‘And you? Will you stay here?’
He hung up without replying.
Amit Malviya’s participation in Niyaz’s lynch mob only gets revealed to the narrator in the next chapter when he reads the stapled diary pages. Him wanting an audience with Amit seems a bit confusing at this stage.
I could not respond to his suggestions over the phone, so I remained silent. When I went inside, I asked Dadda’s permission to approach him. I requested him to arrange a meeting with his son, Amit Malviya. He agreed. ‘He too wants to meet you. Would you like to come to his office, or should I send him over to your hotel?’
The news of Mukesh’s disappearance rattled me. I remained speechless as I stepped out of Dadda’s office and got into the car. I was stunned. I don’t know what made me open Facebook, but when I did, I saw a notification that both my posts had been removed and I had been banned from posting anything for three days.
What on earth was going on in this settlement? I had no answers. All that seemed to be in my power was to demote Noma, which didn’t seem to have any respect for the rule of law, from town to settlement. A settlement that was still a jungle. Whom could I ask for help? Without stopping to hear my own answer, I asked Sahadeo to halt the car. We were on a slope just after the bridge over the river Gandak which connected Mehrauna in Uttar Pradesh with Guthni in Bihar.
I called Archana as soon as I stepped out of the car and asked her, ‘Do you know anyone who works for foreign media?’
‘Why? What happened? Why aren’t you coming back?’
‘In the last three days, four people have gone missing or have been made to go missing.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Right here, in this country. I’m going mad.’
‘Come back. Otherwise, I will inform Bhaiyya.’
‘I have to evacuate five people. Talk to the human rights commission, please.’ As soon as I said this, I couldn’t help thinking that whoever was a member of the human rights commission in this town would also be one of them.
‘What about you?’
‘That would make it six. Jagdish, Amandeep, Anasuya, Niyaz, and me.’
‘Who is the sixth one?’
‘The one in Anasuya’s womb.’
She went silent. I was quiet too. This was no time for words and understanding. Archana resumed, ‘Ravi Bhaiyya will help in every possible way. But please, you get out of that town now!’
‘These people have got my Facebook, Twitter, everything blocked.’
‘Arjun, please, get to Gorakhpur. I will handle it from there.’
‘No, if you can, please handle things from here to Gorakhpur. Ask your brother to call me.’
‘But you leave that place right now.’
I was not going anywhere.
Getting into the car, I told Sahadeo: ‘Suhag Studio.’
THE STATE OF THE ROAD was awful. This was not fully accurate, because while the left side of the road was riddled with potholes while returning to Noma from Mehrauna, the right side didn’t seem to have any discernible problems barring a few spots. One reason for this could be that the heavy vehicles, the cargo-laden trucks that entered Uttar Pradesh from Bihar far outnumbered the ones going in the opposite direction. This must have been going on for a fairly long time; that’s how roads crumble in such an asymmetrical manner.
I had to read while on that bumpy road. I took out the stapled papers this time, instead of the diary. There was a script among them. Another bunch had just three pages with the date 17 June 2015 written on top. This was the description of a meeting with Amandeep. The brittle paper kept disintegrating into tiny pieces in my hand, and it was difficult to read on that terrible road. This is what was written:
What was supposed to be a blazing-hot afternoon turned out to be one of unseasonal downpour. Jagdish and Mukesh were walking ahead. As soon as we felt the first drops, they went to the shade of Adarsh PCO. Kushalpal ran ahead as well, but he must have realized that Janaki and I would be left behind, so he stopped. We went inside a tea shop. The rain grew heavier. The sky became dark. The two shops were not far from each other, but the downpour made the distance between them seem much greater. Kushal tried to say something to Janaki. But the only sounds one could hear were of the falling rain and the wind. The ten or twelve people inside the tea shop were all gazing outside at the rain. Not a single person spoke; perhaps they found it a good time to get acquainted with themselves. Kushal gestured: Tea? When he heard a ‘yes’ in response, he turned to the tea shop owner and gestured: Two. Then he brought his fingers close to say: Just a little bit. The tea shop owner picked up the pot and pointed outside as if to say: Strange. Both Janaki and Kushal mirrored his gesture together: Yes, strange. All three of them laughed.
