Those Pricey Thakur Girls (33 page)

‘Please save a life!’ she sings out as she hands pamphlets to everybody she encounters – families, couples, old ladies, single, hopeful looking men. ‘It’s for the Red Cross – please save a life!’

But it’s slow going. People take the pamphlets from her happily enough but then hurry off to the parking lot, eyes lowered. It’s just like the first two camps, she thinks, disheartened – and this, when they’re showing all those films on DD every day, explaining exactly how AIDS spreads.

‘We use disposable syringes,’ she tells people. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’

But it’s no use. Finally, discouraged by the heat, the mugginess and the glare of the sun bouncing off the golden dome of the gurudwara, she sits down under the Red Cross sign.

You’d think, wouldn’t you, she rages silently, that people who have come all this way to
pray
would be willing to give a little blood to save somebody’s life? That’s why I thought holding these camps in places of worship was such a good idea! But obviously I hadn’t a clue.

‘Eshu puttar?’

She looks up and beholds Old Mr Gambhir, all dressed in white, smiling from ear to ear, the dome of the gurudwara forming a halo behind his head.

‘Namaste, Gambhir uncle,’ she says without much enthusiasm, thinking, oh, what’s the use? He’s about a hundred years old. If he donates 470 ml blood he might keel over and die.

But Old Mr Gambhir has enthusiasm enough for both of them.

‘Seen the paper, puttar? Dhillon ne toh aj kamal kar diya! He is wonderful. All his stories were good, but today’s is the best. It is
top
ka!’

‘Really? What is it?’

Old Mr Gambhir, who is apparently so delighted with Dylan’s piece that he is carrying the
India
Post
around with him, produces it immediately.

‘Today is the anniversary of the Sikh massacre, na, that is why I have come to Bangla Sahib to pray. See, see the story, puttar, this will put that butcher behind bars for sure, don’t you think? See what guts this girl has? God bless her!’

‘Front page,’ Eshwari says, impressed. ‘
I saw Hardik Motla with my own eyes – he was leading the massacre, promising rewards to whoever killed the most Sikhs.
Wow, this is explosive stuff, Gambhir uncle. Conclusive too.’

Several people hurrying past hear her and ask to read the paper. A small, excited crowd starts to form at the Red Cross station. When the Modernites sidle up and ask the swirling masses if they would like to donate blood and save a life, they pause for just a moment before they roll up their sleeves. The Malayali nurses get busy, sticking in their needles and pumping out large amounts of Punjabi blood with gusto.

In the midst of this spontaneous celebration and fluid extraction, old Mr Gambhir’s eyes suddenly brim over with tears. ‘Justice at last!’ he says, his voice trembling, and bows reverentially before the Bangla Sahib. Then he turns to Eshwari and raises his hand, a saint making a benediction. ‘Tell your mother, if Debjani marries this boy, I will supply all the Campa Cola and Gold Spot at the wedding for free!
Free
.’

‘That’s, um, really generous,’ Eshwari says, stunned.

‘
And
I will give, ten – no, twenty per cent discount on all the ghee, sugar, atta and dry fruits. But
only
if she marries this boy!’

‘Don’t you worry, Gambhir uncle,’ Eshwari assures him. ‘I think she will marry
onl
y this boy.’

New Delhi Railway Station is teeming with travellers, coolies and beggars. Noise and flies sit thickly on everything. Dylan, shouldering Kamalpreet’s pink Rexine duffel bag, cuts through the crowd, taller than most, as she trots behind him, looking docile but determinedly pulling a trolley suitcase.

Who the hell brings a trolley suitcase to a railway platform, he thinks in disgust. Doesn’t she know this place is full of stairs?

‘Lemme get that,’ he tells her but she shakes her head.

‘I am fine,’ she says. ‘You walk ahead. What platform number is it?’

He stops and looks at her. There are dark circles under her eyes and she looks terribly distracted.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently. ‘Spotted any strange men yet?
Looking
at you?’

‘Make fun,’ she says bitterly. ‘
You
are not on the front page today.’

‘Actually, I am, and unlike you, even my photo has been printed.’

‘You’re used to it,’ she says dismissively. Her eyes skitter around the platform.

‘Would you like something to eat?’

She shakes her head.

‘Waiting for someone to show up? A boyfriend, perhaps?’

‘Ho-hai, don’t be silly,’ she responds, looking a little scandalized.

Dylan studies her face critically. ‘Have you been dreaming about your mummy-papa or something?’

‘I’m fine!’ she snaps suddenly. ‘Please hurry, I think maybe we have missed the train.’

Okay, whatever, Dylan thinks resignedly.

They descend onto platform Number 11 and find the train already standing there, emitting steam and stink, its whistle blowing. Dylan busies himself with looking for her name in the second class unreserved coach. She stands back, still clutching her prized trolley suitcase, looking around the platform nervously.

