THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN

by MADHAV MATHUR

  ‘Someone is dumping toxic refuse out in the open? In a pond?’ Guru’s question only drew a miserable look from Mukherjee that confirmed his worst fears. ‘Arre sir, this is worse than we thought. We must tell Akram sir immediately.’

  ‘You tell him. This shit could hit a lot of fans.’

  ‘No way, sir. You’re his direct junior, you do it.’ Guru was in no mood to be in the vicinity of Akram when he heard this news. Akram was known to shoot the messenger.

  The content of the reports grew throughout the day. More information kept streaming in and we received a call almost every half an hour from an excited Shahnaz, our only other cohort, to celebrate and laugh about how we’d struck a chord for discord this time. She also warned us about how things were going to get a lot rougher for us.

  We didn’t care. We were finally doing something that meant more than a monthly paycheck to make bills and buy Gouda with.

  ‘You’d better watch out. They’re definitely going to try and get you this time. By hook or by crook.’

  ‘I suppose they already are …’ Abhay tried comforting himself as he watched the news reports flooding the air waves.

  His favourite anchor was back with a full report. Dhwani Sinha was in her element. This time she had viewer responses and a story to tell, a much larger story than the one she started the day with.

  ‘Both cars were stolen last night and the police have been looking for them ever since. They belong to the owner of the Royal Bharat Chemical Company. Mr Amit Chopra and to Mr H.P. Shukla, Chairman of the Board for Emissions and Industrial Regulation Controls.

  ‘At about 6.45 a.m. both the cars were found right at this spot after we and the police received anonymous phone calls declaring their whereabouts. As you can see in the pictures on the screen, the cars had been vandalized. Large quantities of toxic sludge have been poured on the back seat. The police have found a dead rat in a perforated box on the front seat and a package containing photographs showing the dumping of the toxic waste found on the back seat, out in the open, poisoning fields and drinking water sources in villages near Aurangabad and Chiplun.

  ‘Police investigations have confirmed a large quantity of the same sludge being dumped in the outskirts of Mumbai at the Royal Bharat Chemical Company plant. Connections between Mr H.P. Shukla and Mr Amit Chopra are also being investigated further, given that the BEIRC is in charge of ensuring the safe treatment and responsible disposal of all waste materials produced by factories, industrial plants and even workshops. Neither of them was available for comment.

  ‘A search is on to find out the identity of the Anarchists who seem to have dominated the news with their ground-breaking and extreme activities in the recent past.

  ‘We’ve received numerous emails and SMSs from viewers all over the world commending the work of the group, praising them for their brave efforts.’

  She did an entire feature on the villages too. A few angry farmers spoke about the pipes and the waste that was poisoning their livestock and fields. The expletives flew unabashedly. Just like they should.

  ‘Good job! Great job! These beeps should be brought to book, these bloody beeps should pay for our cattle and the damage to our fields! At least someone has decided to teach these beep beep beeps a lesson. Good for them!’

  Amongst all the other specialists, covering issues like wars and political occurrences, the channel now had its own Anarchist specialist.

  19. THE KHAKI CONFESSIONAL

  The room was reverberating with raised voices. Something heavy was being banged repeatedly on a table to underscore whatever was being said. Whoever was inside, they thought, was getting a sound tongue-lashing and would not come out the same person.

  ‘How can they speak to him like that?’ Guru quivered.

  ‘We’re in for it now, Guru. We’re in for it, for sure,’ Mukherjee said with a deep and not entirely unfounded sense of resignation.

  ‘I heard him on the phone this morning, with his bosses; he didn’t have much to say then …’ Guru said as he looked at the closed door once again.

  ‘It’s the law, what else is new? Big evil monkey clubs smaller monkey and the chain continues from there …’ Mukherjee philosophized.

  ‘Don’t you mean big fish eats small fish and so on?’

  ‘Whatever … I feel like a prize Rohu right now.’

