Miss Laila, Armed and Dangerous

by Manu Joseph

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Are telephone booths still around?’

  ‘A few. “Last chance”, our man says. He keeps saying that over and over again. “Last chance”.’

  ‘Last chance for what?’

  ‘To save her perhaps. When she is in the telephone booth, that’s the last chance to save her. I think that’s what he means.’

  ‘Haven’t they managed to chop the beam on his legs.’

  ‘Slipped my mind to tell you. They are not going to chop off the beam. They are building another tunnel to pull him out head first.’

  ‘How long is that going to take?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  26

  Miss Laila, Armed and Dangerous

  MUKUNDAN HAD ANTICIPATED the fuel stop but for the development to become an opportunity, a string of simple events needs to occur in the next few minutes. If Jamal leaves the petrol station a free man, he will reach the Beard Squad trap near Vasad Tollbooth in about thirty minutes, with the girl. Then it’s over.

  As Mukundan’s car and the Sumo wait on the shoulder of the highway, just ahead of the petrol station, there are dense streams of vehicles lumbering on. The petrol station is tiny and rustic even though Ahmedabad is not very far. Here, there are only two operable tanks – one for petrol and the other for diesel. And there are two unequal queues of patient vehicles. The petrol line is short and brisk but the diesel line is long, and slow, because of the trucks. The Indica is in the diesel queue. It waits behind a water tanker, a truck and a red Omni van. There are several vehicles behind the Indica, which presents a complication. The car is effectively stranded in the queue. If the girl goes to the restroom, leaving Jamal alone, Mukundan can take over the vehicle but he would not be able to quit the line immediately because there is no space to turn around. The Indica has to wait for the vehicles in front to finish fuelling.

  The squat office of the station is set a few metres away from the fuel tanks. On its wall is a large sign that says ‘PCO. Calls within India, and international’. At the bottom of the sign is the word ‘Toilet’ and a long red arrow. The toilets are probably located somewhere behind the office, a thirty-second walk perhaps from the Indica. ‘Make her want to pee,’ Mukundan implores the gods. It is a reasonable prayer because she has not had an opportunity to take a toilet break for hours. But then he is not so sure if she must set out immediately. It will take Jamal at least ten minutes to refuel. If she leaves the car now, she will return before he refills the tank.

  The water tanker that was fuelling heads out and a giant truck moves up the line to take its place. The red Omni van inches ahead, followed by the Indica, and the whole queue, which is steadily getting longer and has extended into the highway, moves a few metres.

  He begins to feel that the girl has decided to control her bladder. Maybe she is terrified of public toilets, especially in a tiny, dim place that appears to be the haunt of truck drivers. Or, maybe she is debating the matter in her head.

  The giant truck leaves, it is now the turn of the red Omni van, which should not take too long. Next up is the blue Indica in which there is some movement.

  The passenger door opens and the girl steps out. She opens the rear door, grabs her dupatta and walks to the office booth. There she talks to an attendant, probably asking for firm directions to the toilet. She disappears behind the building. She is gone. Mukundan’s phone rings. The Sumo is excited.

  Jamal is finally alone in the car.

  He is yawning as he waits for the red van in front of him to move. It would not be wise for the men in the Sumo to take him now even if Jamal co-operates and comes quietly. Too many eyes. A man in the queue to refuel deserting his idling car and leaving in the company of four burly men would be too conspicuous. Also, what becomes of the car? If it is abandoned in the queue, there would be chaos. It would probably be a bomb scare. There would be too much attention.

  ‘We’ve to wait for Jamal to finish fuelling,’ Mukundan says.

  ‘The girl will return by that time,’ Sumo’s ringleader says.

  ‘We have to delay the girl.’

  The attendant shuts the fuel tank of the Omni van and the driver gives a wad of notes into his hands. And waits for the change. And waits. Finally, he leaves. The Indica moves up. As the attendant opens the fuel tank and thrusts the nozzle into it, Jamal steps out and stretches. All through the journey, Jamal has never been shifty, he has never looked at the world around him with even a hint of fear or suspicion, except once perhaps, when he was urinating on the wayside. The refuelling takes a while, he is probably tanking up. He thinks he is going a long way from here. He is, in a way, but not as he planned.