‘Here you are!’ he tells her, tapping a finger on the printed list triumphantly. ‘12 C. C’mon, let’s get you on board.’

She hangs back. ‘There must be some mistake. My ticket says 22 F. Look.’

He takes the ticket from her and studies it. The lean dimples flash and are quickly suppressed. ‘That’s not your seat number, Kamalpreet,’ he tells her, carefully controlling his voice so that no laughter leaks through. ‘That’s your age and sex.’

Kamalpreet looks caught out and then gives a delighted little peal of laughter. What a nut job, Dylan thinks indulgently.

‘Do you have water and everything?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nods, and looks down at her HMT watch. ‘Come, it’s time I boarded, na?’

She drags her trolley suitcase to the train and manages to clamber on somehow. Then she turns to face him, her face sombre.

‘Bye bye,’ she says.

‘Bye bye,’ he replies, aware of a strange pang at parting from this vulnerable girl. Then he realizes he has forgotten something.

‘Here, take this,’ he says, handing her the pink Rexine duffel bag.

She reaches for it slowly, very slowly.

‘Thank you so much,’ she says, and there is an edge to her clear, sweet voice that he hasn’t heard before. ‘You are too generous – this money will change my life.’

‘What?’ Dylan says, confused, still holding out the bag. The train whistle has started to blow and he can’t hear her properly.

Kamalpreet raises her voice.

‘I will keep our agreement,’ she continues, her gaze suddenly impersonal, looking no longer at him but somehow
through
him. ‘I will never tell anybody about our deal, and never ask you for more money. What is inside this bag is my full and final payment.’

As he stares at her, bafflement and consternation writ large across his face, she reaches out and plucks the pink Rexine bag from his grasp. Immediately, a heavy hand lands on Dylan’s shoulder.

‘Check the bag.’

Dylan watches like a man in a dream as khaki-clad policemen force Kamalpreet off the train. The pink Rexine bag is quickly unzipped to reveal stack upon stack of stapled hundred-rupee notes.

‘You are under arrest,’ the plump senior officer tells Dylan. ‘For bribery, witness-tampering, falsification of evidence, rumour-mongering and slander. Take him away.’

12

‘I
told
you, na,’ Binni says smugly, ‘ki that Isayee is
not
okay. See what he’s been up to – cooking up ganda-ganda stories of rape and murder! Chhi, I can’t even think about it, it’s too dirty. And you wanted Dabbu to marry him. He would have been in jail before the mehendi faded from her hands!’

The defeated silence that often greets her utterances prevails yet again.

‘Say something, Ma!’ Binni prods. ‘Don’t you agree?’

But Mrs Mamta is too overwrought to speak. Binni looks at her father.

‘You’re right, Binni,’ the Judge admits with a sigh. ‘It’s quite likely the boy did cook up some stories. He sounded frustrated about not making any breakthroughs even in that letter he wrote Dabbu. He says he’s not very rational on the subject of the riots and then goes on to admit that he is ruthless professionally and will do almost anything to get a story.’

‘He was being
honest
, BJ!’ Dabbu flashes. ‘Because I kept going on about being honest and kind and brave. Stop treating every word he wrote as court evidence. You shouldn’t have let him read my letter, Ma!’

As Debjani herself pressed her mother to show the letter to the Judge, this a little unfair. But Mrs Mamta lets it pass.

‘And he watches porn.’ Binni prims up her mouth. ‘And he stole ten rupees once.’

Dabbu whirls to look at her mother with huge, betrayed eyes. ‘You let
Binni didi
read my letter?’

‘And why not?’ Binni bridles up huffily. ‘They read it, Eshu read it, why not me?’

‘Because…’ Debjani starts to say, then goes quiet.

‘I found it on your dressing table,’ Binni tells Debjani. ‘So I read it.’

‘Don’t you know it’s
very very
rude to read other people’s letters?’ Debjani demands.

‘Bhai,
I
went to an old-fashioned Hindi medium school.’ Binni tosses her head. ‘Not to modern-fashioned Modern School. So I don’t know these modern manners.’

Dabbu makes a strangled sound. Binni continues, ‘And he drinks also. And sex record toh his own mother has told us. And now police record also. Chhi chhi chhi.’

‘How can you!’ Dabbu is almost white. ‘How
can
you talk like that about somebody when they’re down and out? I mean, Dylan’s in
prison.
It’s like kicking an injured animal.’

The Judge and his wife exchange glances. It’s pretty clear to them what’s happening. Saahas Shekhawat’s son is about to swell the ranks of Moti the hairless dog, flop actor Randhir Kapoor, least popular Beatle Ringo Starr and the West Indies cricket team. They have to veer Debjani away before she takes it in her head to adopt him, defend him and never let him go. Because the boy is trouble, pure and simple.

