He shot at the poor dead man next to me, again.
‘That’s three times!’ he exclaimed.
I heard the triple lock come back on.
Would I die with honour? Was this honour?
The wait inside the room gave me some time to think. It gave me time to assess the things I had done. The earlier part of my life juxtaposed against what it was now painted an interesting picture. Some would say I was a failure who lost his way. Others might applaud me for my direction. I wished that the latter would be a more common sentiment.
For myself, I had no complaints. I could not have gone with the flow. I didn’t.
There had been a huge circus around each of our activities. Each of our protests had been viewed, dissected and played up adequately. Were they really worthy? Was there real merit in what we had done or was it just the fodder that a country with multiple twenty-four-hour news channels needed to survive?
I’d like to believe there was more that we achieved. I know we were more than fillers. I know we had reached out to a lot of people, largely the younger generation, people who saw what they were being fed, and by whom.
From all my readings and understanding of anarchist movements, one thing was clear: a lot of them didn’t succeed because there was not much to tie their actions together and present them as a clear ideology, for the appreciation and understanding of someone who was not a part of the movement, yet. A lot of them had been violent. A lot of them had killed for causes. Many had leaders, like the original granddaddy of all anarchists–Bakunin. Bakunin was a man with strong beliefs and immense passion for them. He was not a great writer or conveyor of ideas though. From what I had read of his work, he seemed to be writing against a system passionately. Tearing down certain pillars of thought. He didn’t sum it all up for me. He didn’t tell me what he wanted in the long run. He wanted change and improvement. He didn’t tell me what exactly that would entail.
Marx on the other hand was his rival and opposite. He was hungry for power and had a grip on all the factors that would get him that. He seemed to be a visionary with a clear plan.
The results of their actions and the total that their lives had led to indicated that one approach was perhaps better. Not the ideology or concept itself, but the presentation and accumulation of ideas. They were both revolutionaries. Was I a revolutionary? I couldn’t dream of comparing myself to Marx and Bakunin. I had only just begun my assault on a generation of decadence. There was a long way to go and much to learn and understand. There were many roads left to walk. It all had to start again.
I got up from my paan-spit-drenched corner. My blood mixed with the orange remains of someone’s leafy discharge. I tried freeing my arms. The coarse ropes dug into my skin.
This had to be done.
I fought through and managed to get some leeway. There was hope under my skin. I moved more violently now. I could hear voices outside. They were probably laughing about how they had fooled me into my ‘confession’ by threatening to kill a dead man. I wanted to put an end to their incessant, insipid drivel. I wanted to get outside and pick up that gun he had hit me with and make him swallow it in pieces.
They had been careless. The knots were loose. I just hadn’t noticed it before. I freed my hands.
Never before had I been so aware of my limbs. I rubbed the life back into my hands that burned as the blood flowed into them. I tentatively tried taking a few steps, testing my legs. A few minutes of stumbling around and I could feel my stability returning. I was still dizzy but grateful for the ability to walk. I stood on the side that the door opened. The trick had worked in numerous movies, perhaps it would work for me too. I stood pressed up against the wall, waiting for one of the two goons to walk in. The wait was agonizing.
I pictured myself lunging towards him, knocking him to the ground and then choking the life out of him with the ropes he had bound me with.
‘See yourself winning. See yourself scoring a goal and then do it,’ my eighth-grade football coach’s voice rang in my head. For some reason this felt like a game of football to me. Tackle the forward, get the ball and go shoot the other guy.
I heard the whistle blow. It had three clangs that I no longer feared.
The door swung forward and he said: ‘They’re on their way, princess.’
Before he realized that I had freed myself, I leapt on him from behind and pushed his balding head into the wall. He was shaken by the collision and held his head. I took the opportunity and learnt that my greatest weapon in this scenario would be the wall itself. I held him by his collar and banged him into the wall again. This was Sarkar, of ‘Basu and Sarkar’ fame. There was no sign of the boss. He tried calling out to him. My rage knew no bounds and my fists would not stop as I tried each and every way to hurt him. I kicked him in his stomach as he had done to me. I punched him in his face only to step back in agony myself. I kicked him in the face. He was now buckling under the beating, he was writhing in pain. I saw him reach for his pants, to pull out his gun. I hit him in the back and pulled out the gun myself. I never thought I was capable of such an assault. I wiped my mouth and looked down at the whimpering bastard before me.
‘Where’s your fucking cellphone?’
I reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. He tried lifting himself up. I decided the only way to ensure that he would not move would be to stand on his back. That calmed him down a bit. He seemed to be at rest now.
‘I’ll show you motherfuckers what I can do.’ I was a different person.
I jumped on his back and tripped as I came down. The impact would still have hurt. The style of the battering didn’t matter; all I wanted was to put this man in a world of pain, and then some.
His cries were getting louder. I pulled off his shoes and removed his filthy socks. One of them was not enough to stuff his enormous mouth. I put both of them in and tied his mouth with the rope they had tied me with. I then tied his hands behind him and left him the way they had kept me after kicking him in his face another time. I locked the door behind me.
