammy. I love Max more than I can say. I think I’d better go. I’m sorry.’
Clare left, feeling an urgent need to be with her husband. What Tammy had said was both annoying and unreal. She didn’t believe he loved her, although, frustrated as he was over his engagement, he might indulge himself with such a fanciful idea. She thought she might find Max following the electioneering bus and so she went downstairs, trying to wipe Tammy’s words from her mind. Out on the street, she turned a corner and found herself in a throng of people pushing along and cheering. Between the whoops and shouts, she could hear Venkataraman’s continuing oratory and the whooshes and bangs of the fireworks. Over the noise, she heard Tammy call her name, doubtless anxious about her venturing alone into this seething mass of people. She really disliked him saying he loved her. It was just a transient infatuation, and one she had to tactfully discourage.
There came a burst of applause as the bus –draped with strings of marigolds – turned a corner. Its sides were painted with scenes of a glowing heaven-upon-earth. There was a hero, glaring with romantic fierceness, a plump heroine, lustrous-eyed and smiling beatifically, and a flight of crimson parrots. A multicoloured elephant and a cow with golden horns also formed part of this touching vision of paradise.
The drums beat on. Some boys were jogging along and dancing. A man on crutches dipped with a convulsive movement of his shoulders. The bus was crawling past, and Clare found herself being pushed with sudden violence. On top of the bus, Venkataraman was energetically waving at the crowd. Someone threw a flower up at him, which he caught with surprising skill. Two small, excited boys sat on the bumpers beneath ropes of wilting flowers and dusty paper streamers. Joss sticks sent up smoky threads of incense that mingled with the smells of sweat and diesel fumes.
Tammy caught up with Clare. He was smiling hesitantly, as if about to apologise for declaring his love. Clare couldn’t see Max anywhere, but she suddenly found herself next to the thin boy who’d tried to snatch Max’s camera. She’d clearly seen his face before the incident, but Max hadn’t because it had been dark. The boy was pushing forward now, and she was struck by his expression of fear and by his smooth, good looks; they were extraordinary, even for India, where beauty and ugliness were starkly contrasted. The boy was trembling slightly, as if nervous, his mouth slightly open and his eyes a little tearful. In front of him was his overweight accomplice. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder in a gesture of affectionate encouragement.
Then he noticed Clare and seemed to recognise her.
Clare caught her breath and tried to hang back, but the crowd was irresistibly carrying her along. On her left hobbled a man with crinkly hair dangling down to his shoulders and parallel white lines painted on his forehead. On her right strode a tall, middle-aged woman with fiercely made-up eyes and a distinctly imperious air. She seemed to be the leader of a group of women, whose brilliant saris in red, vermilion and icy green contrasted with the stark whiteness of the clothing of the men or with their dark, naked upper torsos.
The two youths were conferring with an older, bearded, man. It was the man Clare had seen earlier, whom she now recognised as the cripple who had approached them with his begging bowl. The boy seemed fearful as the cripple and the boy’s companion urgently exhorted him. The cripple had a comman
ding but not unkind expression. The boy at first seemed unwilling to do something. He briefly argued back, stammering in frustration. The plump youth stared at Clare, as if disliking her observation of them, while the boy’s nervous glances gave way to a look of steely resolution.
A push from behind carried Clare right to the back of the bus, where she saw a tiny, shivering monkey held by a smiling boy riding on the bumper. He had displaced the boys who had been sitting there, and they were now trudging sulkily along behind. The monkey clung tightly to the boy with wrinkled and leathery black fingers. It twisted its head to stare with enormous, blinking eyes at the people around it.
The bus stopped completely, such was the crush of people in the street. The women had been pushed into a huddle, which the tall woman did not appreciate at all. She glared haughtily around, hands held up in protest at this unceremonious treatment of her flock, which she was bossily trying to protect like a flustered mother hen. Her flock paid her scant attention, though, and carried on smoothing their saris and chewing betel nut. One of them opened her reddened mouth to merrily spit out the juice. They were chattering to each other excitedly.
All attention was diverted. The fat youth bent down and the younger one jumped on his back, vaulted up the side of the vehicle, caught the railing and swung his legs up and over. An astonished cheer rose up at this achievement. The women shrieked out their approval. The boy had been holding a marigold between his teeth, which he now presented to Venkataraman with a theatrical low bow, perhaps something he seen in some romantic Bollywood film full of improbable heroics. Nonetheless, it was rather touching.
Venkataraman smiled and stepped forward to accept the flower. Clare wondered if this was why the boy had been so scared? Had it been the stage fright of an ardent devotee? Was it political devotion that had made him try to seize Max’s camera? Maybe he hadn’t wanted his hero photographed without consent, as Tammy had suggested. That could explain his look of mild fanaticism. Perhaps he was a shade simple-minded too, bowing so extravagantly low, as if struck with sudden shyness, before moving quickly forward to embrace the speaker.
The women clapped their hands, which sparkled with bright rings. Venkataraman looked surprised as the youth put his arm around his neck. At this, the women raised their arms, bangles jangling, and made further noises of encouragement. Venkataraman smiled again, less certainly this time, and hesitantly accepted the embrace.
But then the boy’s arm drove hard forward. His elbow jerked backwards with a plucking motion, and he again thrust forward with a violent twist.
Venkataraman looked astounded and let out a sharp cry. The boy held his body close but as though it were a shield to prevent his face being seen.
The cheering died away to a hush. Then there came a throb of strident music, fast and hectic, vibrating along the narrow streets. A trumpet blared. A drum was beaten. The man and boy seemed to cling to one another, as if in some weird climax of devotion.
But then Venkataraman stumbled backwards.
A knife had been stuck into his chest.
Blood was pulsing from the wound, spreading through Venkataraman’s shirt and down his arm.