  The door banged open and Akram stepped out.

  ‘And here comes the frying pan,’ Mukherjee completed.

  ‘Walk,’ ordered Akram, striding down the corridor with a look on his face that could have been anger or anguish.

  He didn’t break his gait to talk to his juniors, they began walking behind him, much like a shoal.

  ‘It is not possible that these hooligans have left us nothing,’ he asserted.

  His strides were bigger than usual. It was as though he was lunging forth with every step.

  Mukherjee and Guru hid their fear and followed him down the corridor.

  ‘Mukherjee, I want a full report on these guys, everything that we have until now, from their modus operandi to the name of the animal whose dung they used, I want everything.’

  ‘Right sir, I have something ready, just compiling the last bits of information from the grand show yesterday.’

  ‘Grand show?’ Akram thundered as he skidded to a halt. ‘Grand show? Mukherjee, I know the way your mind works. I will not have it.’

  They stopped right where they were, huddling in the corridor.

  ‘I can’t fathom your appreciation for them,’ Akram hissed, trying to keep his voice low, trying to avoid being overheard by the busybody orderlies and other officials milling about in the halls of the Police Headquarters. ‘These people are misfits, miscreants out to make our lives hell. Thus far they have had tremendous success in that endeavour of theirs. But I will not have my own officers appreciating and celebrating their exploits.’ He underscored that last sentence with forceful jabs in the air in front of Mukherjee’s face.

  Guru stared at Mukherjee, expecting an outburst, an open war of words where the master and the disciple would have it out once and for all. After all, it was not long ago that he and Mukherjee had discussed the same subject. They both believed in what the Anarchists had done. Not only had they tipped off the police, they had made a statement and captured the airwaves. People were talking about the Anarchists and their exploits. People were asking questions to find out more about all that was wrong.

  A fuming Akram and his two juniors blocked off the corridor.

  ‘Do you understand?’ Akram barked.

  Mukherjee and Guru didn’t need an identification manual to recognize a man who had been pushed to the brink. The brave policeman was fast giving way to a trembling, warbling child, begging for support.

  ‘We’ll get them, sir. We will catch them. Don’t worry,’ Mukherjee stated, quietly defusing the situation as Guru watched admiringly.

  Akram wiped his face with a handkerchief. Then with not the greatest subtlety, went on to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  ‘We have to.’ He firmed up and began his lunging stride down the hall and out of the building. ‘This is what we have to do. Listen carefully …’

  They pored over the reports for hours together. After some time they needed a separate table to just keep the empty glasses of tea. They called Dhwani Sinha of NDTV to see if they could get their hands on her tapes from the ‘dung incident’ and the coverage on the vandalized cars from the day before. The tapes arrived. The three of them sat and viewed them all, over and over again. They lost track of time. They watched the ‘puppet show’ and furiously prepared notes about all that they saw.

  The investigations meandered into many a dead end. For instance Guru thought he had made a breakthrough when he saw the puppeteer’s hands trembling.

  ‘He’s a smoker! Ha ha! He’s a smoker!’ He got up from his chair in celebration.

  Akram looked at him and deadpanned. ‘Yes! We’ve got him now! Mukherjee go round up all four of
Mumbai’s smokers while Guru prepares the questions for them.’

  Guru sat down, dejected. They ploughed on.

  ‘You know why people like these guys?’ a grim Akram blurted out.

  ‘Why sir?’ Guru was startled by his question.

  ‘Because they’re shaming whoever the common man would like to.’

  ‘True,’ Mukherjee added victoriously as his boss continued.

  ‘They are bajaoing smug merchants, patrons of prostitutes, corrupt big shots. Criminals all of them.’

  ‘That’s our job, isn’t it?’ asked Guru.

  ‘It is. And that’s why they’re wrong, there’s a system in place.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re finding it hard to convince yourself about getting these guys?’ Mukherjee almost had his hand up to ask for permission for his earnest question.

