But the first cop holds his ears and shakes his head virtuously. ‘I have given my zubaan on the head of my three-year-old daughter. No more teen patti for me. No flash. No blackjack. No poker.’
‘We could play kot-piece,’ Dylan hears himself say. ‘There are four of us, and it’s a game for four. Gimme the cards, I’ll show you.’
For a moment, the cops look at him in surprise. Then they nod indulgently.
‘Here, take,’ they say as they surrender the cards to Dylan. ‘Enjoy the pleasure of our company while you can. When they shift you to Tihar you won’t find the surroundings half as friendly.’
‘And in how many days will that be?’ Dylan asks as he starts to deal out the cards. But before they can reply, the tubelights flicker on and the dead heater starts to glow a slow, dark orange. The little TV blips on and Debjani’s face stares down at all of them from the top of a dirty refrigerator.
‘Human Rights organizations have condemned the actions of India Post journalist Dylan Singh Shekhawat, saying that the bribing and coaching of witnesses in the anti-Sikh riots case has done the cause of justice irreparable harm. They observed that such actions undermine the capability of civil society to have any imprimatur of impartiality in investigating Human Rights violations and urged that Shekhawat be punished severely.’
‘The call came from a working women’s hostel in Paharganj,’ Mitali tells Varun over the phone excitedly.
‘Is that a hill station?’ he asks, slightly at a loss.
‘No, stupid! It’s a sort of market in Delhi, near the railway station.’
‘Are you sure it’s the right number?’
‘Yes! See, I got a friend of mine from College – who’s in the IAS now – to dig out the details of all the calls your receptionist received that morning. It came through around eleven, lasted only three minutes and is from a Delhi number. It has to be the one!’
‘And this IAS, he gave you the address too? Isn’t that illegal?’
She clicks her tongue impatiently. ‘He’s really fond of Dylan. Besides, College connection, you know.’
Varun, who finds it really irritating that Stephenians call their college just ‘College’ with a capital C, like there are no other colleges on the planet, ignores this. ‘So should I book our tickets?’ he asks instead. ‘Let’s get to this working women’s hostel and rent you a room there?’
‘Yes, let’s,’ says Mitali and cuts the line.
The next afternoon finds the two of them at the Yuvati Niwas in Paharganj, talking to a nun with a moustache. The nun tells them that they are usually always full up, but luckily for Mitali, one of their girls has just done a bunk. Her room is empty and Mitali is welcome to have it if she can make the necessary payments and provide a certificate of good character from her employer. Varun, posing as Mitali’s elder brother, provides the three months’ advance rent and helps her move in.
‘Now remember, this is a shared scoop,’ he tells her as he attempts to lug her stuff upstairs. ‘Equal credits to IP and Viewstrack.’
‘But I’ve done all the digging,’ she objects, scooping up her duffel bag.
‘And I’ve paid for the train tickets and provided your rent,’ he points out. ‘Call me tomorrow at ten if you have any leads – or even if you have nothing. Okay?’
Mitali giggles. ‘I don’t think she believed me when I said you were my brother.’
Varun shoots her an austere look. ‘I wonder why.’
He fixes up to meet with Dylan’s parents the next morning, and when he gets to their house he is greeted by Juliet Bai, depressed and loquacious in equal measure.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she informs Varun dolefully as she opens the door. ‘I was too proud of him – of his height and his handsomeness and his lovely deep voice and his athlete-of-the-year trophies, and yes, even his girlfriends. It was wicked of me. I used to look at all the other mothers on sports day – so excited about the single measly bronze medal their child had won – and feel superior and pity them. How I wish now that Dylan was short and podgy and ugly and came last in all the races, at least then nobody would have put nazar on him like this!’
‘No no, aunty,’ Varun murmurs as he sits down to the breakfast she has laid out. ‘Hello, uncle, boys.’
‘We’re very proud of Dyl,’ Ethan pipes up before the Brig can get a word in. ‘His battle for justice has clearly got the government rattled. It is the sacred duty of all Rajputs to be battering rams in battle and brave in bed, you see. Or is it brave in battle and battering rams in bed?’
