Can You See Me Now?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  TRISHA SAKHLECHA

  Can You See Me Now?

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  ALIA

  SABAH

  ALIA

  ALIA

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  ALIA

  SABAH

  ALIA

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  SABAH

  ALIA

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  SABAH

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  SABAH

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  SABAH

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  SABAH

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  SABAH

  ALIA

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  SABAH

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  SABAH

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  ALIA

  SABAH

  ALIA

  SABAH

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  ALIA

  SABAH

  ALIA

  SABAH

  ALIA

  ALIA

  SABAH

  SABAH

  ALIA

  SABAH

  SABAH

  SABAH

  ALIA

  ALIA

  SABAH

  SABAH

  SABAH

  ALIA

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For my parents

  PROLOGUE

  Look closely.

  Can you see them? They’re like fireflies. Shimmering, dazzling, buzzing with promise and confidence, plaid skirts hiked impossibly high, ties askew, shirtsleeves rolled up to show off matching friendship bracelets on slender wrists.

  Take it in.

  Watch how the other girls trail after them, hoping some of their magic will rub off. Watch how the boys pretend not to notice them. Watch how they indulge their audience for a minute before returning to their private little world.

  Oh yes, they know you’re watching.

  Keep looking. Watch how the one at the centre throws her head back when she laughs, how she adjusts her hijab, the silk sliding off curls that want to run wild. Notice how the one on her right rolls her eyes then takes her friend’s arm, their bodies naturally in sync, matching each other step for step. Look, finally, at the third girl – the timid one; look how she picks up pace, moves closer, tries to flick her hair and move her hips the way they do.

  Look closely. The beauty. The intimacy. The possibilities. Together they’re dynamite.

  Remember this moment.

  Remember what it was like before.

  Because by the end of the year, this trio, this friendship, will no longer exist. They’ll burn out, quick and bright, the way fireflies do, and leave darkness in their wake.

  One girl dead, one lost and one on the run.

  Bound together by a secret that will haunt them forever, and a crime they will never escape.

  ALIA

  I stand in the shadows and watch the last few members of the audience settle in. The lights have been dimmed but the mid-morning sun filtering through the windows is enough to illuminate the auditorium. It’s packed, nearly every seat occupied by graduates and their professors.

  I shiver. Even though it’s nearly November, the air con is turned on and the thin chanderi sari I’m wearing provides little warmth. I realize I’m standing directly underneath a vent and take a few steps to the right until I’m practically engulfed by the thick velvet curtains.

  I can hear my staff in the background, talking in low murmurs. They know not to speak to me before a speech.

  I run through the talking points in my head one final time, then I go into the news app on my phone and hit refresh. I reread the message my husband sent me this morning before his flight to New York. I scroll through my emails. Twitter. Instagram. WhatsApp.

  Everyone has a different response to nerves. Some people take deep breaths, go still, and tap into an inner space of calm and reflection.

  Me, I’ve never been that person. I’m the eccentric method actor before a premiere. My breathing becomes shallow. My heart rate speeds up. My mind races. I fidget. I’m used to this so I know that it’s not until I’m out there, mic in hand, my skin warm under the spotlight, that the anxiety will melt away and a false confidence will take its place.

  I’ll step into character.

  But I can sense an edge to my usual dread today, an irrational foreboding that has crawled under my skin and wrapped itself around my chest.

  I look around even though I know my team has already swept the auditorium. I see my personal protection officer standing a few feet to my right, hand resting casually on his hip, cradling his holster. I can’t see him, but I know the second PPO will be standing in an almost identical position in the wings across the stage. The two additional PPOs that my chief of staff, Omar, insisted I bring along are standing at the back of the hall keeping an eye on the audience. With three months to go until the general election, every precaution is warranted, every bizarre security measure necessary.

  I flex my fingers and turn to look at Omar on my left. I follow his eyes to the stage where a young woman is introducing me.

  ‘. . . here she is. Women and Child Development Minister, senior member of the INP, India Today Youth Icon of the Year and the woman who is changing the face of Indian politics, Alia Sharma.’

  I hand Omar my phone and take a deep breath. I remind myself why I do this. I put on my well-practised smile, warm, welcoming but not too wide. It’s important to get my face just right.

  I give it a few seconds before I step out of the wings.

  The applause as I walk onto the stage is deafening and amidst that roar, my heart stills. I feel the muscles in my spine unclench. My shoulders relax.

  They love me.

  They will love me.

  The secret to capturing an audience? Striking the right balance. You have to come across as confident but humble, charming but honest, persuasive but relaxed. It’s a tightrope act, and not an easy one, but on the few occasions that you do get it right, the result is spectacular. I can tell halfway through the speech that today, I’ve got it right. The audience is buzzing with energy, and I’m bouncing off them, the dynamic so alive, so charged that it feels almost hypnotic.

