THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN

by MADHAV MATHUR

  ‘So I told the waiter that this is not a Merlot,’ one diamond-encrusted lady crowed, ‘and he turns to me with the most unbelievable audacity and says, “Merlot hai, ma’am, Pinot Merlot”.’ With her eyes widening to make the point, she concluded, ‘The daft fellow got confused between a Pinot and a Merlot, can you believe that?’ Her friends burst out into gales of laughter at the waiter’s ignorance.

  ‘And then I told Veer to just sell the goddam horse, so he did! Now his daughter doesn’t have a horse but she’s still sleeping with that jockey!’ said one ex-maharaja chuckling at his friend’s misfortune.

  High society got higher as the corks flew about. Until someone finally remembered why they had all gathered at the hotel that night.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please settle down at your tables, we’ll begin the show in a few moments,’ the microphone controller snuck in rather merrily.

  What the horse-trading Pinot-pushers didn’t know is that during their pre-party party, Abhay had paid the dressing rooms a visit. He had made his way through security as one of their own. His penchant for military movies surfaced yet again as he chose to be Agent Rathore of RAW, inspecting the premises for explosives and other potentially harmful devices. The beautiful people stepped aside for his search, during which he went on to make a few adjustments to the clothing for the evening. He was armed with a pair of scissors for accentuating snips and a dash of itching powder, for flavour.

  I went back up near the control room, ready with my part of the ruse.

  The show started with some catchy music filling up the room. It comprised the generic house-trance sounds that were difficult to tell apart. The beat kicked in prominently and one by one, the models made their way on to the ramp.

  They cat-walked and mock-snarled, enticing the crowd. They took their sex appeal and amplified it by subtly toying with their tongues and fixing their dresses. Some of them scratched themselves as they walked by. The scratching and constant adjustment, along with Abhay’s creative contributions to the lingerie, led to an embarrassing situation for three models who had walked out together. Their excuses for bras fell to the floor. One was flung sideways out into the audience. The crowd laughed and whistles matched every beat of the soundtrack. Wahid Farookh was on his feet, livid. His voice rose with every slipping bra, with every scratching model.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘What does she think she’s doing throwing that top off! She’ll never work with anyone I know ever again.’

  ‘Why are all their dresses coming apart?’

  And finally, ‘Stop the fucking show!’

  The flashbulb police had a field day with the sights and sounds at the famous venue.

  The models started itching and scratching on stage, at first mildly, but then building up into a violent outbreak. Some embarrassed models ran back to the dressing rooms in tears. Others who tried to brave the itching were visibly uncomfortable.

  ‘What the hell is going on? What’s wrong with my models?’

  Wahid Farookh whipped out his phone and started yelling at someone. ‘What is going on back there? Why are the clothes falling off? Don’t tell me you don’t know because I will fire you immediately … This is my life’s work here you fool! What the fuck is wrong with you people?’

  The scratching made the dresses move and they continued to come loose because of Abhay’s fashionable improvisations. The snips grew larger as the models scratched. Flashes went off insanely as shocked owners held on to skirts that started to fall apart and straps that gave way as they ran back, out of sight.

  The lights went out.

  A projection rose up behind the ramp. This is what it said in bold:

  Slide 1:

  ‘WE REJECT YOUR DESIGNS’

  Slide 2:

  ‘NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO LOOK LIKE’

  Slide 3:

  ‘WELCOME TO THE REAL POSTMODERN STYLE FAKERS’

  Slide 4:

  ‘YOUR ANARCHISTS LOVE YOU DAHLING!’

  They lined us all up for preliminary questioning. I was smooth. Our site had been set up well before. Googling us would yield a selection of eclectic articles compiled from Wikipedia and our own research. The only thing missing was a Facebook group dedicated to us.

  We walked out triumphantly after completing our assault on the fuming fashion world. I could have sworn I heard a Reservoir Dogs theme kick in, Abhay had his Michael Madsen look on his face as we started to cross the road, a car drove by really fast in front of us and splashed muddy water all over our suits. The Reservoir Dogs theme and looks came to a cruel halt, as the car sped away.

  We were in the dirt now. We were cleaning it up.

  24. SOME REUNIONS ARE BEST AVOIDED

  After the fashion show incident, we had to cut back on activities for a while as the security in and around our neighbourhood had increased to near siege levels. There were policemen on patrol till late in the night.

  However, the news reports did not die. Dhwani Sinha had regular stories covering our actions. Shahnaz, too, played dedications to the Anarchists on her show quite regularly.

  So it was quite an achievement that we were able to pull off the paint-bomb attack. For weeks Abhay and I had taken turns to travel the line and time the journey so that we could time the paint attack just right. Assembling everything without drawing attention had been excruciating. But we had done it in the end.

  I stood at the platform watching the chaos mount, congratulating myself.

  All the attention and efforts of the police and medics were focused in a central area.

  ‘It’s only paint,’ the medics reassured the weeping men and women.

  They had a guy appointed to just run around telling everyone that they were going to be fine. I walked away slowly, to make my way out of the station, smoking my cigarette. I called Abhay on his cell to let him know that he could pick me up from the western exit.