The Brigadier smacks him on the back sharply. Ethan emits an outraged squawk and shuts up. Juliet Bai gives a huge gulping shudder. Tears splash into her teacup. She stirs it, and as she sips, some very unworthy thoughts about Debjani’s family cross her mind.
‘Mamta’s sister-in-law Bhudevi does a lot of voodoo and tantric witchcraft. She’s even been claiming to be possessed by the soul of her dead mother-in-law! Do you think – after the scene in their house that day – she put some sort of hex on Dylan, Bobby?’
‘That’s rubbish, Bobby,’ the Brigadier says shortly. ‘Varun, you tell us, what exactly is the situation? Have you come to get Dylan out? He has done so much for the newspaper – what are you doing for him?’
‘Take more cornflakes,’ Juliet Bai urges. ‘You’re not eating anything.’
‘Uh, yes, thank you, aunty,’ Varun says, red and flustered. ‘My editor-in-chief is meeting Dylan in the hawalat today. And I’m investigating that so-called Kamalpreet’s background. Trying to nail the link between her and Hardik Motla.’
‘He was quite taken by her,’ Ethan volunteers in a subdued voice. ‘Said she was a lovely girl – so vulnerable yet so brave.’
Juliet Bai snorts. ‘Dylan is a fool about these so-called vulnerable girls. But this Kamalpreet makes the Judge’s daughter look like an angel, that’s for sure.’
‘Never mind all that, how will you prove this whole thing was a set-up?’ the Brigadier asks, frowning repressively at his wife. ‘And who will believe you? That’s if you even have the guts to print the story?’
‘We’ll get the proof,’ Varun assures them. ‘Chief Editor Hiranandani – he’s a close friend of the PM – has managed to wrangle a meeting with your son today. You’ll have news of Dylan quite soon.’
‘Somebody is here to meet you.’
Dylan, sprawled on the cement bench and staring at the grubby wall opposite, looks around, squinting against the light.
‘Hira?’
‘What’s up, tiger?’
The voice is low, and shaking with emotion. Dylan sits up and smiles.
‘The fastidious Mr Hiranandani!’ he says lightly. ‘How tragic to see you in such insalubrious, boorish environs.’
Hira’s sad-clown face splits into a grin. ‘Don’t let’s get into all that. Stand up and let me look at you properly – are you quite all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Dylan gets to his feet and stretches lazily. But he doesn’t walk up to the bars or take Hira’s outstretched hand. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Yeah,’ Hira says ruefully. ‘Now, we don’t have much time, so listen carefully to what I’m going to say…’
Dylan raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he says and there is a peculiar edge to his voice.
Though he hadn’t got much time to think initially, around midnight the thaana had settled down to a marathon porn watching session. In the ensuing quiet that followed, punctuated only by the occasional grunt or moan, Dylan has managed to figure out some stuff. A whole lot of stuff, actually.
‘What?’ Hira looks confused. Then he shakes his head. ‘Never mind, just pay attention. I’ve cut through all the red tape and assured the PM of what a good journalist you are, vouched for you personally – and so has old man Ohri. And we’ve worked out quite a good deal. So listen – you are listening, right?’
‘Oh, I’m listening.’ Dylan nods, his eyes glittering strangely.
‘Admit t
o the bribery charge and I’ll have you out on bail, pronto. Immediately. Deny it and you could be in here for years.’ He holds up a hand as Dylan starts to speak. ‘I know what you’re about to say – that you didn’t do anything – but that’s a battle we can fight later, once we’ve got you out.’
But Dylan shakes his head. Once, very gently.
‘Why did you do it, Hira?’ he asks.
The older man stares back at him, his eyes perplexed. ‘What?’
‘Was it because I insulted your new, improved DD in your own column? That made you look like a bit of a fool, I suppose. Or was it because Bade-papaji is so fond of me? Or was it something else – your pal the PM piling up the pressure… What was it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Hira’s voice is bewildered. ‘Why did I do what?’
‘Get into cahoots with Motla. It happened when he came to meet you in office, didn’t it? You were pissed off with me about the anti-DD piece, but you pretended you weren’t. Instead, you gave me a nice long rope to hang myself with. My own byline, a photograph to accompany my pieces, lots of fame. But you were just fattening me up for the kill. Kamalpreet – or whatever her real name is – was the bait. That’s why you urged me to print that piece so quickly – you said we’d miss the anniversary of the riots if we bothered to get background colour on her from Tirathpuri. You knew she was a fake, didn’t you?’
