by Polly McGee
***
Gajrup stood in the doorframe, breathing fast and shallow, not knowing what he would find when he crossed the threshold. Outside, Lola’s face had given him a preview. Baj moved away from Malina as Gajrup knelt beside her, sweeping her once strong body, now diminished by death, into his arms. The sound of his sorrow rose up through his stomach into his chest, dug through his heart and poured out of his throat: a low moan that escalated to a guttural cry. Gajrup rocked Malina, howling with the pain of losing his wife and his son in one devastating, inexplicable cascade of events that could have, should have, would have been resolved.
Gajrup continued rocking his wife until the police and medics arrived. The police waited impatiently for Chatura to gently separate Gajrup from Malina’s body. They had a bag to fill. Gajrup refused to leave the room, clinging to the bed, singing prayers and sobbing as he sank into exhausted anguish. The police took the empty Solidol 50 container and short, routine statements from Lola and Baj, Gajrup, Poona and Chatura. The body should be released in a day or two so the funeral preparations could begin. For them, it was just another housewife suicide. The same daily Delhi soap opera, drama laced with discontent. More stretched resources being used up in a city where it seemed that escalating crime was only outnumbered by monkeys.
Chapter Nineteen
Old Foes
Yanki balanced on a low branch just above Rocky, taking tiny tightrope steps until she was just over his flank. Rocky was fast asleep. Yanki watched, imagining she could see the trail of invisible air travel in and out of his nostrils, the light whiskers on either side of his pinkish-brown nose quivering with the ebb and flow. With a kamikaze whoop, she gleefully leapt onto him. Yanki loved this game of ambush.
***
Rocky was not quite as keen on it, and by the time he had roused up in fright from his dreamtime, growling drowsily, she was back up the tree, performing a victory dance.
Rocky jumped as high as he could, barking and springing to the branch to take revenge, but missing it by a whisker. He gave up and started sniffing around for some food, ignoring his companion until she scampered down and joined him in the hunt for breakfast. As Yanki tried to dislodge a small green coconut that had become wedged under a fallen log, Rocky bounded up behind her and tossed her over it with his muzzle.
Revenge.
Yanki shook off the bits of dry foliage clinging to her pelt and scampered over to where Rocky was sitting, scratching his shoulder with his hind paw. She reached up and grabbed his collar and swung onto his neck, assuming her travel position. Play over, it was time for serious hunting and gathering. Rocky and Yanki had widened their territory in a concerted way, each day getting stronger and more confident. Together they flowed and ebbed, sniffing out food and water, marking new areas and building a complex web of signposts to demarcate the borders of their park life. The temple area was still their base, and behind it their den.
They had made it more comfortable together: Rocky had found a discarded hessian sack one day and dragged it back, making a little bed for himself. Yanki had scavenged various pieces of junk and refuse as entertainment. There were drink cans for Rocky to bat around with his nose, various coconuts and rocks to roll and chase, assorted sticks for tugging and chewing, and a pile of rotting marigold garlands from their neighbour Hanuman, slightly nibbled, then abandoned for an unknown future something. Their dog-and-monkey life in the park was ordered, bordering on domestic.
The monkeys were another story entirely. They were active and hostile, a guerrilla force to be avoided. Rocky and Yanki were vigilant in their protection of each other and rarely went far from eye or earshot. Occasionally, Rocky would find a discreet spot near the temple and watch the faithful humans come and go. He would sniff the air, looking and smelling for someone familiar. Yanki would watch him from a distance; she knew better than to ambush him at these times. She watched for the cues: his nose raised high, his head moving from side to side, his one ear pricked, his focus laser-like. When he was like this, she sat still, making sure the way was clear for his solitary seeking. After a while he would abandon his quest and return subdued to the hide, head hung down, jaunty tail at half-mast.
Today they could both smell something delicious in the air. The morning play had made them hungry. This particular smell was intoxicating: sweet, rotting and meaty all at the same time. Rocky’s legs fairly glided along the pathways as he set his nose on autopilot. A mound of overripe durian had been dumped at the perimeter of the park. The heady odour poured out of it like smoke from a genie’s lamp. Rocky and Yanki were at a fair gallop as they arrived at their destination ready to feast.