  ‘I’ll be near the movie theatre entrance in about five minutes. Can you make it there by then?’

  ‘I can. But I won’t,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I kept walking, looking over my shoulder every now and then.

  ‘I won’t,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Why? Is someone following you? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all good.’

  ‘Well then what is it?’

  ‘We’re Anarchists, Pranav. We listen to no one.’

  ‘Right, see you there in a bit, jackass.’

  ‘See you.’ He chuckled as we cut the phone.

  The media had also arrived at the site. Interviews had begun and the usual confusion was being recorded in high definition. I smiled to myself and turned to exit the station, when I heard a very familiar voice from behind me. It had stayed with me ever since the first time I had heard it.

  ‘You aren’t going to colour me eh, Anarchist?’

  It was the murderer in the Fiat who had threatened me once. I turned around and looked him in the eye. My heart was on a treadmill to hell.

  ‘Excuse me? I’m sorry you’ve got the wrong guy …’

  Before I finished that sentence, I felt a hard knock on my head. A flash of blinding pain and I fell to my knees with the force of the blow. Touching the spot where I had been hit I realized it was moist. Then it happened again.

  Everything faded into black.

  25. THE SILO

  I woke up coughing, choking. There were fumes of some kind rising up around me. I could smell sewage, as if it were climbing slowly into my lungs. My arms were tied behind my back. I lay on the floor, my back to the wall. I could taste blood in my mouth. I looked around the room and in the corner there lay another man. He too was bound like me.

  I could barely speak. The room was blurry to my eyes. I struggled to gain my senses.

  Only one thought was clear. They had caught us. They had tracked us down.

  Either that or this was a terrible nightmare. I sat up in the dank room. The smell grew worse as I l
ooked around for signs of my captors. The man beside me didn’t even stir as I moaned in pain.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I groaned out to him, thankful that I had someone else here with me.

  There was no answer. He was still unconscious.

  I looked around at the room we were in. The walls were discoloured. There was a spattering of red on some sections. There were cracks all over the place. The floor was filthy. Was it oil that lay in front of me? I dared not touch it or go closer.

  I remembered the men at the railway station. I remembered the knock on my head. Suddenly, I was aware of it again. Suddenly, it hurt all over again.

  ‘I said are you okay?’ I cried in desperation.

  Even though I couldn’t see the man’s face, I knew it was not Abhay. But the fear persisted … Did they get him too? What about Shahnaz?

  Wherever they are, I hope they are luckier than me, I thought.

  I tried standing up but didn’t succeed. My legs ached and shivered uncontrollably when I tried to pull myself up. I gave up and fell back on the floor, taking deep breaths.

  My heart stopped when I heard the door open. Three distinct bars of metal and then it creaked forward. The theatrical opening was punctuated by scraping footsteps on a grimy floor. I looked up and saw his feet first; I panned up slowly, straining my neck.

  ‘I’m not just a tie-shirt,’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m not just a tie-shirt,’ he laughed.

  I could see his face now. Spit flew out from between his dirty teeth as he said those words repeatedly.

  ‘Remember? That’s all you said, as we carried your fat ass out of the station.’

  ‘How’s the head now that we’ve used it like a cricket ball?’ his half-witted sidekick quipped as he strolled in behind Basu.

  ‘How is the Anarchist’s concussion?’ they taunted me.

  Ignoring them I tried getting up again, only to discover more parts of my body that were in pain, broken I was convinced. What had this sadistic human garbage done to me?

  The man bent over me and sneered. ‘I don’t like your face when it’s like this … Are you scowling at me?’

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ I asked as I struggled against the bonds on my wrists.

  ‘Why does anyone do anything?’

  ‘You haven’t even got the right guy. I’m not an anarchist. Whoever is paying you will be disappointed.’ I could barely whisper. Each breath of mine hurt my throat.

  The playful captors continued. How happy they were to see me up. How pleased they were to see me trying to escape my bonds, to call for help.

  ‘I’m sure that at least one of you is an Anarchist.’

  He stepped back and pulled out a gun from his pants, displaying his cowboy-like prowess by flipping it around in circles around his fat pointing finger. He then proceeded to straighten his moustache with the tip of the weapon. The other guy just watched with a perverse curiosity. He looked like he was in awe of what his boss was doing. I pitied them both. I pitied the crumbling wall. He fired two shots into it.

  ‘Are you even listening to us, son? Tell us who you really are or …’

  The squeaky guy spoke from behind him.

  ‘This is interesting, boss. I wonder if our social worker man here ever thought he would be caught.’ He walked up to me and peered into my eyes.

  ‘He’s too arrogant. Even now, all tied up and bleeding but look at that scowl. I’ll tell you the problem. He’s been loved too much by his mother. I bet she told you that you were special, right?’

  ‘I’m sure she did. She must have told him that everyone wants to hear from him, as she fed him gajar ka halwa with little crushed almonds on top of it.’ Basu picked up where Sarkar left off.

  ‘Fucking moron. Your mother was wrong. Why did you poke your nose in Mr Chopra’s business?’

  ‘I don’t know who or what you’re talking about. Let me go, I am not who you’re looking for.’