‘Have they been hitting you on the head or something?’ Hira asks, looking deeply concerned. ‘Could it have affected your memory? Because I clearly recall telling you to check up on her thoroughly before we printed her story – the motto of our paper is Truth. Balance. Courage., for heaven’s sake! I never said anything about missing any anniversary.’
‘You’re such a smooth bastard,’ Dylan says with quiet disbelief. ‘I can’t believe I couldn’t see it earlier.’
‘They have been hitting you.’ Hira’s smile is distinctly sinister now. ‘You’ve forgotten that you called me up and assured me that the Kamalpreet story had checked out, that it had been thoroughly double-checked and verified.’
Dylan leans in close.
‘We both know I didn’t.’
‘Yes,’ Hira agrees, thrusting his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels. ‘We both know you didn’t. And we both know you’ve been getting too big for your boots. You cheeky little bastard, how dare you trash me in my own column? You think that because that senile old man thinks you’re such a hotshot, you can get away with anything? Well, you can’t. Tonight, with a heavy heart, I am going to write a prize-winning, introspective editorial about how tragic it is when young journalists stray from the straight and narrow. I’m going to say you’re a liar, a bribe-eater and a bribe-giver. I’m going to take full personal responsibility for hiring you, and with profound sorrow, I’m going to offer to resign. Of course, the Ohris won’t accept my resignation.’
Dylan stares at him, wondering how he could ever have idolized this man, considered him a mentor, or even a worthy boss. He’s just a weedy, insecure ass, he thinks. I was totally wrong about him. What else have I been totally wrong about?
‘But why?’ he asks finally. ‘Just because of the DD piece?’
He is met with silence.
‘But you went to College!’
Hira winces at this.
‘Oh, please,’ he says irascibly. ‘This whole College connection is so overrated. The truth of the matter is that the PM is trying to get a piece of legislation through Parliament – a little something called the anti-defamation bill. I’m just trying to help him do it. For a certain, er, fee.’
‘The what bill?’ Dylan looks at him in blank incomprehension.
But Hira is already backing away from the bars.
‘I’d think about confessing to the bribery and witness-tampering charges if I were you,’ he says. ‘They’ll book you under TADA otherwise – for conspiring with Canadian terrorist organizations and fomenting unrest – and stick you into Tihar till you’re an old man. Your Gregory Pecker will wilt away unused. So consider confessing. Now goodbye, I have an editorial to write.’
‘Can you please explain what we are doing here?’ Varun asks Mitali plaintively. ‘The suspense is killing me.’
She doesn’t so much as glance at him. ‘Wait wait wait,’ she murmurs, eyes glued to the tiny TV monitor before her. ‘I’m looking for something…’
‘But what?’ Varun knows he is sounding petulant but he can’t help it. They’ve been cooped up inside a tiny edit studio in Safdurjang Enclave for hours now, in a tiny six-by-six-foot basement that reeks strongly of naphthalene balls and damp. ‘I would like to warn you at this point, Mitali Dutta, that my crush on you is in danger of languishing away entirely due to lack of nourishment.’
‘Silly,’ she says, glancing at him briefly. ‘You don’t have a crush on me – you’re just programmed to think that all career girls who smoke and put kajal and wear nose rings are hot.’
‘That’s rubbish,’ Varun returns stoutly. ‘I’ve seen beyond your smoke-screen of oxidized silver and carbon monoxide. I know you’re worthy of deep emotion.’
‘Do you want to hear what I’m looking for?’ she asks hastily. Varun grins. ‘Yes, please.’
Mitali presses pause on the footage she has been watching and turns to face him. ‘So, basically, I chatted up all the girls and the old nuns in there to find out about this girl who’s gone missing. Nobody knew much about her. “Kept to herself ” was the general verdict. But then somebody happened to show me a picture of a bunch of the girls on the porch of the Yuvati Niwas. And she’s in the background talking to a wrinkly old guy who used to come over to meet her often. Their records have him listed as her maternal uncle. I took a picture of the register. Look!’