***
Behind the split spiky fruit, reared up on two legs, was Paksheet, his teeth bared and eyes wild. He had smelled Yanki coming, her familiar scent a top-note to the deep tenor of the durian spoils. And here she was, a garnish on top of his primary hatred: the dog.
***
Rocky felt Yanki start to tremble and his collar became tighter as her tiny hands gripped it in fear. The monkey in front of him paced from side to side, staring him in the eyes, locking his gaze, challenging him to make the first move. Rocky pulled his lips back, white teeth bared, sounding a low, constant growl.
Paksheet and Rocky circled the durian, their imminent violence symbolic of the broader internecine warfare being waged between the park’s inhabitants. This wasn’t a food fight; it was the conclusion to something started earlier that would only be complete when Paksheet controlled Kamla Nehru Ridge and Rocky and Yanki were dead.
Rocky wasn’t privy to Paksheet’s plan, or even aware of the death that had been visited upon the other dogs while he had been unconscious with his own post-fight injuries. Based on Yanki’s response alone, Rocky knew that at best this animal was a formidable foe and at worst a mortal danger.
Rocky had few options. He could run away. This was a good choice because it would get him and Yanki out of danger and Rocky as their micro pack leader was responsible for her welfare. But something about the menace and madness of Paksheet was provocative, and made Rocky want to stay and fight, to stake his claim. A split-second decision was needed.
***
The two men who had dropped off the durian bait came back from their lazy recess spent lolling against the council combat van. They were dressed in new camouflage uniforms, with the stiff, appliquéd logo of the New Delhi Municipal Council rubbing uncomfortably through rough cotton shirts. They stopped with some surprise. Neither of them expected the baited fruit to work, and yet here were three of the target victims obviously drawn to it. GRK had told them to bring back proof of the efficacy of his plans; he wanted some early trophies to validate his strategy to the media and citizens at large. And there they were, in an Indian standoff.
The council workers pointed their guns at the dog, the vicious-looking monkey and the strange little macaque. The runty monkey saw their arrival and screeched out a warning, pulling at the dog’s collar, breaking the deadlock of the dog versus monkey stare-down. The bigger monkey saw his opportunity to strike and leapt towards the dog. The workers almost forgot their mission, so transfixed were they with the free show. Should’ve put some rupees on it. They primed their weapons. A gun was fired and the big monkey fell to the ground mid-flight. A simultaneous shot from the second net gun bundled the odd couple dog and mini-monkey together, arms and legs arranged like pick-up sticks inside the nylon mesh.
The council workers looked at each other like big-game hunters bringing down a trophy. They had new faith in Gaurav’s plan, maybe he wasn’t such a crazy queer after all. The men dragged the bundles of raging fur to the van and threw them in. They weren’t sure what to do next – take them to the council or to Gaurav’s HQ, where he was working from home while his office was refitted. They strategically decided that they would drop them at HQ. The boss might have some rewards for them there that he could hand over. He was more likely to give them a favour when out of the view of others, they figured.
Like many at the southern end of the pecking order, the workers independently daydreamed of a promotion. For a fleeting fantasy moment, their scratchy shirts were replaced by the soft cotton button-down versions of the revered desk-bound bureaucrat. They imagined how the shiny vinyl of their new chairs would feel cool beneath their permanently resting buttocks.
The doors of the van slammed, ending their daydreaming. The diesel engine laboured into life, heaving the vehicle forward. Rocky, Yanki and Paksheet jolted and bumped inside their nets against the scuffed duco of the van’s metal floor. They were animal pinballs, ricocheting and occasionally colliding, reigniting screeches and howls of hatred and indignation – for each other and the situation. As the bumps and jolts lessened, the smell of fuel and hot rubber wafted up from the road. Horns of all tenors honked loudly, heralding the success of the council hunters. The captives and captors entered the throngs of pre-Diwali traffic choking the road into Civil Lines.