  The girl may appear any moment. Mukundan gets out of his car and heads in the direction of the toilet. If he meets her on the way, he will pretend to be an acquaintance. Every man knows enough about a girl for a brief forgettable chat. That would delay her by at least a minute, maybe more. Before he can reach the office booth, he sees the attendant removing the nozzle from the fuel tank. Jamal gets into the car and drives around the fuel pumps. And he parks by the side of the station’s exit. He is still within the premises of the station, but on the very edge. The way he is parked, the car will be in full view of the girl when she emerges from the toilet, which is probably not more than fifty metres away.

  Mukundan walks to the Indica. All four windows are open. Jamal, who is sweating, is drumming the steering wheel and does not notice Mukundan standing at the door.

  ‘Can you move your car, sir?’ he says.

  ‘What happened?’ Jamal says. His voice is deep and strong, and he speaks with respect that almost feels like kindness.

  ‘A huge fuel tanker is coming, sir, and we are clearing the way.’

  ‘I’ll take just a minute,’ Jamal says. ‘My friend has gone to the toilet. She will be back any minute.’

  Mukundan scans the man. There is no sign of firearms on his body. He looks harmless, which he probably is not. The back seat has his luggage and water bottles. And a new Spider-Man toy in its case.

  ‘I’m only following the orders of my boss, sir. The tanker is going to enter from here. It will be reversing and it will stand exactly here. It is so huge, I can’t tell you. I think it is so big it might float on water. You can park right there,’ Mukundan says, leading him into the shoulder of the highway. ‘You see that white Sumo, sir? You see that WagonR in front of the Sumo? You park right there, just in front of the WagonR. You’ll be fine. The cops don’t mind.’

  ‘Cops,’ Jamal says and laughs. ‘They don’t mind anything.’

  Jamal peeps through the window and surveys the driveway behind him, looking for the girl. He shakes his head and chuckles, probably at the whole history of women who have taken too long to return from the bathroom. And he drives out of the petrol station and into the shoulder of the highway. He passes the Sumo and the WagonR, and parks in the spot Mukundan has recommended.

  Moments after the Indica leaves the petrol station, Mukundan sees the girl. She walks down a narrow path from the toilet. She does not look for the car. She heads to the squat office and enters a phone booth. This is perfect.

  Mukundan marches towards the Indica. As he passes the Sumo to his left, he does not stop or even throw a glance at the vehicle. Those men know what to do.

  He is going to fling open Jamal’s door, show him his service revolver, which would persuade him to crawl over to the back seat. In that time, the four men from the Sumo will enter the Indica and flank Jamal. Mukundan will drive. Jamal abducted, the girl left on the highway.

  Mukundan is only metres away from the Indica. He hears the Sumo’s doors opening behind him.

  27

  Laila

  MOTHER HAS BEEN muttering all evening. Often, she looks at the telephone on the stool and sends a rebuke. The sun has long gone down, but Laila has not called.

  Laila had strictly asked Mother not to ever call Jamal on his mobile phone, but she could not help it.
She called, but his phone is switched off. Maybe there is something wrong with his phone. He has probably dropped it in coffee, or Laila would have called from his phone. But even if his phone is dead, there would be so many telephone booths on the highway. Aisha concedes that it is a bit mean of Laila not to call. What must Mother do? She is on the floor, her legs stretched, watching TV. Aisha and her three younger sisters are in various places of the room staring at the TV, but no one is really following the story.

  It is not easy for Mother to rise but she has done it a dozen times in the past thirty minutes. She goes once again to the phone, lifts the receiver and quickly puts it down. She has been checking if the phone is working. Aisha feels that Laila must be dialling home exactly when Mother lifts the receiver.

  When Mother slowly returns to the floor, the phone, finally, rings. The girls charge.

  Aisha is the first to reach it.