  ‘Shut up. There’s no such thing. I’d be damned if I started sympathizing with those vandals,’ insisted Akram.

  ‘Maybe they’re like you and me, only they got tired of waiting. Lost faith in the system perhaps,’ Mukherjee suggested.

  Guru looked at him and then at Akram who had his head in his hands. Sooner or later, one did realize that the ‘system’ was not entirely conducive to action and progress. Mukherjee and he had accepted that a long time ago, and so had Akram, he suspected. But would he admit it?

  ‘After all that you’ve seen, sir, haven’t you lost faith in the system?’ Guru bravely ventured.

  ‘No …’ Akram pondered aloud. ‘No,’ he reaffirmed. ‘So what if everyone is on the take. So what if people at every level, in every nook and cranny of the system have found a way to mould it and bend it for their benefit. So what?’

  ‘Yeah … so what?’ Mukherjee and Guru chimed in.

  ‘I know where I stand. I know what I am. That’s all that counts. That’s all that matters,’ Akram said with resolve. The juniors in the room looked at him as he said this. They looked up to him.

  ‘I admire you for that, sir.’ Mukherjee was unequivocal. Guru nodded his agreement.

  ‘I won’t shoot them. I don’t think I can.’ Akram crumbled in the face of their admiration.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that, sir,’ Mukherjee said.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ Akram said solemnly. ‘Let’s all hope.’

  20. RETRIBUTION

  At the other end of the city, in a darker place, a different kind of deal was being struck, once again, in the name of the Anarchists.

  Amit Chopra, the tainted chemical baron, sat in his living room a dejected man. He had been waiting for a call all evening. His whisky glass remained on the table before him, untouched. The dim lighting accentuated his pensive mood. His mobile phone lay beside the glass and he waited for that familiar sound like an expectant father.

  It rang like it had never rung before, he thought.

  Hurriedly he reached for the contraption and put it to his ear with a flip that would have put Usain Bolt to shame.

  The voice at the other end was hoarse.

  ‘Tell me,’ it beckoned.

  ‘H-Hello?’

  ‘Yes, tell me …’

  ‘Sir, this is Chopra.’

  ‘I called you, I know who you are. What? Is that sludge rotting your brain too?’

  ‘Um … I don’t have much time to talk. I want you to find someone for me and I want you to … to kill them.’ Mr Chopra was nervous.

  ‘Really! Who gave you the idea that I could provide such a service?’

  ‘Friends of mine.’

  ‘No friend of mine would want me to meet a person like me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m dangerous. I’ll do it. Who is it that you want?’

  ‘I don’t know who he or she or they are. I want you to catch and kill the Anarchists.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Anarchists. The people who did this to me. They’re running wild all over Mumbai. I want you to find them and make them pay for what they did.’

  ‘You have any idea who your enemies might be?’

  ‘I have a few. But none of them have the ability or guts to pull something like this off.’ Chopra began grinding his teeth. ‘They’ve cut it all off. No one will work with me any more,’ he snivelled.

  ‘Keep to the point. I don’t have the patience for this kind of whining.’

  ‘My entire export arm is in jeopardy. No one wants to work with the polluting third world bastard company any more …’

  ‘Keep to the point. What am I? Your Duvidha Hotline?’

  ‘I just want you to know that it is extremely important that whoever brought me here goes to a much worse place.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  ‘Money is not an issue.’

  ‘That’s the first nice thing I’ve heard you say in this entire conversation.’

  ‘Mr Basu, I assure you, if you kill them for me, I will make you a very rich man.’

  ‘Good. Consider it done.’

  ‘Can I call you on this number to check or …’

  ‘This is not my number. I don’t have a number. No one calls me, I will call you whenever there is need.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now go cry into your imported whisky.’

  ‘How do you know I’m …?’

  Basu cut the phone. The annoying monotone was all that greeted Mr Chopra now.