  ‘I want all the women here today to know that you can have a future in the Indian National Party. I want you to know –’

  I am so focused, so engrossed that I almost don’t notice when Omar appears next to me and places a handwritten note on the podium.

  Almost.

  I glance at it. Four words, barely a sentence.

  I swear my heart stops, just for a second, and I’m convinced I can’t go on. All I can hear is the blood swishing in my ears. I take one shaky breath, then another. I look at the note again, hoping desperately that I read it wrong.

  I didn’t.

  I flip the note over. I push down the lump that has lodged itself in my throat. I blink away the tears that are threatening to spill over. I do what I always do, what I must do in order to survive. I compartmentalize and I carry on. There will be time for myself later. Right now, I have a job to do.

  I have a responsibility.

  ‘I want you to know,’ I continue shakily, ‘that if you decide to seek party membership, you will be welcomed and supported. And, for those of you who are elected, we will make
sure the parliament offices and assemblies you work in are the modern, equal, safe workplaces that we all have every right to expect.’

  I dismount the mic from its holder. It seems impossible that my legs have the strength to carry me, yet here I am, walking to the centre of the stage.

  There is a beat or two of complete silence as I try to remember what to say next. I can practically feel the audience quivering with anticipation.

  ‘But if there’s one thing I want you all to take away from this talk, it’s this: I am not someone who expected to have the life, the career, the choices that I have now. I didn’t have a political legacy or a trust fund to rely on. My story is one of struggle, of hard work, of tenacity.’

  I pause, letting my words echo through the auditorium.

  ‘I am here because I sat in an extremely uncomfortable chair, in an office lined with leather-covered books, listening to a man tell me there was only so much I could do, only so far I could go, not because I wasn’t good enough or smart enough or determined enough. No. I wouldn’t make it, he said, because I was a woman. A woman.’

  I look around the auditorium, I take a few steps forward and then I begin wrapping up my speech, the panic rising through me too sharp to ignore anymore.

  I need to get off this stage.

  Here is what I say:

  ‘I am here because I sat in that chair and I decided that I was going to prove that man, and every other man who has ever said those words to any woman, wrong. I am here because I decided, right then, that I was going to spend every single day fighting for the millions of women who have been told they are second-class citizens. I am here because I worked for it. I am here because I earned it.

  ‘So remember this: I am a wife and a daughter-in-law. I am a patriot. I am a feminist. At thirty-one, I am the youngest cabinet minister in our government. And yes, I am a woman. I am a woman and I have the life I was told I couldn’t have. So can you. So. Can. You.’

  Here is what I don’t say:

  I am not who you think I am.

  I am a liar.

  ALIA

  We are on the move in less than five minutes. Omar fills me in as we slice through the chronic Delhi traffic – heart attack; there will be a state funeral later in the week but the body has been flown to the ancestral residence to allow politicians and party workers to pay tribute. I draw in a deep breath and turn to stare out of the window while Omar continues talking. There are whispers about an emergency election for party president, but no news yet if Faraz is in the running for the position.

  ‘I saw him just last night,’ I murmur and Omar pauses.

  ‘I’m sorry, I –’ He hesitates, takes a breath. ‘He didn’t suffer.’

  I nod, the conversation from last night still fresh in my mind. I’d dropped in unannounced after a particularly gruelling day at the constituency and even though it was close to midnight, Javed Uncle had welcomed me in with a wide smile. With the general election fast approaching, he knew I was stressed about my nomination. He had reassured me with a quick squeeze of my shoulder and a reminder that with the full weight of the alliance behind me, I had nothing to worry about. We’d scheduled Sunday lunch at the hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant that he loved.

  ‘The media will be expecting a comment,’ Omar says, startling me out of my thoughts.

  I lean back into the cushioned leather seat. I open the window and close my eyes.

  ‘Write something up,’ I say.

  Javed Qureshi, my mentor, my ally, my friend, is gone.

  The drive to the Qureshi estate takes just over an hour. I roll up the window and take my sunglasses off as we exit the highway. I have avoided this region for the last fifteen years and I am surprised to see how much it has changed. Gone is the bumpy gravel road that had sent us into fits of giggles as girls. The dense forest that used to flank the road has been cut down to reveal acres of fields, shimmering golden in the late afternoon sun. In the distance, I can see the derelict water tank that had held particular fascination back then.

  The driver slows down as we approach the final turn leading to the house. I am prepared for a smattering of party karyakartas and media but the crowds take my breath away. The road is a blur of white as hundreds of supporters in white kurta pyjamas and skullcaps spill over from the pavement onto the road. In the makeshift parking area to our left, I can count at least a dozen TV vans. There’s armed police all around and cordons have been set up to keep the crowds under control.