***
Smiling broadly, Gaurav put down his mobile. Those imbeciles who had been assigned to help him save the city from the monkey scourge had finally got something right. And the timing was perfect. Today was the day the pretty reporter from the New Delhi Times was arriving to do his profile for the weekend edition. He would be able to have a photoshoot holding his live trophies to the camera, showing the world that he, GRK, was about to become a hero to every citizen that ever trembled at the sight of a monkey or pariah dog.
Finally, it felt like the project was gaining some momentum after days of stasis and stalling and animal-rights activists getting all twisted up in their saris about the proposed enhanced extermination program. He felt like giving them all a dose of poisoned fruit. The negative publicity was not doing his image any good. Gaurav was secretly relieved that he had an opportunity to get his story out through Sita – he had styled it as an ‘intimate discussion’ in his own words. He thought about an angle or two. He could definitely talk about his compassion, his love of animals – why, he had lived with that badmash kutta of his wife’s for long enough. The citizens of New Delhi did not need to know about that part of the story, however.
He pulled a large photo in an elaborate frame from the back of a drawer and positioned it in a prominent spot. It was a picture of his former wife, her arms wrapped around the neck of her beloved pet. He blanched at even thinking of her as his ex-wife. That discussion was inevitable, but where there was silence, for Gaurav there was hope. He allowed himself another gaze at the photo. Her mouth was beautiful, wide open with suspended laughter. Precious little of that happiness or love had come his way recently. Gaurav inadvertently made a small growling noise as he looked away.
Nearby, he arranged some other photos of them on their wedding day that had been laid down flat. The pictures showed a happy couple, relaxed and casual on honeymoon in Goa. He would make sure that the photos were in the background of the photoshoot, to add depth and authenticity to his image and story.
Today the discussion would be a dance of near truths. Somehow Gaurav had to come across in print as married and respectable, yet still try to let Sita know he was single and available. Sita would be very useful to him in delivering his media strategy, and surely he was a catch for her. Gaurav would have to manage the situation carefully. Perhaps he could infer to Sita that his wife was dead; that way he could play a sympathy card, too – the handsome, young-widower role. He was fairly sure that his ex wasn’t reading anything other than fashion blogs and entertainment magazines, and if she saw the article, well it might send a message about how he felt about her abandoning him.
He nodded to the framed photos, confirming the genius of his plan. Gaurav checked his watch. Sita was scheduled to arrive at twelve-thirty pm. Fifteen minutes to go. His maid was setting up an impressive tiffin on the table for Sita’s arrival. Gaurav had repurposed a selection of the very best burfi and ladoo from Ghantewala in Chandni Chowk, gifted by one of the many fat cats that sought his influence. Diwali was a great time to be in local government. The sweets were displayed in their ornate boxes next to a large bouquet of fragrant, deep-crimson roses. He imagined himself handing a rose to Sita as she arrived, along with his best sultry stare. Gaurav glanced in the mirror and smiled – GRK was ready.
Chapter Twenty
Once Bitten
Sita swung from the handrail of the train. Her bag was slung across her front, containing the light and portable tools of her trade: a smart phone with camera and voice-recording app. Today was not Sita’s usual assignment. The puff profile stories for the weekend edition were a thing of her past. Working to Gaurav’s vanity, however, had been an inspired Trojan horse of serious reporting.
Sita was hoping to get some insight into who Gaurav really was, in the hope of understanding his apparently ridiculous strategic decision-making. He might just slip up in his chitchat and give her some real news. Where there are lies there’s hope, she figured. She was somewhat intrigued by the persona of GRK. She had dug deep, trawling for dirt on him and the Kamboj family. They were a classic Indian political lineage, generations of males working for the party – all except Gaurav. He’d been the absent black sheep until he’d turned up in his council role.