While sipping on her tea, Janaki attempted to lighten the sombre mood and asked, ‘Have you played the role of a policeman before?’ As Kushal began to respond, he noticed a cut on her nose. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. Startled by his question, she shifted her glass to the other hand and ran her fingers over the tip of her nose. ‘This?’ She began to laugh. Kushal answered her first question then. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, the company that I perform road shows and street plays for receives several scripts where a policeman commits atrocities.’ He took his card out of his pocket and handed it to Janaki. She gazed at it for a while, turning it over.
The skies cleared as soon as the rain stopped, as if daylight had broken out again. The spectacle – where everything appeared washed and cleansed, and the air turned light – entranced everyone. It was magical, except for the smell. Rainwater had permeated all living and non-living things in such a way that the downpour brought out whatever smell resided within them. The soil, the shops, the streets, the men, the dogs – it seemed as if each had a unique smell that imbued the air with its earthiness. Janaki could discern every smell with accuracy. She saw both Jagdish and Mukesh coming to them. Jagdish apologized as soon as he entered. Everyone laughed. He was embarrassed about abandoning his new guests at such a difficult time. Then he realized that the rain perhaps didn’t count as a difficult time. Janaki began to talk about the pervasive smell. She wanted to describe the many scents in the same detail in which they had pervaded her mind. Everyone listened, but Janaki soon realized that she needn’t describe it in such detail, sensing that the others were getting used to and also identifying the smells themselves.
It was five in the evening by the time we reached Amandeep’s house. Jagdish had met him before. Just like the last time, he saw that Aman’s father answered the door. He was an elderly man. Jagdish touched his feet. As soon as he bent down, the rest of us looked at each other, as if we had gone off-script. Regardless, we took turns to touch his feet. Jagdish’s first question was supposed to be related to his health. Instead, he asked, ‘Is Aman Sahib home?’ They heard Aman’s voice, ‘Come up.’ He was looking down from the balcony, his hair untied. When everyone was inside his room, Aman asked formally, ‘Any trouble coming here?’ He glanced outside the window then closed it. His question was really not as formal as Jagdish’s laughter made it sound. The windowpane was broken. Taking a seat, Aman said his house had once again been pelted with stones two nights ago.
Mukesh, who had not even sat down properly, sprang up. ‘Pelted with stones? But you’re a policeman, Sardar-ji!’ Everyone stayed quiet. Mukesh sat back on the beanbag. Kushal flipped through the script and asked Jagdish: ‘Is this stone-pelting part of the script? I guess not?’ Jagdish shook his head to say no. ‘You’ve read it already?’
The room was dimly lit. The fan had been switched on, and a calendar printed in the Gurmukhi script fluttered in its breeze. Some pictures had been put up on the wall, not as much for decoration as to fill the void in the room. There were three pictures of his family. One of them featured his wife and two daughters. He said that he had sent them over to his village in Bareilly district. In another photo, his wife was seated as he stood touching her shoulder. The third had several people in it. All three we
re put up on a wall together. The remaining pictures were all related to his job. Seven of them were newspaper clippings that had been framed. They carried news of Amandeep’s bravery or awards he had won. At the very top was an article titled ‘Babhnan Robbery Case Unravelled: Mastermind Killed in Encounter’. The strap read, ‘Young inspector Amandeep’s bravery praised by DGP’. The clipping carried two faded images that had almost disappeared with time. One of them was a passport-sized photo of a smiling Amandeep, and the other had a police jeep and a dead man lying next to it. Peering over at them, Mukesh asked, ‘How many years have you been in the police?’
‘Twelve or thirteen.’ As he spoke, he looked over at me and couldn’t help blurting out, ‘Is he going to play Niyaz? If he sports a thin moustache, no one will be able to tell the difference between him and the real Niyaz.’ Then he turned to Jagdish. ‘Were you able to meet him?’
Jagdish told Aman they were only able to meet Niyaz on the third attempt, and that too, when they had gone to his place accompanied by Naseem Siddiqui, a mathematics teacher from O.K. Inter College. They had spoken to him for a fair bit.