‘I don’t think the situation is
that
bad, Dabbu,’ Mrs Mamta says soothingly. ‘He’s not in prison, only in lock-up, and he’s sure to get bail or something.’

‘Vickyji says he’ll be locked up for years under TADA,’ Binni says smugly. ‘And I think-so jail is the right place for him. Thinking up imaginary ganda-ganda rapes and killings. Must have got the idea from all the porn he watched.’

‘But one thing is really confusing me, Binni didi,’ Debjani says tightly, knowing she may regret saying this, that she may get chhaalas in her mouth, but unable to keep it locked up inside her any more. ‘Last time I checked, you
approved
of this boy and you
wanted
me to marry him – on the basis of some legal advice your lawyer gave Vickyji. What happened? Did the advice turn out to be incorrect?’

Binni’s plump cheeks suddenly sag. She swallows hard. ‘I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dabbu. You’re mad or what?’

‘No,’ Debjani replies. ‘Because I checked with Gulgul bhaisaab too, and he told me your lawyer had got hold of the wrong end of the stick completely.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ the Judge asks, mystified.

‘Girlie stuff, BJ,’ Debjani answers as Binni seems incapable of speech. ‘Oh, and Binni didi, in case you were wondering, the same law applies to girls who marry American-Estonian Christians too.’

‘Silly Dabbu,’ says Binni, turning to face her father with a laugh. ‘I don’t know what she’s saying. I
really
have no idea – but she’s right, maybe we’re being too hard on this Shekhawat. After all, he
could
have been framed. No, Bauji? What do you say?’

‘I think I have a very good idea of what just happened here,’ the Judge says, his nostrils white and pinched. ‘So let me make one thing very clear. I’ll say it only once, so listen carefully, all of you. Binodini, this house belongs to
all
my daughters, no matter who they marry or whether they have any biological children. And tell your husband that unless he returns the “loan” I gave him three years ago – you know damn well what I mean, so don’t look so blank – I’ll carve it out from your share of this house, so that when we sell it, everybody will get a hissa except you. Understood?’

Binni gasps, starts to her feet, throws an anguished glance at her mother and stumbles out of the room. Mrs Mamta shoots the Judge a furious look and follows her out.

The Judge glares at the swinging door, looking grimly satisfied.

‘Oh, isn’t that
typical
.’

The whisper is low and furious. The Judge looks around, startled.

‘You don’t give a damn about me.’ Debjani’s voice is trembling. ‘All you care about it is your stupid
house
and your stupid
money
and Binni didi’s
court case
and Anji didi not being able to have any
babies
. My life isn’t worth even a fifteen-minute conversation.’

‘That’s not true, Dabbu,’ the Judge protests.

But she has already stood up. ‘I’m going to DD,’ she says curtly. ‘Bye.’

‘Now look here, Hijranandini –’

‘Bade-papaji,
please
,’ Varun interjects in an agonized whisper. ‘It’s
Hira
nandani.’

‘You don’t interrupt, duffer. Tum dono ke dono incompetents ho, out to dubao the newspaper I built with these two bare hands. Can’t you see what is right in front of your nose?’

You
are, Varun thinks resentfully. A short, bald, chubby hobbit of a man, with bulbous eyes, twin rows of broken teeth and nostril hair so long and bristly they actually cast a shadow.

The Fat Old Man of Indian Publishing has summoned the two newsmen to his poolside for an emergency meeting. They have had to watch him swim eight laborious laps (one for each decade he has spent on the planet, his yoga teacher has instructed him) and then clamber out, practically catatonic, wheezing and snorting, exuding a strong odour of chlorine. A solemn ritual followed, where he hopped first on one foot and then the other, his flabby bits jiggling importantly above his tight red chaddis, till the water cleared out of his ears. Then he donned a loose white towelling robe, knotted it tightly right below his massive paunch and sat down to his evening naashta. Now, spraying watermelon seeds in every direction (he needs to eat one whole watermelon to keep his bowels in good nick, his yoga teacher says), he wants to know what the newspaper is doing about the fact that ‘Motla put on a bra and harem pants, batted his lashes, wriggled his bum and led all you chutiyas up the garden path’.

‘
What’s
in front of our eyes, Ohri saab?’ Hira asks patiently.

But Purshottam Ohri is not in the mood to answer questions. He leans forward, flashing slivers of wrinkly hairy thigh on either side, and glares balefully at his editor-in-chief.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ he states, breathing hard. ‘It’s the Emergency all over again.’

