More Bodies Will Fall

by Ankush Saikia

  Looking at the time he stuffed his things into the backpack, had a cup of tea and an analgesic tablet, then went down to settle his bill and arrange for a taxi. The taxi turned out to be a van again, and as they drove to the airport under blue skies and sunshine Arjun chatted with the driver and managed to get from him the going rates in lakhs for recruitment into the India Reserve battalions as riflemen or sub-inspectors. It was one of the few employment opportunities in this stagnant state, and everyone knew that a share of the money went straight to the top brass of the state government.

  At the airport there were Assam Rifles jawans milling about several olive-green mini-trucks, two of them with gunners atop at LMGs, wearing black wrap-around bandanas and old-style motorcycle goggles. There was a black Ambassador staff car and an SUV fitted with communications equipment and mobile jammers. Someone important was either coming into or going from the valley. Once inside, there were grim-faced police commandos who looked at his backpack suspiciously. Arjun got it scanned, checked in, then had one, and then a second, hot cup noodles from the only food stall around. He bought a woven Manipuri shawl from one of the handicraft shops at an inflated price for Rhea. Around him were a scattering of crew-cut army personnel going on leave, and Manipuri people of all ages, taking the most convenient route to the outer world.

  His hangover had eased a little after the food, and when he was allowed to enter the departure area he went into the smoking room to have a cigarette. Shortly after, his flight was announced. Walking out to the tarmac and towards the ATR aircraft, he looked around at the hills surrounding the valley. There was a bittersweet feeling at having to leave—who knew if he would ever be back? As he went up the boarding steps he remembered too late that he should have bought some of the local black rice from Mothers’ Market. Maybe that was something he could ask Baia to get him, he thought, and smiled just as he entered the aircraft; the airhostess smiled back at him.

  When the wheels left the runway he felt a sense of relief as well. He was away from the clutches of people like Khanna and Romeo—let them try to get to him now. He had a window seat on the right, and as the plane levelled out he looked down at the wide, green expanse of the valley with its fallow rice fields and towns, climbing up at the edges into the hill ranges. The sun glittered on the tin roofs and ponds, and the hills were a light green where there were clearings and dark green where there were forests. A few minutes later they were over those hills, which rolled gently into the horizon.

  Arjun eased his seat back slightly and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep but knew he wouldn’t. Fragments from the past two weeks crowded his mind: the soap cases in Amenla’s kitchen, Rohit Chaudhry trying to put together a drug deal in Delhi, Cooper Grant and his visits to Nagaland, Abbas telling him Tony Haokip’s history, Romeo and his pistol, the photo shown to him at Tamu of some strange man, the main street of Churachandpur town. And out of all of this, an outline began to emerge, or rather a sort of timeline of events. Was that what could have happened? He still had work to do in Delhi in that case.

  He looked out of the window again. On the ATR’s right wing the propeller was a smooth, white blur. Down below were the green undulating hills, here and there a winding dirt track, a scattering of tin-roofed huts, patches of jungle cleared for jhum cultivation. This was the reality of the land: small communities in far-off places, a handful of people at the margins of a nation, giving rise to people such as Khrienuo, Romeo, Tony Haokip, even Colonel Khanna or Abbas for that matter.

  The hills gradually began sloping down, and a vast, hazy plain area came into view, scattered clouds floating atop it. Looking down he saw what seemed to be a railway platform being constructed, and a raw track starting to wind up from the plains to the hills. It was probably Jiribam, the point where a train line from Silchar would climb up heading for Imphal. His Naga bureaucrat friend had once told him that many Manipuris had fled to Cachar when the Burmese had attacked in the early nineteenth century, and were welcomed by the king there; later they killed him and seized power. Once again he was reminded of Baia’s comment about looking at the world with jaded eyes. Life went on regardless of violence.

  The plane touched down at Guwahati airport about thirty minutes later. Arjun came out after collecting his backpack from the luggage carousel to a warm clear day that lifted his spirits. After a bit of negotiation, he got himself a taxi to take him to a hotel on GS Road. He told the driver that he had some problems with his phone and needed to make two urgent calls, and the young man handed over his phone which was held together by a rubber band. Arjun first called his daughter, telling her that he had reached Guwahati and would be back soon, and that he had got her something, and then called Mr Longkumer, telling him that he had met Tony Haokip in Manipur, and that he should be able to send him a final report soon.

  ‘Well done, Mr Arora,’ Amenla’s father said, ‘I knew you were the right person.’

  After two near-death experiences, Arjun reflected, he had earned that compliment.

  40

  GUWAHATI WAS A RICH CITY now, no more the slow and sleepy place from a part of Arjun’s disjointed childhood. Assam had more money now, and for politicians and contractors swindling Central funds in the hill states of the north-east and in the rest of Assam, Guwahati was a nice, anonymous location to both park and spend their money. The blocks of half-constructed flats on the bypass from the airport suggested where all the black money was congregating.

  The four-star hotel near Khanapara on the road running into the city had been built by a national hospitality chain. At any other time he would have felt a twinge of guilt looking at the tariffs, a remnant possibly from the austerity of his growing-up years, but after the grimy hotels he had endured in Dimapur and Nagaland he felt justified in his choice. Besides, Arjun knew that past the age of forty, certain comforts became necessary.

