Those Pricey Thakur Girls (35 page)

But the first cop holds his ears and shakes his head virtuously. ‘I have given my zubaan on the head of my three-year-old daughter. No more teen patti for me. No flash. No blackjack. No poker.’

‘We could play kot-piece,’ Dylan hears himself say. ‘There are four of us, and it’s a game for four. Gimme the cards, I’ll show you.’

For a moment, the cops look at him in surprise. Then they nod indulgently.

‘Here, take,’ they say as they surrender the cards to Dylan. ‘Enjoy the pleasure of our company while you can. When they shift you to Tihar you won’t find the surroundings half as friendly.’

‘And in how many days will that be?’ Dylan asks as he starts to deal out the cards. But before they can reply, the tubelights flicker on and the dead heater starts to glow a slow, dark orange. The little TV blips on and Debjani’s face stares down at all of them from the top of a dirty refrigerator.

‘
Human Rights organizations have condemned the actions of
India Post
journalist Dylan Singh Shekhawat, saying that the bribing and coaching of witnesses in the anti-Sikh riots case has done the cause of justice irreparable harm. They observed that such actions undermine the capability of civil society to have any imprimatur of impartiality in investigating Human Rights violations and urged that Shekhawat be punished severely.
’

‘The call came from a working women’s hostel in Paharganj,’ Mitali tells Varun over the phone excitedly.

‘Is that a hill station?’ he asks, slightly at a loss.

‘No, stupid! It’s a sort of market in Delhi, near the railway station.’

‘Are you sure it’s the right number?’

‘Yes! See, I got a friend of mine from College – who’s in the IAS now – to dig out the details of all the calls your receptionist received that morning. It came through around eleven, lasted only three minutes and is from a Delhi number. It
has
to be the one!’

‘And this IAS, he gave you the address too? Isn’t that illegal?’

She clicks her tongue impatiently. ‘He’s really fond of Dylan. Besides,
College
connection, you know.’

Varun, who finds it really irritating that Stephenians call their college just ‘College’ with a capital C, like there are no other colleges on the planet, ignores this. ‘So should I book our tickets?’ he asks instead. ‘Let’s get to this working women’s hostel and rent you a room there?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ says Mitali and cuts the line.

The next afternoon finds the two of them at the Yuvati Niwas in Paharganj, talking to a nun with a moustache. The nun tells them that they are usually always full up, but luckily for Mitali, one of their girls has just done a bunk. Her room is empty and Mitali is welcome to have it if she can make the necessary payments and provide a certificate of good character from her employer. Varun, posing as Mitali’s elder brother, provides the three months’ advance rent and helps her move in.

‘Now remember, this is a shared scoop,’ he tells her as he attempts to lug her stuff upstairs. ‘Equal credits to
IP
and
Viewstrack
.’

‘But I’ve done all the digging,’ she objects, scooping up her duffel bag.

‘And I’ve paid for the train tickets and provided your rent,’ he points out. ‘Call me tomorrow at ten if you have any leads – or even if you have nothing. Okay?’

Mitali giggles. ‘I don’t think she believed me when I said you were my brother.’

Varun shoots her an austere look. ‘I wonder why.’

He fixes up to meet with Dylan’s parents the next morning, and when he gets to their house he is greeted by Juliet Bai, depressed and loquacious in equal measure.

‘It’s all my fault,’ she informs Varun dolefully as she opens the door. ‘I was too proud of him – of his height and his handsomeness and his lovely deep voice and his athlete-of-the-year trophies, and yes, even his girlfriends. It was wicked of me. I used to look at all the other mothers on sports day – so excited about the single measly bronze medal their child had won – and feel superior and pity them.
How
I wish now that Dylan was short and podgy and ugly and came last in all the races, at least then nobody would have put nazar on him like this!’

‘No no, aunty,’ Varun murmurs as he sits down to the breakfast she has laid out. ‘Hello, uncle, boys.’

‘
We’re
very proud of Dyl,’ Ethan pipes up before the Brig can get a word in. ‘His battle for justice has clearly got the government rattled. It is the sacred duty of all Rajputs to be battering rams in battle and brave in bed, you see. Or is it brave in battle and battering rams in bed?’

The Brigadier smacks him on the back sharply. Ethan emits an outraged squawk and shuts up. Juliet Bai gives a huge gulping shudder. Tears splash into her teacup. She stirs it, and as she sips, some very unworthy thoughts about Debjani’s family cross her mind.

‘Mamta’s sister-in-law Bhudevi does a lot of voodoo and tantric witchcraft. She’s even been claiming to be possessed by the soul of her dead mother-in-law! Do you think – after the scene in their house that day – she put some sort of hex on Dylan, Bobby?’

‘That’s rubbish, Bobby,’ the Brigadier says shortly. ‘Varun, you tell us, what exactly is the situation? Have you come to get Dylan out? He has done so much for the newspaper – what are you doing for
him
?’

‘Take more cornflakes,’ Juliet Bai urges. ‘You’re not eating anything.’

‘Uh, yes, thank you, aunty,’ Varun says, red and flustered. ‘My editor-in-chief is meeting Dylan in the hawalat today. And I’m investigating that so-called Kamalpreet’s background. Trying to nail the link between her and Hardik Motla.’

‘He was quite taken by her,’ Ethan volunteers in a subdued voice. ‘Said she was a lovely girl – so vulnerable yet so brave.’

Juliet Bai snorts. ‘Dylan is a fool about these so-called vulnerable girls. But this Kamalpreet makes the Judge’s daughter look like an angel,
that’s
for sure.’