  ‘Aisha, my angel,’ Laila says.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘I just didn’t have the chance, my lovely doll.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  Mother snatches the receiver and screams, ‘Couldn’t you call?’

  Aisha can hear the faint voice of Laila say, ‘I just called, didn’t I?’

  ‘Why so late?’

  ‘Should I be calling home every hour?’

  ‘Have you reached Nashik?’

  There is a pause, just for a moment, and Aisha’s heart sinks.

  ‘Yes,’ Laila says. That’s a lie, Aisha knows.

  ‘I hear Gujarati. Some people in the background are speaking in Gujarati,’ Mother says. ‘Why do I hear Gujarati in Nashik?’

  ‘Don’t drive me mad.’

  Mother asks a dozen questions about useless things – about where she kept the electricity bill, whether the telephone bill has been paid, whether the school fees have been paid. It occurs to Aisha for the first time that Laila and Mother have nothing at all to talk about.

  Aisha has been spot-jogging, waiting for her turn to speak to Laila. For a moment she tries to understand the scene in the house. Three excited girls standing in line behind mother-hen waiting for a chance to speak to a nineteen-year-old girl, who takes care of all of them. Aisha is not sure if this is a happy moment or sad.

  28

  Damodarbhai

  THE LIGHTS GO off in the banquet hall, there is a hush, then applause as a beam of light appears. Bill Gates, in a black suit, looks as though the spotlight is hurting his eyes, but that is just how he looks.

  Against the receding ovation, he says, ‘Thank you, thank you, I’m delighted to be here in Delhi. I thank all of you on behalf of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.’ From there he gets duller.

  When he ends his short speech, there is more applause, and all the lights in the banquet hall come on. He begins to walk down the room towards the other end. His audience parts along the middle and makes an aisle for him. ‘So biblical,’ he mutters, but nobody gets it.

  A flock of bright bridal saris flank him and he poses for pictures, holding the waists of two of them, but he is disorientated for a moment when he suspects they might be men. He realizes they are eunuchs whom his own Foundation funds to survive those who are not eunuchs. When he resumes his walk, he looks a moment longer than he needs to at every woman who greets him. He stops often as people extend a hand towards him and state with deliberate clarity a name, organization and a project.

  ‘I’m working on portable diagnostic tool for waterborne diseases.’

  ‘That’s so lovely.’

  ‘I’m working on a one-dollar phone.’

  ‘Keep in touch.’

  ‘I’ve made a paper microscope.’

  ‘I thought that’s already in the market.’

  As Gates glides along the NGO guard of honour, the line of selfless inventors ends and a longer file of fieldworkers begins. They introduce themselves as maladies. ‘Malaria’; ‘Dengue’; ‘Malnutrition in girls’.

  Soon the parted audience merges and he floats to a corner escorted by friends. There is wine and murmurs. As is his habit, he catches words in the air and searches for a pattern, a dominant theme. It is all about Damodarbhai, naturally. They hate him here. The man is going to make it very hard for NGOs to get foreign funding. That’s what everyone is talking about. Damodarbhai wants to break the back of the social sector. At various times, he has described the type of people in this room as ‘frauds, misery miners, misfits in a talented world, fronts of Christian evangelists, CIA’s donkeys’. What he wishes to destroy is left activism, but he is not going to make it look that obvious. He would have a go at everyone who receives alms from white people.

  Hopefully, Damodarbhai would make a distinction between dubious trust funds of deceased capitalists, like the Ford Foundation, and the responsible philanthropy of live capitalists. Gates looks fiercely at his wine glass. He has a meeting with the new king of India in a few weeks.

  29

  Miss Laila, Armed and Dangerous

  EVERYTHING IS AS before, almost. Mukundan is in the WagonR, driving alone. Somewhere ahead on the highway is the little blue Indica with the couple inside, racing towards doom. But he is not tailing them any more. The Gypsy has taken over.