Sita had found little evidence of Gaurav during his father’s last political campaign. In the rare photos she’d unearthed, he was looking slightly useless off to the side of the shot. He appeared to be accompanied by a glamorous Bollywood-type companion, although there had been no sign of her in his recent PR forays. He was captioned as son and actor/businessman, with no indication as to what that business might have been. Gaurav’s father had a reputation as a head-kicker. He had won his last election by a landslide, using the traditional political attributes of brute-force coercion and offering development favours by all accounts. Sita wondered how good the relationship between father and son was. Had there been an estrangement before Gaurav’s recent emergence – and what did Shri Kamboj think of the current direction the enhanced animal-eradication program was taking. She couldn’t imagine his father sanctioning army dress-ups and phony guns. She was intrigued as to whether Gaurav had ambitions to be the next elected Kamboj, and this was all part of his stealth campaign – perhaps there was a scoop right there.
Sita pushed through the tide of women at her stop and rode the escalator into natural light. She emerged back at the Civil Lines metro station entrance where she had first met the reptilian Godboley and caught the beginning of her remarkable career break. It felt like a long time ago. There were no dogs lazing around in the dirt, sniffing idly for food this time. The New Delhi Municipal Council sign, so recently erected, was already covered with the daily grime of the city, and imaginatively defaced with graffiti.
Sita pulled up the GPS on her phone. According to the device, it was a shortish walk down the road to her destination. Gaurav lived quite close to Hastinapuri Estate it turned out – straight down Hastinapuri Marg at number 33. Sita decided to drop in and visit Poona on her way back from the interview. Having somewhere else to go would be a great excuse to keep the discussion with Gaurav tight and focused. She walked past the hospital, then the large gates of Hastinapuri Estate. The pollution clung to her like a suffocating veil. Diwali traffic was already swelling the lanes of vehicles; she was glad she had taken the metro rather than attempting to get there by road.
Gaurav’s house appeared to be a sprawling historic brick dwelling behind a locked gate with an intercom. It was imposing in an almost threatening way, and Sita was overcome with a strong desire to turn around and leave, to go and have chai with Aunty and gossip rather than be here.
She pressed the buzzer, and the gate clicked open. Sita’s feeling of uneasiness remained as she entered the compound. She took in the scope of the aging luxury. The trees, flowers and lawns softened the brutality of the austere architecture and made the place almost homely. Almost.
Sita had slipped off her sandals and was reaching to knock on the front door, when it opened and Gaurav stood before her. Outside of the context
of a stuffy press briefing, he looked very different. Gone was the Men in Black parodic outfit and ridiculous security detail; at home he was dressed in a simple white kurta and blue jeans with the cuffs turned up. Clean-shaven, hair immaculate, and a delicate but appealing smell of aftershave completed his Bollywood-billboard debonair.
‘Namaskar, Sita-ji, kaisee aap?’ Gaurav bowed slightly, handing Sita a single rose. His formality caught her off guard. The rose was beautiful – its perfume rich.
‘Sukriya, Gaurav.’
Gaurav led her into a large, light-filled sitting room. Cream leather couches surrounded a hand-carved teak coffee table, clearly antique. There was a lavish spread of sweets and the remainder of the roses in a cut crystal vase. Gaurav’s maid was hovering with the tea. He gestured to her to put it on the table and leave, and then motioned Sita to be seated. Sita’s surprise at the greeting and the flower was further reinforced by the understated tasteful elegance of the space they were in. Large windows revealed the lush and well-tended garden. Sita half expected a pair of Bambi-like deer to amble past flanked by a technicolour butterfly.
She continued to scan the room. More antique furniture was decorated with bowls, the walls hung with valuable prints and vintage masculine objects d’art. A beautiful brass Shiva was displayed on a suspended shelf, his form appearing to dance straight out of the wall. Large Kashmiri silk rugs covered most of the floor, with glimpses of marble visible between their delicate fringes. Another sturdy dresser, no doubt made of rare timber, had a clutch of photos in ornate frames: wedding pictures of Gaurav, some snaps with various celebrities and a couple of the mysterious woman from the press photos holding a dog.
Sita sat and took it all in. ‘This place is beautiful, Gaurav.’
He nodded in a statesmanlike way. ‘It comes with the job.’
Sita thought about her own bedroom in her parents’ cramped apartment. Next life, she was going to come back as a politician – or the son of one.