‘Never mind all that, how will you prove this whole thing was a set-up?’ the Brigadier asks, frowning repressively at his wife. ‘And who will believe you? That’s if you even have the guts to print the story?’

‘We’ll get the proof,’ Varun assures them. ‘Chief Editor Hiranandani – he’s a close friend of the PM – has managed to wrangle a meeting with your son today. You’ll have news of Dylan quite soon.’

‘Somebody is here to meet you.’

Dylan, sprawled on the cement bench and staring at the grubby wall opposite, looks around, squinting against the light.

‘Hira?’

‘What’s up, tiger?’

The voice is low, and shaking with emotion. Dylan sits up and smiles.

‘The fastidious Mr Hiranandani!’ he says lightly. ‘How tragic to see you in such insalubrious, boorish environs.’

Hira’s sad-clown face splits into a grin. ‘Don’t let’s get into all that. Stand up and let me look at you properly – are you quite all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Dylan gets to his feet and stretches lazily. But he doesn’t walk up to the bars or take Hira’s outstretched hand. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Yeah,’ Hira says ruefully. ‘Now, we don’t have much time, so listen carefully to what I’m going to say…’

Dylan raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he says and there is a peculiar edge to his voice.

Though he hadn’t got much time to think initially, around midnight the thaana had settled down to a marathon porn watching session. In the ensuing quiet that followed, punctuated only by the occasional grunt or moan, Dylan has managed to figure out some stuff. A whole lot of stuff, actually.

‘What?’ Hira looks confused. Then he shakes his head. ‘Never mind, just pay attention. I’ve cut through all the red tape and assured the PM of what a good journalist you are, vouched for you personally – and so has old man Ohri. And we’ve worked out quite a good deal. So listen – you
are
listening, right?’

‘Oh, I’m listening.’ Dylan nods, his eyes glittering strangely.

‘Admit to the bribery charge and I’ll have you out on bail, pronto. Immediately. Deny it and you could be in here for years.’ He holds up a hand as Dylan starts to speak. ‘I know what you’re about to say – that you didn’t do anything – but that’s a battle we can fight later, once we’ve got you out.’

But Dylan shakes his head. Once, very gently.

‘Why did you do it, Hira?’ he asks.

The older man stares back at him, his eyes perplexed. ‘What?’

‘Was it because I insulted your new, improved DD in your own column? That made you look like a bit of a fool, I suppose. Or was it because Bade-papaji is so fond of me? Or was it something else – your pal the PM piling up the pressure… What was it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Hira’s voice is bewildered. ‘Why did I do
what
?’

‘Get into cahoots with Motla. It happened when he came to meet you in office, didn’t it? You were pissed off with me about the anti-DD piece, but you pretended you weren’t. Instead, you gave me a nice long rope to hang myself with. My own byline, a photograph to accompany my pieces, lots of fame. But you were just fattening me up for the kill. Kamalpreet – or whatever her real name is – was the bait. That’s why you urged me to print that piece so quickly – you said we’d miss the anniversary of the riots if we bothered to get background colour on her from Tirathpuri. You knew she was a fake, didn’t you?’

‘Have they been hitting you on the head or something?’ Hira asks, looking deeply concerned. ‘Could it have affected your memory? Because I clearly recall telling you to check up on her thoroughly before we printed her story – the motto of our paper is
Truth. Balance. Courage.
, for heaven’s sake! I never said anything about missing any anniversary.’

‘You’re such a smooth bastard,’ Dylan says with quiet disbelief. ‘I can’t believe I couldn’t see it earlier.’

‘They
have
been hitting you.’ Hira’s smile is distinctly sinister now. ‘You’ve forgotten that you called me up and assured me that the Kamalpreet story had checked out, that it had been thoroughly double-checked and verified.’

Dylan leans in close.

‘We both know I didn’t.’

‘Yes,’ Hira agrees, thrusting his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels. ‘We both know you didn’t. And we both know you’ve been getting too big for your boots. You cheeky little bastard, how
dare
you trash me in my own column? You think that because that senile old man thinks you’re such a hotshot, you can get away with
anything
? Well, you can’t. Tonight, with a heavy heart, I am going to write a prize-winning, introspective editorial about how tragic it is when young journalists stray from the straight and narrow. I’m going to say you’re a liar, a bribe-eater
and
a bribe-giver. I’m going to take full personal responsibility for hiring you, and with profound sorrow, I’m going to offer to resign. Of course, the Ohris won’t accept my resignation.’

Dylan stares at him, wondering how he could ever have idolized this man, considered him a mentor, or even a worthy boss. He’s just a weedy, insecure ass, he thinks. I was totally wrong about him. What else have I been totally wrong about?

‘But
why
?’ he asks finally. ‘Just because of the DD piece?’

He is met with silence.

‘But you went to College!’

Hira winces at this.

‘Oh, please,’ he says irascibly. ‘This whole College connection is so overrated. The truth of the matter is that the PM is trying to get a piece of legislation through Parliament – a little something called the anti-defamation bill. I’m just trying to help him do it. For a certain, er, fee.’

‘The
what
bill?’ Dylan looks at him in blank incomprehension.

But Hira is already backing away from the bars.

‘I’d think about confessing to the bribery and witness-tampering charges if I were you,’ he says. ‘They’ll book you under TADA otherwise – for conspiring with Canadian terrorist organizations and fomenting unrest – and stick you into Tihar till you’re an old man. Your Gregory Pecker will wilt away unused. So consider confessing. Now goodbye, I have an editorial to write.’