  ‘We’ll just see about that.’ He was getting aggravated.

  I could see he was enjoying my anguish. The grin on his face widened. The other guy stepped forward and kicked me in my stomach. I couldn’t recognize the animal howl that broke free from my throat as my body felt like it had burst into flames below my chest.

  ‘Tell us who you are. Are you not the fucking Anarchist running around, throwing shit at fuckers, painting their sad faces green? Tell us or this guy is going to feel a nice sting inside his pink and fluffy guts.’

  I looked at my cellmate. I stared at the spattering on the walls. The doorway behind them was a few feet away. It seemed like a mile. What would I not give to see what was outside?

  I looked back at his ugly mug and said nothing.

  He kicked me again. The black leather shoes dug in deep. I could feel bile in my gullet, bubbling up slowly; a terrible taste filled my mouth.

  He clicked his gun and stepped back.

  ‘We’ve spent too much time trying to wake you fuckers up.’

  ‘What kind of tough guys, what kind of big-time perpetrators can’t take a hit on the head?’ they teased.

  ‘I’m tired of waiting. I need an answer for my people quickly. In any case they are on their way, they’ll recognize you for sure. It would be best if you tell me who you are instead of prolonging your misery.’

  I spat to my left. There wasn’t enough strength in me to throw what I had to far enough. It fell on my shoulder and I looked at it, disgusted.

  Basu’s angry rant gave way to a calm, teacher-like manner.

  He walked up and knelt in front of me.

  ‘I am going to shoot this man now. Unless you tell me who you are and confess to being the Anarchists. Both of you.’

  He got up and moved up to the guy next to me.

  They picked him up and dragged him closer to me. He was limp and seemed to be out cold. I just stared back at them blankly. If only they hadn’t been enjoying themselves so much.

  ‘I hate to say this, but I’m going to count to seven. If I don’t hear from you by then, I will shoot him, first in the stomach, then in his feet and finally in the head.’

  ‘Why seven boss?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, we don’t have time for ten.’

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ I said.

  ‘One!’

  ‘Two!’

  The rubber had met the road for a second time. Things had taken a turn for the worse.

  I am here because of my actions alone, I thought to myself. This is not going to happen. I can’t let this happen.

  ‘Three!’

  ‘Four!’

  ‘Shoot him now, boss, this chap doesn’t seem to care.’

  ‘Let him go,’ I cried.

  ‘Five! Two more and this place will soon smell a lot worse!’

  Tears trickled down my face. I have to do the right thing; I can’t let this man die.

  ‘Stop it. Stop. He’s not an Anarchist. I am.’

  Their faces lit up as I said those words.

  ‘Say that again! Say that again!’

  ‘I am the Anarchist, you piece of shit. I am. Not this man.’

  He looked like a bowler after taking a hat-trick. Pumping his fists and clapping loudly.

  ‘It worked!’

  I looked at him as he said this.

  ‘I fucked you over! I fucked you over!’

  What the hell were these two idiots talking about?

  What happened next will remain with me as one of the worst moments in my life, for time immemorial. Forever.

  He stopped laughing and rejoicing and in a matter of two seconds, emptied as many bullets from his pistol into the man lying not more than a few inches away from me.

  I closed my eyes and prayed that what was happening was just my imagination. That it was some kind of cruel joke.

  It was not.

  ‘That’s twice boss. You’ve killed this fucker twice now!’

  They had tricked me. The other man in the room had been dead long before they had caught and tortured me.


  ‘We’ve got it on tape! We’ve got you saying it on tape! You’re the Anarchist!’

  I pulled myself up to the other man and tugged on his arm. It was as limp as before.

  I had never been around guns. In fact the only time someone had threatened me, it had been the same creeps. Now they had me at their mercy again. There were no policemen down the road. There was no one around.

  ‘I’m going to make a lot of money off you, son.’

  ‘The right people will pay through their noses for a shot at you.’

  ‘They all got what they deserved,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they did … and now it’s your turn.’

  With that he got up, scratching his belly. The smug look of contentment on his face turned to a genuine smile as he pulled out his gun again and walked towards me.

  I didn’t flinch. If this is what you get for trying to change things, then so be it. If this is my destiny, to be killed by this murderer, then so be it. I have done what I wanted to. I have done most of what I wanted to. Wait. There’s a lot more that I want to do. There’s a lot more. He kicked the dirty puddle of liquid that lay in front of me. It flew up and made its mark on my face and shirt as I closed my eyes.

  I didn’t show him any weakness. I didn’t beg for mercy. I didn’t ask for ‘forgiveness’. He put the gun on my right temple and whispered in my left ear. I will never forget that whiff of rotting teeth and rancid food from his breath. I will never forget those words.

  ‘You should have stayed in your tower, with your silk tie and your expensive pen. I am the one who makes the changes around here. No one but I, no one can do anything in this town, but me.’

  I looked back at him angrily, our eyes piercing each other’s.

  ‘It’s mine. It’s all mine,’ he continued calmly. ‘You’re going to pay when the chemical seth’s people and my friends from good old Mariana get here.’

  He hit me hard on my head with the butt of his gun and walked away.