Clare looked away in horror. She saw the cripple again, with his grizzled beard and furrowed cheeks. He was staring up at Venkataraman with a look of appalling triumph. Seconds later, he noticed Clare. Their eyes met, for just a second, and then his gaze returned to the terrible scene above.
One of the women let out a stifled scream. A heavy collective groan spread among the onlookers. Venkataraman slumped against a horrified colleague. Two of the women clung to each other, shrieking. A guard edged forward, holding a revolver.
The boy suddenly leapt over the side of the bus. He hit the ground right next to Tammy, who seized him around the waist. They faced each other, and the boy began twisting frantically in Tammy’s grasp. He stared into his face, whimpering in frustration. He thrashed the air with his arms and shouted out. His mouth was trembling. His shirt was patchy with his victim’s blood. The older youth dodged forward and raised a knife, glaring aggressively at Tammy. Before he had time to attack, the tall woman stepped forward. Her mouth gaped open, with its snaggle teeth and bright red gums. Incensed, she spat a gob of betel juice into the moustachioed face.
The young boy broke free of Tammy.
The guard jumped down. The swaying crowd pushed Clare until she was almost off her feet. Although seized by a momentary, claustrophobic panic, she managed to recover her balance and found the older youth standing right in front of her. He looked at her with hostility before he and his accomplice bolted off and vanished down an alley. The guard fired at them but missed. Two astonished colleagues were supporting Venkataraman, a look of utter disbelief on his face.
There was pandemonium. People began running in all directions, wailing and shouting. Clare saw a thin little girl toddling forward, weeping. She looked totally lost and seemed about to be trampled on by people hurtling about in confusion. In terrified bewilderment, the girl fell to the ground, where a man almost stumbled over her in panic. Clare pushed forward and snatched the girl up. She held the child close and could feel the heavy thumping of her heart within her emaciated, trembling body.
The cripple came swinging up, distraught and gasping, accompanied by a woman in a state of hysteria. They’d seen Clare rescuing the child and looked at her with enormous gratitude. Tammy spoke with them in Tamil. He told Clare the cripple was the child’s father. His wife had been knocked down in the rush and the crowd had carried off their child. Clare handed the girl over to the cripple. He cradled his daughter in his arms with desperate protectiveness, tears of relief welling in his eyes. The little girl clung tightly to him, while his wife sobbed uncontrollably.
Clare gazed into the cripple’s face, realising this was the man she’d seen with that repulsive look of triumph just after Venkataraman had been stabbed. She’d first seen him after the camera incident. Had he approached them at the time only to see their faces better? Had the youths conferred with him? Had the three of them plotted to seize the camera because Max had photographed something they didn’t want recorded? Was he their accomplice or the mastermind?
The man handed the child to his wife, who was talking rapidly. She was pleading with the cripple, in ashamed apology for having lost their daughter in the turmoil. The cripple spoke to her forgivingly, and she gazed at him in thankful adoration. He explained to Tammy that they’d been childless for many years; their only child had been born to them late in life, and they felt very blessed because of her. Turning back to Clare, he put his hands together in the gesture of Namaste, and his wife bowed her head and touched her forehead.
Guards rushed past, chasing after the youths. Clare heard the siren of a police car. Venkataraman, who was still on his feet and being supported by two horrified colleagues, seemed mesmerised by the fireworks that had incongruously started up again, exploding in glittering hoops and whirling circles in a mad crescendo of now wholly inappropriate celebration. Amazingly, Venkataraman still held the flower, now soaked in blood that still dripped. The cripple continued to regard Clare with great appreciation, honouring her with another salutation before turning and moving away; the little girl was carried by her weeping mother.
The police and the ambulance arrived. Venkataraman was laid upon a stretcher. He stared at the sputtering fireworks, their descending sparks extinguished one by one, as if he was gazing at some bright yet disappearing vision. As he was lifted into the ambulance, the tall woman placed a red hibiscus flower on his chest. One of her followers, a crystal stud in her nostril and a shimmer of blue beads around her neck, took the coil of flowers from her hair and placed it at Venkataraman’s feet.
Tammy offered himself to the police as a witness. Clare wanted to do the same, but he advised her to return to the hotel. He asked a policeman to accompany her there, and they walked past huddled groups of murmuring people. When they reached the hotel, Clare was anxious to find out where Max was. She went up to their
bedroom and was relieved to find him already there. He hadn’t followed the procession after all but had returned to the temple to take more photos. When she told him about the stabbing, he was appalled. He held her in his arms with that firm protectiveness she loved.
Tammy returned about twenty minutes later, saying that the police wanted to see him again the next day. He said Venkataraman wasn’t expected to survive. The police pursuit of the assassin had been in vain, and they regarded Tammy as the best eyewitness. They seemed confident he would be able to describe the young boy. No one else had seen the face of the assassin clearly, that hypocritical low bow having served its purpose.
‘I told the policeman who brought me back here about the cripple,’ Clare said. ‘And I told him I can identify the killer and his accomplice.’
‘If it gets round that a European woman saw what happened, you could surely be in danger,’ Max said.
‘Well I insist on talking to the police again at some point,’ Clare declared.
The following morning it was announced on the news that Venkataraman had died in hospital in the early hours.
‘I’m really angry,’ Clare said over breakfast. ‘The savagery of it, disguised in that gesture of false homage! I hope those assassins are caught as soon as possible. I must talk to the police.’
She didn’t have to go to see them. Inspector Veerapan, a senior police official, had been quickly flown down from Chennai and put in charge of the case. He came to see Clare and Tammy. The Inspector, a man with meticulously combed hair and a politely mournful manner, told them he’d been involved in the investigation into Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination in 1961.
The Assassins Page 2