Jagdish stood up as he filled Aman in, then introduced his new companions while walking up to their chairs. It was all very awkward, but he had to start somewhere. Grabbing Kushal by the shoulders, he exclaimed, ‘It is all thanks to this man. Kushalpal Singh – he is playing you.’
The two eyed each other as if looking into a mirror. Adulation and deference were apparent in Kushal’s eyes. Amandeep seemed to be looking at the future. He said, ‘Mind you, it’s suspended assistant sub-inspector Amandeep. And please don’t call this a project my friend. It was a matter of life and death for us. I mean, for Niyaz, Anuradha and me.’ He laughed and added, ‘Whenever someone praises me, I feel like I am sitting at my own funeral.’
Everyone laughed. As Jagdish introduced Janaki, the first word he uttered was, ‘Anuradha.’
‘And this is Rafique Sir. He will play Niyaz.’
Then Amandeep asked, ‘And who will play the part of the criminal Amit Malviya and his goons? It’s not easy to find scoundrels of that calibre.’ The disgust in his voice was palpable.
Silence reigned over the room for a few moments. The calendar too stopped fluttering and went quiet. The other four looked at me. The silence would have continued had Jagdish not spoken up. ‘I, Jagdish Upadhyay, will play him,’ he dramatically declared to lighten the mood again. Amandeep bit his tongue. He was a daroga after all, even if he was suspended – he probably couldn’t remember the last time he had said sorry to anyone. He touched his ears in apology. As if this was not enough, he went up to Jagdish and embraced him. Jagdish, trapped in this bear hug, finally realized how big Amandeep was.
Amandeep apologized again, ‘Bhai, I was not calling you a scoundrel.’
‘Of course. You were cursing Amit. Why would I mind that?’ Jagdish said.
‘I thought since you were playing his part, you might take it otherwise.’
What Aman said surprised all four of them. Nobody said a word, but they were all forced to contemplate the assumptions people make about acting.
Aman tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. ‘Will you be able to play the role of such a cunning and insidious man?’ Jagdish could only respond with a deep sigh.
The subject had to be changed. Jagdish asked Aman, ‘Mukesh wants to know – how did you find the courage to take on a crowd?’
Amandeep laughed heartily. There were many layers to his laughter, but right at the top was his age. He must have been around thirty-five. He said, ‘I often ask myself how I did that. And now…’ – he was perhaps alluding to his suspension – ‘… I wonder why I did so. Why on earth did I do that? If I had known that this was a deliberate plan for murder, I might not have saved him.’
Jagdish: Yes, but you saved a person’s life.
Aman: And lost my job.
Mukesh: Are you certain you’ve been suspended because you saved Niyaz?
Aman: Oh, damn this certainty! Listen, you guys should know better than to get into trouble needlessly. What we had believed – or at least I had – to be an ordinary incident is nothing but a parallel system coming to life. These people are from an entirely different world. Instead of the police, they have their own goons. Proper criminals. Earlier, this system used the police for all its murders, but now the police play second fiddle to them.
Janaki: But what a beautiful thing that this could actually happen – that the police reach on time and manage to save someone’s life, whatever sort of life it may be. Such a tale needs to be told – like a prayer, like a lesson – to everyone!
Aman: I thought the same, until I received my letter of suspension. Let me show you the letter. What I have heard is that Dadda’s son, Amit Malviya, and his scoundrels were reprimanded at the state-level meeting of the Morcha. They couldn’t kill even a single vidharmi, a single heretic, and yet they thought Dadda deserved to be given a ticket for the state and central elections? These people got me suspended after that meeting. They are sending a message to the police.
When Aman opened his cupboard, Mukesh saw his uniform neatly hanging from a rod, the shirt and trousers on separate hangers. A neatly tied turban lay on the top shelf. Aman showed us his suspension letter, warning us that we should think twice before doing a street play on the incident. Mukesh was the closest, so he saw the letter first. Aman explained that he had been suspended on the charge that he had been misappropriating funds for eight years.
Kushal: Was there any misappropriation?
Aman: I don’t remember.