Both Varun and Hira give simultaneous silent groans. If Bade-papaji were ever to wear a bonnet, the Emergency would be the bee in it. He is obsessed with the Emergency – with the clamping down on free speech, the gagging of the press, the enforced vasectomy of an entire generation in return for a square meal and pocket transistors.
India Post
was a major hero during the Emergency and sometimes Varun thinks his grandfather just misses the buzz of those good old days.

‘Why do you say that, Ohri saab?’ Hira asks respectfully.

The old man smirks. ‘You’re humouring me, aren’t you, Hira?’ he asks. ‘You think I’m being paranoid. I can tell you’re planning to forget this conversation as soon as you’re out of my house, but you would do better to listen to me – because you have
no idea
what’s happening in Delhi.’

‘What is?’ Varun demands abruptly.

The old man leans back. Water drips from his red swimming trunks. ‘This government,’ he says expansively, ‘emboldened no doubt by the brute majority we were stupid and sentimental enough to give them after the old lady got assassinated, is about to introduce an anti-defamation bill into Parliament.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s an anti-press bill,’ the old man elaborates. ‘It means that if you write a negative story about some politician or the other, he can claim it isn’t true and have you thrown into jail immediately, no questions asked, for defaming him. And then it’s up to
you
to prove your story’s true and that you’re innocent. Which could take months or years – and you’d probably be sodomized and half dead by then. Get it?’

‘No.’ Varun shakes his head. ‘I mean, yes, I suppose so. But how do you know this is happening? And why?’

The old man gives him a beady look. ‘It’s happening because we’ve all been writing such complimentary stories about the government,
that’s
why,’ he says sarcastically. ‘We’ve exposed a sixty-four crore gun scam, a submarine scam, a story about off-shore accounts in St Kitts, several stories about the government’s botched attempts at sucking up to the Muslim voter in the Shah Bano case, and of course, a slew of blistering reports on how they’re protecting that mass murderer Hardik Motla.
That’s
why. The government has a brute majority, so it’s acting like a brute, amending the law and going for our jugular.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Hira asks, fascinated.

Purshottam Ohri snorts.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ he says shortly. And dives into another massive slice of watermelon.

‘Don’t you think you’re being just a little paranoid, Bade-papaji?’ Varun suggests diffidently. ‘And anyway, how does this tie up with the Shekhawat case?’

‘Pass the kala namak, duffer. I think Shekhawat’s case will be cited as a prime example of an irresponsible press running amok. Don’t you see? The timing’s perfect. Shekhawat will be the government’s opening gambit, their example of how low the press can sink if it isn’t accountable to anybody. They’ll use that fake Punjabi witness and the bribe of lakhs of rupees, which they themselves have set up, to push the bill through.’

The two newsmen look unconvinced.

‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Varun says cautiously.

‘First time I’ve heard of an anti-defamation bill,’ Hira remarks, shrugging.

Purshottam Ohri bangs his fist on the little table. Watermelon seeds fly everywhere.

‘They’re keeping it quiet! They’ll sneak it through both Houses of Parliament in just one day! Journalists will become too scared to report freely and fairly on
anything
– they could be locked up otherwise!’

‘Okay,’ Hira says cautiously. ‘So, what do you want us to do about it, Ohri saab?’

The old man sits back. ‘I am going to Calcutta to meet with some other publishing houses. They share my low opinion of the “goborment”. We’ll organize a protest march. You two concentrate on getting Shekhawat out of prison, theek hai?’

‘He’s only in the hawalat,’ Hira hastens to say. ‘Not actually in jail, per se.’

‘Haan haan, let’s not quibble,’ the old man replies irascibly. ‘Now tell me what
you
think. Do you think Shekhawat bribed that laundiya?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Hira admits. ‘The police statement says that Dylan bribed the girl with five lakh rupees –’

‘Where would Dylan get five lakh rupees?’ Varun throws up his hands. ‘We all know what his salary is.’

‘From the Akal Takth apparently,’ Hira says wearily. ‘At least, that’s the theory the police are espousing. That he met up with separatist Sikh leaders when he went to Canada and
they
provided the money. To bribe witnesses, destabilize the government at the centre and inject new enthusiasm into the movement for an independent Khalistan.’

Purshottam Ohri snorts. ‘They’re all jealous. Because he’s so handsome and dashing. Same thing used to happen to me when I was young.’

Varun and Hira maintain a polite silence.

‘The
Post
is losing credibility as we speak,’ Purshottam Ohri continues, pronging plump red bits of fruit and shovelling them into his mouth. ‘Everybody I meet in Calcutta and Delhi will want a statement from me. Do I defend Shekhawat? Wash my hands off him? What? What are the facts of the case?’

Telling the old man that they will get back to him very soon, the two men hightail it out of Ohri Mansion and head for the Press Club, a seedy, barrack-like building in the Fort area, hung with so many windows that the city politicians refer to it as the Glasshouse. (Those who drink in Glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones, they often say.)