I found myself in a dark corridor. It looked like the inside of an abandoned grain silo. We must be far out of town I thought. I started walking towards the light.
I now had Sarkar’s gun and his cellphone. I put the phone on silent and made for the door.
I would never let anyone forget about the Amit Chopra incident. I would never let anyone forget about the SHB event. I would punish the pimps and their patrons some more. I would do more. I reached the large door and peered out through the tiny opening. He was walking right towards me up the small hill we were on. It was dry outside and I could see him through the swirls of rising dust. He was coming back to the silo.
I stepped back, checked the gun and pointed it towards the doorway, expecting him to walk through: my unsuspecting and hopefully hapless target. I heard a thump on the outside of the door and I saw his hirsute hand push it open. I took a deep breath and aimed my gun at him. He didn’t see me. He walked in and stopped. I think he sensed that something was amiss. Maybe the light from the outside had lit up my cold steely weapon. There was no time to wait. No time for an old Western-style shootout. I had the upper hand. I was the victim. I took the shot. Right in his thigh, then in his miserable shins. He shouted in pain as he fell to the ground, reaching for his gun. I ran forward and kicked him hard on his chin. He fell back and cried in agony. I kicked him in his wounded thigh.
Thank you Coach Chakravarty.
‘You can’t kill me! You can’t kill me!’ he shrieked.
‘Who wants to?’ I smiled.
I pulled him up and punched him repeatedly in his face, with all my might. It was like a mace after a while, my arm was numb and my fist was covered in blood. Was it all mine? No, of course not.
I took out his gun and kept it aside. I was not done with the rat.
‘Whose town is this, motherfucker?’ I yelled.
There was no answer. He could not speak. He just gnashed his teeth and tried t
o stop his eyes from rolling. I punched him again with all my strength. He fell back on the ground with a loud thud. On the floor he swayed from side to side, he clutched his leg.
He called out to Sarkar, abusing him.
‘He’s going to be a while.’ I took his phone away too.
He looked up at me, defeated, crying in pain.
‘Looks like a tie-shirt fucked you over.’
I pulled out Sarkar’s cellphone and put in a call to Abhay. I wondered where he was and if he was all right.
He answered the phone.
‘Brother,’ I said.
‘Pranav! Where the fuck are you? We’ve been looking all over for you.’
I assumed he meant Shahnaz and himself. Later, I would find out that my cautious Tamilian housemate had done more that just that.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine now. I was … it’s a long story. Come and get me.’
Pushing the door wide open, I stepped out from the silo. The bright sun warmed my face as I winced in the intensity of the glorious light.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at a grain silo near Chinchpokhli, I think. You’ll have to come and get me. I’m in no condition to make it out of here myself.’
‘We’ll be there in no time. Hang tight, man.’
‘They will come for you too. You’re going to pay.’ I turned and told Basu, who was now trying to drag himself towards me. Watching them inch dangerously close to me, I kicked his dirty hands away.
I sat outside on a boulder. Looking out towards the gate. Waiting for my friends to come for me.
I turned back every now and then, to keep an eye on the snake, coiling up behind me. I thought I’d have to be inhuman to be enjoying the sweet sounds of his distress.
I got up and walked back towards him. I looked down at him and asked him how he had found me. How did he know I was one of the Anarchists?
‘Tell me,’ I pressed on his hand with my foot, slowly increasing the weight, as he shouted.
‘We got a tip. We got a tip from the police.’
‘What? Don’t fucking lie …’
‘No. It’s the truth. Our guy told us that they suspected a particular locality, that they were watching people over there closely.’
‘And …?’
‘My partner and I were just following people randomly … we happened to follow you two days ago. You never leave the building that early … we just followed you and found out who you were.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Yes, unlucky coincidence.’
‘Fuckers …’ I pulled my foot off.
I could hear sirens in the distance.
What was going on?
I could now see a string of white Sumos racing towards the gates.
They screeched as they turned in, I waved out to them. This was it. One form of the game was over.
‘Even they know who you are now … even they know who you are!’ Basu laughed. ‘You’re going where I’m going,’ he said.
‘We’ll see about that.’ I sat down on the boulder and waited for them to drive up beside me.
They all stepped out together. Shahnaz, Abhay and Inspector Akram.
My friends came and hugged me. I could only tell them repeatedly that I was fine. They didn’t believe me.
‘What the hell happened?’
‘They caught me. They brought me here. It’s all a long, sick story.’
‘Well you’re a fucking hero.’
‘I’m not …’
I looked at Inspector Akram as he walked towards me.
‘You guys are a real pain in the ass,’ he said. ‘Are you all right, Pranav?’
‘I’m fine, sir, I’m fine.’
The troops ran into the silo, arresting a lame Basu and a gagged Sarkar.
‘I told them everything. We’re in trouble too.’ Abhay mentioned sheepishly.
‘I don’t care.’ I smiled as I sat reunited with my friends, watching the two goons being carried away by the authorities.