  It’s all very different from the last time I rushed here, a lifetime ago, when the only mourners allowed in were a handful of schoolgirls.

  We honk our way through and I hand the driver my ID as we approach the first cordon.

  ‘WCD Ministry. Madam’s in the car,’ he says, holding up my ID.

  The policeman peeps in and nods to me in the back seat. ‘Namaste, madam.’

  He jots down the registration number and waves us through. The lane is packed with cars, and we inch along towards the wrought-iron gates where a second cordon has been set up. The forest I remember so clearly from that winter lines the curved driveway, the trees tall and gnarled, the underbrush a tangle of leaves and ivy, threatening to take over the narrow road.

  I catch glimpses of the house as it reveals itself in snatches through the trees and suddenly I am fifteen again, squashed up next to Noor and Sabah in the back seat of an Ambassador. Just the thought of their names, always uttered together in a single breath, brings them back to me. Noor’s kohl-rimmed eyes, Sabah’s throaty laugh, the identical bracelets they wore, and the heady intoxicating smell of the perfume they both claimed to have stolen from the other – Obsession.

  Noor.

  Sabah.

  And lurking somewhere in the shadows, me.

  We stop at the wrought-iron gates and I climb out of the car, stretching myself as discreetly as I can manage. I step through the metal detectors while Omar signs us in. At first glance, the house looks exactly as it did fifteen years ago – overwhelming in its scale and opulence – but as my eyes linger over the building, I realize it is shrouded in neglect. The family has spent hardly any time here since that winter and it occurs to me that it must have been even more painful for them to return here after everything. All I was hiding from was a year’s worth of memories; they had a lifetime’s worth to contend with.

  I circle the fountain, dry and covered in moss, and climb up the short flight of steps. Inside, I hesitate for a moment, bracing myself, before I turn left and go straight into the living room.

  That’s when it hits me. The room, which is big enough to hold a few hundred people, has been cleared of all furniture. A clear-glass coffin rests in the centre. A large picture of Javed Uncle from his last campaign has been propped up next to it. I lean on the door frame, my legs refusing to move further, my heart rejecting what my brain already knows. I wipe the tears away and take a breath to steady myself. I make my way over to the coffin, walking past groups of men, and bow down to pay my respects. I could not stomach looking at a dead body as a teenager and I can’t do it now. I barely glance inside the glass box at the body that’s been wrapped up in white muslin before I step back.

  This is not how I want to remember him.

  I spot Faraz and the family lined up a few feet from me and I head over to them instead. Faraz is standing there immobile, hands folded in front of him as people murmur their condolences and move on. It’s only when I am standing opposite him that I notice the tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Faraz,’ I say. I’m not sure if he hears me or registers my presence.

  ‘Faraz,’ I repeat, placing my hands on his. It’s a bold gesture, one that I know will send ripples through the political circuit, but Faraz and I go back a long way. Grief, I’ve realized, binds you to people in a way that joy never can.

  My touch sparks something in him and as his eyes focus in on me, I can no longer hold back the sobs. He pulls me into a hug.

  ‘Alia, he’s gone,’ he whispers
, his words heavy, weighed down. ‘He’s really gone.’

  It had hit Faraz the hardest. He had pulled me aside at the funeral to ask me about some detail, something so minor that I can’t even remember it now. He had been obsessed with the specifics – he wanted to know everything from the colour of her dress to what time we snuck out – almost as if by piecing together the exact chain of events that night, he could change what had happened. I should never have left the city, I should have been there, I should have protected her, he had screamed.

  I told him over and over again that it wasn’t his fault.

  That she had walked into that party on her own.

  That he couldn’t have done anything to stop what happened next.

  There was so much that I didn’t know back then. So much that I still don’t know. But I have often wondered if my conviction that day came from knowing, deep down, that if I looked at the chain of responsibility, I’d find that it started with me.

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  Everyone always assumes that having lived in London my whole life, I would’ve found life in Delhi quite mellow, but the truth is, it was the opposite. Put a bunch of bored, overprivileged teenagers in a school with rules that are more repressive than a fascist regime and you’ll get more scandal and gossip in an hour than in an entire season of reality TV.

  The memories from that time shine so bright, with such vivid clarity and detail that they almost feel false. It was my first day at Wescott, and while first days are bad enough for most people, for me, being the new girl held a special horror.

  The headmistress had sent me off with a timetable and vague directions to the classroom in a building that felt more like a multi-level concrete labyrinth than a high school.

  I was terrified, so naturally, I acted blasé.

  I went off, quite purposefully at first, certain that she had told me to turn right, go down the long corridor that connected all the buildings, which for some reason, they liked to call blocks, and then turn –

  I looked around at the identical grey buildings. I was lost. I tried to search my brain for the rest of her instructions as groups of students walked past me in all directions, the clamour of their voices making it impossible for me to focus.