  The hit men with a new hit were across the street, peering into Chopra’s apartment with a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Let’s go, Sarkar.’

  ‘This seems to be quite a promising one, right Basuji?’

  ‘Without a doubt. Look at this fucker’s house. He’s loaded.’

  21. FROM THE STREET UP

  They sat around a garish coffee table, digging into big round biscuits with tea. With a distinctive snarl in his voice, the small man declared, ‘There were two of them, I hate them, and I want to snap their little necks. One was tall and dark, the other was about as tall as me, and he had a bit of a paunch.’

  Basu was already leaning in with all his attention focused on the words coming out of the man’s mouth.

  ‘When did they come here?’ Basu asked.

  ‘A few weeks ago. They seemed like nice boys, from nice homes. Little did I know …’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Why the sudden interest in those two?’ The pimp was curious.

  ‘They are the flavour of the month.’ Sarkar perked up.

  ‘I see, I see … may I ask who is funding this great cause?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘This can’t be a one-way street, Basu. You have to meet me halfway.’

  ‘I would … I just think you’re a sleazy piece of shit pimp.’

  As the comment hit home, the man’s mouth twisted and the consternation grew evident on his face. Seeing the effect the words had on him, Basu and Sarkar both broke out in a fit of outrageously loud laughter.

  ‘I’m only kidding Bhai sahib, you’re not a sleazy piece of shit at all … You’re my brother, my partner, my …’

  ‘Enough.’ The flesh merchant raised his hand stopping them.

  ‘Okay, tell me more,’ Basu coaxed.

  ‘Their names were Shakaal and … Murli, what was the other fucker’s name?’

  ‘I think it was Ajeet, boss.’

  ‘Right! Ajeet and Shakaal. Sons of rabies-infected bitches.’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Basu tried to calm him down.

  ‘Bring them to me.’

  ‘What? Out of the question.’

  ‘Listen, those ass-maggots have cost me a lot of business. Too many of my regulars seem to have lost their drive mysteriously after their little escapade. And how will this dhandha run without clients?’

  ‘What about the shame? There is also that, no?’ Basu quipped. He was enjoying this. There was more money to be made.

  ‘Arre, that too. The fucking shame. I myself am walking around with a bloody green mug. Look at this … look at my n
eck, the fucking thing is still green. I’m like a bloody fern!’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Basu said, thoughtfully. Hearing the man swear and whine, Basu had his own personal Fort Knox growing brick by brick in his mind. The man may think he looked like a fern, but to Basu he was a luscious little money plant.

  ‘Stop your hemming and hawing and promise me that you will bring them to me first …’

  ‘Listen. It’s not that simple …’

  ‘Does the other party want you to kill them or capture them?’ the pimp interrupted him.

  ‘Kill.’

  ‘There! So all you need to do is catch them for me, bring them here and I will do the killing. See … simple.’

  ‘But that raises the question of some kind of compensation for our troubles. After all, you see Sarkar is a growing boy,’ Basu said coyly, winking.

  ‘What is money between us? Don’t worry. I will pay you. I will pay you well. Just bring them to me.’

  Basu triumphantly scratched his privates as he named his price. ‘I’ll do it for ten.’

  ‘Er, no … you’ll do it for seven.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Eight …’

  ‘Eight and a half …’

  ‘Done. Eight and a half for the Anarchists of Mumbai. Bring both those nosey cocksuckers to me. If there are more in their gang bring them too.’

  The two famous hit men charged out of the brothel with even greater determination to get the Anarchists.

  ‘These boys are proving to be more profitable than any other racket I’ve known,’ Sarkar said, as they drove off.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Basu grinned, mentally counting the money they were making on the Anarchists.

  The grimy underbelly of the city was home to them; they had nestled in its dirty womb since they were boys. They knew every corner, every doorway and every creep behind it. They decided to go about asking them all for more information about their prize prey. Sure enough, wherever they went they were offered more to bring the ‘nice young boys’ back to that establishment.