‘We’ll fix it,’ I said. ‘That’s what we do.’
I asked Akram and his men to wait around at the storage unit, for the people who had paid for our capture. I believe they were caught and brought to book too. We were whisked away well before.
26. MY FAVOURITE CELL
At least it wasn’t the first time I was in a cell. At least the smell was bearable. There were no corpses cramping my style. I sat alone on the rickety bench.
We had made the true big time in the past few months. We were all over the news. We were the Anarchists who had emerged victorious, capturing two of the Mumbai Police’s most wanted criminals.
Our actions had brought us punishments too. Those who were baying for our blood, all the egos we had trampled, sought their revenge. We were to be in the ‘protection and confines’ of the Mumbai Police for two years each. Destruction of public and private property was all they could throw at us. It was true, our radical actions had had some far-reaching consequences and we had upset enough people to have us locked up for some time. The companies sent their lawyers for our money. We got representation too.
I sat in my jail cell, reading the newspaper. There were reports of protests from all over the country in support of Pranav, Shahnaz and Abhay, the Anarchists of Mumbai.
I wondered if those two were reading the papers and enjoying their stay as much as I was.
The megalomaniac in me was appeased. The Anarchist felt a little satisfied. I constantly wondered how I could keep the ideas alive and push them more, even while I was in prison. We received hundreds of letters every day, most of them commending our actions, others aimed to continue the debate that we had started. We tried our best to answer them all. Some kids set up a website and came to us looking for blog-like posts. We gave them those too. Dhwani Sinha did a feature on us, with in-depth interviews with the ‘rebel TV executive’ Shahnaz and Abhay the ‘chemical engineer whose ingenious concoction had left many green in the face’.
The days went by and I started writing regularly again. I had befriended a few policemen. Mukherjee, Guru and Advani were great chaps. Akram too was a stern but solid man. He made sure we were looked after. I got a little desk moved in to aid me with my writing. It was removed after a month, when a senior minister objected to the ‘preferential treatment’ that we were receiving. It did not matter much. I continued with my pen and loose papers on the hard floor. The place was not very clean and the food was ridiculously bad. I tried my best to make the most of the time I had to serve. I dropped pounds like no one’s business, but I gained weight. This was the new heavy. I was the new heavy. My gait changed. I heard music when I walked again. Where the hell was I going? I had seven steps to pace up and down in my tiny cell. It was a victorious walk though. It was regal. Punk regal.
They caught the policeman who had ‘shared’ information with Basu and Sarkar. They were all given juicy sentences. Amit Chopra and the distinguished gentlemen from Mariana too had gotten themselves into a lot more trouble.
My parents visited every week. My mother didn’t really understand why I had done some of the things for which I was in jail. She wanted me to be at peace with myself and the world. I just told her that her ‘live and let live’ philosophy was more dangerous than mine. She differed again, but supported me all the same. There was no gajar ka halwa, but the cakes were amazing. And they weren’t seasonal. They were reluctantly proud of their famous son, my loving parents.
I even received a note from my old office out of the clear blue sky. It was not signed personally but I guessed who it was from. It was on the company letterhead with just these three words.
‘Keep selling, Pranav.’
One fateful Thursday I was told I had an important visitor. A respected book editor from a publishing house that I had been to before I began my life as an Anarchist wanted to meet with me. He brought with him a copy of the essays that I had shared with him.
Mr Malhotra seemed to be happy to see me.
‘It�
��s great to meet you again.’
‘Likewise,’ I said in my most businesslike tone.
‘My name is Malhotra …’
He seemed a bit uncomfortable and scrambled to adjust the papers in his hands as they started slipping out.
‘How can I help you? I was told you have been trying to see me for a while now.’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Kumar.’
‘Tell me.’
‘The thing is, well actually you see … the thing is we’d like you to write a book for us.’
‘You want me to write a book?’ I tried acting surprised.
‘Yes, we’d like you to write for us.’
I played along with glee.
‘And what would this book be about?’
‘Oh, it could be a collection of your essays. Your thoughts on what we have become and what we could be … as a society …’
‘That sounds more like social commentary, not really a story. Is there really a market for that?’
He smiled as he recognized our earlier conversation.
‘I know how I sounded then. I am sorry about that. I’m ashamed to be asking you now, given how dismissive I was when I first met you.’
‘I see. But I’m no historian or sociologist … where’s my credibility?’
Malhotra smiled as he leaned forward.
‘You know you aren’t the same person who came to me with the folder of essays. You were no one then. You hadn’t done anything, no one knew you, your thoughts weren’t of interest to anyone. But that is not the case today. You are somebody now. People want to hear what you have to say. You were brave enough to take on the system. That’s your credibility. That’s why I am here. To take your thoughts to the people who want to hear from you, who want to know you better. We want you to write about your experiences, we want you to share what it was like to do the things that you did. You have a voice now, you earned it. You are the Anarchist, and this is your chance to make people understand your message.’
I looked up at him, dropping the disinterested act.
THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN Page 14