  He was taken up to a room on the fifth floor with a view of the sprawl to the north of the city and the low hills to the south. The first thing he did was switch on his cell phone and call Baia. She sounded pleased to hear from him, although that could have been his own imagination, and said she was free that evening and would be able to meet him at the hotel.

  ‘Were you able to get in touch with Romeo?’ she then asked him.

  He felt irritated at this quick change of topic, before remembering that he had called her from Imphal asking about the minister’s son.

  ‘No. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I haven’t, his number is still switched off. But I met someone today, a common friend, and she said Romeo left for Delhi day before.’

  The day before . . . that was the day Romeo had sent him to Moreh.

  ‘Anything important?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ he said.

  After he had hung up, he caught himself wondering if there had been anything more to Baia’s questions. He told himself to stop it—one proceeded on proof, not suspicion. She would be there by evening, so he had the day to himself. His phone had two missed calls from Ujjwal Negi. He decided to call him later in the day, and switched off the phone; it did feel good being off the grid.

  Arjun took a quick shower and put on his last clean T-shirt, then called the laundry service and had them take away all his clothes, except his jeans and a change of underwear, for delivery the next day. Then he went down to the swimming pool in the lawn behind the hotel. It was covered from all sides, and he was the only person there. The water was cold, hence more enjoyable, and he swam a few laps, rested by the side of the pool, did a few more laps and came out. The hotel had a South East Asian dining room and a well-stocked bar on the ground floor, and Arjun went to the latter first where he knocked back a chilled beer followed by two ice-cold gin-and-tonics before heading over to the restaurant for a filling meal of dumplings and noodles. Sated, he dragged himself up to his room where he drew the curtains shut, switched on the air conditioner and lay down under the fluffy quilt. This must have been what those women’s advi
ce columns meant by pampering yourself, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  He came awake in the late afternoon, rested after the disturbed sleep of the past week. Baia would be there soon, he thought, and got out of bed and made himself a cup of coffee with the electric kettle. He felt a strange need to talk to her, a conviction that she would understand him. The flight back to Delhi . . . he decided to wait. Tomorrow was a Sunday, and he could do with a day off. Besides, he was hoping, like a teenager awaiting a date, that he could persuade Baia to spend the night with him. A long shot, but it was worth giving it a try.

  When she called him on the landline two hours later he had shaved and was drinking a second cup of coffee. He sprayed on some deodorant and went down to meet her. She was in the sitting area of the lobby, occupying one corner of a large sofa and looking down at her phone, her hair draped to one side. For a moment he remembered Sonali, reading a newspaper in the sitting room of the CR Park flat and unconsciously biting a fingernail. He had always found women most beautiful when they were absorbed in some everyday activity, sans any self-consciousness. As he walked up to her she looked up, and smiled and got to her feet.

  ‘Hi. So how was your trip to Manipur?’

  ‘I survived,’ Arjun said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  She was wearing a knee-length floral-patterned white dress today, decidedly feminine.

  ‘So, what do you want to do?’ she asked.

  Once again he noticed the contrast in her, the softness and the blunt, direct manner.

  ‘Coffee, Darjeeling tea or something like that?’

  They went and sat in the open-air section of the cafe on the ground floor which abutted the lawns where the swimming pool was. Arjun ordered coffee and pastries for them.

  ‘Did you find the person you were looking for?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, I did. Tell me, is Romeo a very good friend of yours?’

  She looked at the lighted lawns and the other people sitting in the coffee shop, an amused look on her face, and said, ‘To be honest, I don’t particularly like him. But he knows people, especially in the government, in Nagaland and Manipur, and he’s helped me a few times. I just try not to get too close.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, he tried to help me too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Arjun moved his chair nearer to her, and briefly told her about Romeo calling him, coming to meet him at the hotel and fixing the taxi to Moreh, and the IED blast. She heard him out with a frown that grew deeper as he spoke.

  ‘Are you sure it was him, though?’ she asked at the end.

  ‘I can’t say. I was saved only because I heeded my intuition.’

  ‘If it was him, what reason could he have for arranging it?’

  ‘Maybe because Colonel Khanna asked Romeo or his father to do it.’

  ‘Colonel Khanna?’

  He was looking closely at her, and she seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘There was an incident in Dimapur, the day after I met you, that’s why I never got around to calling you.’ He picked up his cup, but he had already finished the coffee. ‘Do you want something stronger?’

  In the bar, lit with deep blue lights now, Arjun told her about Khrienuo’s shooting and his escape from the detention centre. They were sitting beside each other on a couch because of the loud electronic music, with two cocktails before them, and Baia’s eyes widened in horror as he told her about the young man in chains.

  ‘I had no idea such places existed,’ she told him.

  ‘Unfortunately they do.’

  ‘How does Khanna know you?’

  ‘He was my officer at one time in Assam. Hated my guts. I had to leave the army because of him.’

  Arjun finished his cocktail and asked the waiter for a whisky. He said to her, ‘I’ve been thinking about something you told me in Dimapur.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘About being a cynic. I realized I’ve been like that for most of my life.’