  Outside the petrol station, as things turned out, he was a few seconds too late. He was about ten metres away from Jamal’s car when he heard the sounds of the Sumo’s doors open and shut. He could almost feel the Bureau men behind him. In a matter of seconds they would have taken control of the Indica and driven away. But there was a screech of tyres. The Gypsy veered off the highway and stopped beside them. Six cops in plain clothes emerged. They were from the Beard Squad. They had got wind of the operation. They asked Mukundan and the other Bureau officers to back off and get into their cars, but the Bureau stood its ground. There was a bit of shoving of chests among the men but Mukundan stayed out of the scuffle.

  Jamal peeped out of the car window. He might have sensed that at least some of the men in the quarrel were cops because cops often look like cops. In fact, some cops look like cops only when they are in civilian clothes. But how was Jamal to guess that the fight concerned him, and that what he was witnessing was a stand-off between the Subsidiary Intelligence Bureau and the Beard Squad over when he must be abducted.

  The men then decided to keep it low. They argued, almost in mutters but not whispers. Cops find whispering too deferential.

  The leader of the Gypsy dispatch was a man with very powerful shoulders and whose head was shaven, surely for religious reasons, like penance after a murder. He said, calmly, ‘We need the girl, too. And we need them to be together when we take them.’

  ‘Why?’ the Sumo’s leader asked.

  ‘Gods want it that way.’

  ‘My boss wants the girl to be left out.’

  ‘The Gujarat police wants the girl, and that’s all that matters considering where you are standing. Just get into your cars. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Why do you need the girl?’ Mukundan asked, with no hostility.

  ‘Look, it’s coming from very, very high up. Actually, this is beyond the police and the Bureau. Just get the hint, and leave. We need the girl. And what do you think she is, anyway? Mother Teresa? She is in with them.’

  Mukundan weighed his options. He could walk up to the Indica and point a gun at Jamal. That would have forced everyone to go with the flow. But one of the Beards called Boss and that left Mukundan with no choice but to follow orders. Boss called his phone and let out a string of expletives. It was not clear though if Boss was abusing him or the Beards.

  ‘Sir, I don’t know how they got to know.’

  ‘You were too late,’ Boss said.

  ‘Sir, the situation is that the target is ten metres away. The girl is in the toilet. Ten seconds and we can still be off with the man. The girl will never know. We can fend off these cops if you ask us to.’

  ‘Those bastards will get the girl anyway. They really want the girl. Just get back. Do as
they say. Get back.’

  The eleven men stood around, not sure of their next move. Someone began to smoke. Minutes passed. The girl emerged from the petrol station, looking for Jamal. He yelled from the car, ‘Here,’ and waved. In-between Jamal and the girl was a mob of men, their imminent abductors. The girl walked through them, her head bent. She was carrying bananas and water. In seconds, the Indica was gone. This girl, what an unlucky creature she is.

  HE CAN SEE the high tin roof of the tollbooth. There are four booths, two on either side of the road. In one of the queues, the Gypsy is almost brushing the bumper of Jamal’s Indica. Behind the Gypsy is the Sumo, followed by Mukundan’s car. It is a long line to the tollbooth but it is a brisk line. As the vehicles ahead pay and leave, Jamal inches closer and closer towards the final moments of his freedom. Through the windscreens of the two cars ahead of him, Mukundan can see the contours of the couple. They are quiet. How much can two people talk. But they must, they must say everything they wish to say to each other, and they must say it all in the next few seconds.

  WHEN THE INDICA finally reaches the booth, Jamal’s hand stretches out with cash but no one takes it. Three men in civilian clothes emerge from the booth, enter the vehicle through the rear doors and settle in the back seat. They may have shown a gun or just said ‘drive’ or whatever it is that cops say in such situations. The car moves. The Gypsy keeps a tight distance, securing the rear. An unmarked Qualis, idling a few metres ahead of the tollbooth, comes alive and leads the hijacked car into the shoulder of the highway and into a narrow deserted dark lane. Here, Jamal and the girl are transferred to the Qualis.

  The girl, as she is held by the neck and arm, looks terrified. She screams. She looks at Jamal for clarity. He is quiet. It appears that he has an idea who the men are, and what is going on. In a minute, the Qualis is back on the highway. Mukundan’s assignment is over, but he follows the abduction.