IT WAS DIFFICULT TO GET there in the evening. The narrow street leading to Swami Devanand Degree College from Noma’s market was dotted with several other photo studios. This street too passed through the vegetable market. Sahadeo parked close to the trucks that must have brought vegetables in the morning. He took a good look around as he parked and locked the car. Only when he was satisfied did he hurriedly walk across to me. I had told him earlier that I was afraid of being left alone.
There it was, Suhag Studio! True to its name, the entrance stood between grimy windows where several wedding photos were on display. Most of them had been digitally enhanced. Inside, the light was bright and the counter small. Behind it sat an elderly man. Seeing us come in, he pointed towards some seating and asked us to wait for a bit. He must have thought we had come to get our photos taken.
Gathering my courage, I said, ‘Sir, we are here to see Niyaz.’
He froze, like a statue. Then he shook his head. Only after we explained the whole situation did the fear vanish from his face. He went to the back of the shop. As he started climbing the stairs, we noticed there was a section upstairs. This was his home too. Before he could come down, three people emerged from the back room, which was the studio. A woman accompanied by a man, both clearly here to get their picture taken. A tall and well-built middle-aged man walked behind them. He prepared their invoice, and taking half the amount as advance, asked them to return in two days.
Then he turned to us. Before I could speak, Sahadeo took over.
The time this was taking was beginning to annoy me. I glanced at my phone and saw two missed calls and two messages. All from Archana:
‘Arjun, avoid any kind of trouble until tomorrow, please. Just until tomorrow.’
‘Bhaiyya has spoken to the Human Rights Commission. They may come with us tomorrow.’
Under normal circumstances, I would have dwelt more on the question: When was the last time I had seen Archana this impatient?
Climbing down the almost-dark stairs, the elderly man gestured for us to come up.
It was extremely narrow upstairs. There were two rooms, either nine-by-ten or ten-by-ten feet. We were asked to sit in the first room. A little while later, the elderly man came out of the second room with three others. By now, I had understood who he was. He introduced the others. The elderly lady was Niyaz’s mother, there was Niyaz’s sister Mehrunnisa, and Niyaz hims
elf.
After the initial exchange of pleasantries, I asked to speak with Niyaz privately. His mother blessed the policeman who had saved her son’s life as she left.
Once Niyaz was alone, I said, ‘Amandeep insisted we meet you.’
Niyaz said that Amandeep had called him too. He had implored Niyaz to leave town with the help of the person who was going to visit him.
‘But how did this happen? And why? And wasn’t there a girl with you as well, Anuradha? Where is she now?’
‘I haven’t understood it myself, even until today. There were two other boys with me in that group, both my classmates in BSc final year. But all they wanted was a Muslim. They would have killed me if I was alone.’
‘How were your results?’ I quipped to lighten the mood.
‘What results, sir? I was determined to take the exams, but Ammi put her foot down. My brother too sided with her. I’m not sure whether I can enrol this year.’
What could be said after such an answer?
Niyaz himself resumed the conversation. ‘I am afraid to go to college.’
‘Will you come to Delhi?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘You may have heard that those associated with the theatre group are going missing.’
‘Yes, I read in today’s paper. Our fear has multiplied many times over.’ His response put to rest all my disjointed questions.
‘It’s all fake news,’ I said. ‘This is no case of love jihad. There’s nothing going on between Rafique and Janaki. Other people from the group have also disappeared.’
‘I don’t know what is real and what is fake, but they were good people. Once they found out where I lived, they visited me thrice. Every time they asked me to play myself in their production. I refused. I didn’t know whether I could act or not. And I was terrified. I didn’t object to the use of my name. Niyaz could be anybody. And every time I saw Rafique playing me, I thought he was a better Niyaz than I was. He took me along to all of their performances. It felt as if he had internalized how I spoke, how I walked, how I looked at things – and everything else. When I was attacked, I didn’t feel the fear of death at that moment as much as during the times I saw Rafique Sir acting out that scene. I cried every time. I watched the play thrice, and every time I thought Rafique Sir would be killed for real if the policemen in the play didn’t arrive on time.’
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