She hands Varun two photographs. Varun peers at the first, his forehead crinkling. ‘What an unlovely sight. And this wrinkly old man is…?’
‘Somebody I’ve seen before,’ Mitali says, banging on the console hard. ‘I wish I knew where – I know it’s in some old footage, so I’m checking all the stories I’ve done, but no sign of him so far…’
‘We’re trying to link her with Motla, aren’t we?’ Varun points out. ‘So why don’t you look through the footage of your interview with him?’
Mitali looks mildly surprised. ‘You’re right. I should have thought of that myself.’
Varun shrugs. ‘It’s only common sense,’ he says modestly. But Mitali doesn’t hear him, she is already burrowing through the box of dusty tapes at her feet. She straightens up, her face red with excitement, adjusting the neckline of her kaftanesque kurta which has slipped deliciously low.
‘Got it,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Let’s check it out.’
They spot him about halfway through the recording. Motla requests a break, holding up his palm horizontally and sticking a finger below it in the time-out sign. He wipes his face with a hanky and then – as Mitali and Varun watch with bated breath in the smelly edit studio – the wrinkly old man from the Yuvati Niwas photograph steps into the frame bearing a packet of Pan Parag. He opens it, extracts a spoonful with a tiny tin spoon and upends it onto Motla’s extended palm. The whole manoeuvre takes only about five seconds. The two players do it with the ease of long practice.
‘Of course!’ Mitali says ecstatically as she freezes the image. ‘That’s why I remember him. We played this shot again and again when we were fine-tuning the edit. This wrinkly old guy kept getting into the shot. He’s clearly Motla’s Man Friday, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is.’ Varun nods emphatically. ‘Now all we need to do is print both these pictures in the paper – the one of him with Motla and the one of him with Kamalpreet. Along with an 800-word piece that I will personally write. And we’re home.’
She gives him an impulsive hug. ‘And so is Dylan,’ she says, her eyes alight with happiness. ‘This is fantastic.’
Varun shoots her a wistful look. ‘Yeah, that’ll make you happy, huh? I thought you were just do
ing this because it’s such a big story.’
‘Oh, it’s a huge story,’ she agrees fervently.
‘I know. Bade-papaji and Hira will be thrilled.’
Journalist still in lock-up. Verdict expected soon.
Villain Singh Shekhawat, as Hardik Motla’s spin doctors have dubbed the India Post journalist who has been accused of bribing and coaching witnesses, continues to languish in the lock-up. The editor and owners of the newspaper remain tight-lipped on the issue and have issued no statement.
Chachiji is a happy woman. The flat is almost ready. A big artistic signboard spelling out Hailey Court in gorgeously curvy and curling type, has gone atop the six-storied building. The builder has been most obliging, fawning over her gratifyingly and carrying out all her little changes and special demands. The workmen are polishing the marble now, their massive machines grinding late into the night. The sound is music to Chachiji’s ears as she sits at the window in the annexe, her tongue between her teeth, making laborious drawings on green graph paper of how she will arrange her furniture in the flat. ‘The navy-blue sofa set will go here,’ she has told Mrs Mamta. ‘The glass-topped drift wood table over there. My cupboard full of porcelain dogs just here. And of course my carpet with the two Chinese dragons will go in the lowbie. There is a lowbie also, did I tell you?’
Mrs Mamta puts up with this effusiveness bravely, telling the girls that they have weathered the worst of it, and soon Chachiji will be ensconced in her own home, busy and happy.
Anjini is of the opinion that her mother is being way too optimistic. ‘She’ll need somebody to hate, Ma,’ she warns her. ‘She’s got nobody to bitch and moan and carp on about ever since she sent the Hot Dulari packing. Watch out she doesn’t promote you to the status of Enemy Number 1.’
Mrs Mamta looks harassed. ‘Now, girls,’ she says feebly.
‘I agree,’ says Binni. ‘Every time she goes out to water the plants in her tiny balcony, she’ll see your big spacious garden below and hate you. And she’ll come over and make fun of your marble chip floors and your plywood kitchen shutters and the Indian-style toilet in the terrace loo.’
THOSE PRICEY THAKUR GIRLS Page 29