  Baia nodded. ‘I could feel a sort of darkness around you when we met, like an aura.’

  ‘And I thought you were rude when I first met you. Just being honest.’

  She laughed. ‘My! What a thing to say.’

  The first sip of the whisky loosened him up. ‘Your eyes, they reminded me of someone, though.’

  ‘Aah. I did tell Nancy that you were quite good-looking, by the way.’

  She giggled then, and covered her mouth with her hand in a fetching gesture.

  ‘It shows that you have good taste,’ Arjun said with a smile.

  ‘Do you know about the story of Arjuna in Manipur?’ she suddenly asked him.

  ‘I have a faint memory of my mother telling me about it as a boy.’

  ‘Well, when Arjuna was in exile he was supposed to have come to this region, the North-east, and when he had gone to the mystical kingdom of Manipur, he fell in love with the princess Chitrangada and married her, and had a son named Babruvahana with her. Arjuna allowed them to remain in Manipur according to the king’s wishes. Later, Babruvahana killed Arjuna without knowing who he was, and could bring him back to life only with a jewel given to him by another of Arjuna’s wives, Uloopi.’

  ‘Interesting. But the only Chitrangada I met was you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m no king’s daughter.’

  ‘How do you know the story?’

  ‘I read religious books from time to time. All religions, mind you. And all of them talk about the beauty of life and the sacredness of man. It’s only the people who interpret the books who create problems.’

  Arjun nodded. ‘It’s the interpretation that’s always the cause for trouble.’

  ‘Anyway, what about the murder investigation, how is it proceeding?’

  ‘I need to get back to Delhi and do some more digging around.’

  ‘Okay. I hope you catch whoever did it. Nancy told me all about her cousin sister.’

  ‘The person I tracked down in Manipur was her first boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh . . . you’re quite a detective then, Arjun. Can I call you that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why did you have to leave the army?’

  ‘Why? Well, I’ll tell you if you tell me your story, who you are, where you stay, what you do. All right?’

  ‘Sure. There’s nothing very interesting, though.’

  The music was steadily rising in volume, and they had to shout into each others’ ears, reminding Arjun of the nightclub with the soundproof walls in Dimapur.

  ‘It’s too noisy here, do you want to come up to my room?’ he asked her.

  41

  THE RESTAURANT ON THE GROUND floor was too quiet and too packed for them to quietly discuss the topics they were talking about, he said. She agreed to come up, and they climbed up the staircase to his floor. He ordered a bottle of whisky from the bar and Coke along with snacks from the restaurant.

  ‘My God, ya, I feel like a college girl doing this!’ Baia said.

  ‘It’s good to do something crazy from time to time, wouldn’t you agree?’ he asked, looking at her, and she laughed and looked away.

  ‘Sure, why not!’

  He made her a whisky and Coke with ice, and poured water into his drink. He had purposely put on only the low, yellow lights, and they sat down on the sofa. She was the eldest of three girls, she told him, and her father had been a government employee, her mother a housewife. She had gone to Mumbai for college, and worked there for a couple of years in a social welfare organization, before coming back to Shillong when her father fell ill. A few months after she returned she had started her NGO to work with women’s issues.

  ‘I see the ones in the rural areas, and my heart goes out to them. They have to take care of their families with just a few rupees and by toiling the whole day. But, I don’t know, I feel like I’m hardly doing anything, that I’m not making a difference in any way.’

  The idea came to him then—why didn’t he try to help her?

  ‘Your turn now,’ she said.
‘Why did you leave the army?’

  Arjun took a deep breath. ‘I was never good at being part of a group, always wanted to do things my way. I rubbed Khanna the wrong way when I was posted in Jorhat. There was an operation.’

  He poured himself another peg and went and pulled the curtains apart. Standing by the ceiling-to-floor glass windows, looking out at the lights of the city, he told her all about the botched operation in the village.

  ‘They had managed to get away, thanks to the rest of the villagers obstructing us, but my men found the other brother, the schoolteacher’s youngest son. I took him inside, and asked him where his brother and the others were headed, where they might hide, where they had buried their guns. He said he didn’t know. He wasn’t scared, he looked me straight in the eyes. There was an anger there, which his brother undoubtedly had as well, something maybe to do with the meek father. Anyway, I . . . I hit him with the butt of my rifle. He fell down, and I put the barrel between his eyes.’

  He could see them now, separate moments flashing past, leading to that one terrible moment he had spent almost two decades trying to forget. In the hotel bar she had mentioned Arjuna, and now he remembered a line from within the Gita verses his mother used to recite: I can find no means to drive away this grief which is drying up my senses.

  ‘The rest of the family were held back outside by my men, but the youngest son’s wife managed to run past them and get inside. She had a baby boy in her arms, and pleaded with me to let her husband go. And I would have, except that the young man stared back at me with such hatred and insolence . . . he just wasn’t scared, and he wouldn’t tell me anything when I asked him again. I shot him then. His wife screamed and dropped to her knees. I’ll never forget the scene as I walked out, the baby in her arms as she cried beside the body of her husband.’