Those Pricey Thakur Girls (37 page)

‘Matlab? He’s not,’ her breath catches fearfully, ‘he’s not
dead
, is he?’

The Judge shoots her an irate look. ‘No,’ he says. ‘He’s alive. But it appears he has moved on a bit since he wrote your daughter that eloquent epistle assuring her of his undying love.’

‘Is he married?’ she asks, confused. ‘But when, how?’

‘Neither dead nor married,’ the Judge replies. ‘
Taken
, I believe, is the correct youthful phrase.’

When Debjani and the Judge arrived at the Shekhawats’ home, they found the entire Shekhawat clan in a euphoric mood. A short, chubby man and a beautiful raven-haired, red-mouthed girl were sitting in pride of place in the drawing room, telling Dylan’s family all about how they had just dug up evidence that would vindicate Dylan. The Judge and Debjani were given all the details, of course, but ended up feeling sort of redundant. Juliet Bai greeted them cordially enough, but she seemed distracted and very taken by the red-mouthed girl – Mitali, her name was – pressing tea and kalkals upon her, admiring her clothes, her guts, her brains.

‘She’s so
famous
, bhaisaab,’ Juliet Bai told the Judge gushingly. ‘She is a correspondent for
Viewstrack
. Everybody knows
Viewstrack
. Nowadays people don’t even watch DD – it only mouths the government line, you see – but everybody watches
Viewstrack
.’

And Debjani knew at once that Juliet Bai had watched the bulletin in which she read out the Human Rights organization’s adverse comments on Dylan.

Mitali and Dylan went to College together, they were told. Mitali and Dylan used to run on the Worli seaface together every day, they were told. Mitali and Dylan had had some stupid fall-out early in the year, but in the last three months he had sought her out, and since then, they had been meeting almost every day, they were told.

‘How nice,’ Debjani said tightly. ‘I’m so happy you’ve found all this evidence, Mitali. When will this story break?’

‘In four days, I think,’ Mitali replied, glowing happily. ‘It’s the end of the month, na, so we’re going to fast-track it and shove it into the tape that’s going out now. I’ve already written out the script and we have most of the footage already, so basically, one day to shoot, one day to edit, and then the whole tape will be sent off to the censors. You’ll be able to pick it up from your local kirana store before the week is out.’

‘That’s awesome,’ Debjani said wretchedly. ‘I most definitely will.

‘And of course, the
IP
will carry it the very same day,’ the short chubby man put in with a smile.

‘Thank you so much, you have no idea what this means to all of us. Dylan – I mean, Saahas uncle is one of my father’s oldest friends.’

‘Oh, don’t you know Dylan personally then?’ the man enquired of Debjani.

‘Well, I’ve met him a few times,’ she replied. ‘And of course we all read his columns.’

An uncomfortable silence followed. And then the chubby little man burst out laughing. ‘Oh my god, I just realized, he wrote that anti-DD piece about
you
, didn’t he? How come your families are still talking?’

Debjani shrugged, smiled and stood up to leave. Juliet Bai saw them to the door, hugged Debjani and thanked her sincerely for coming. The Brigadier shook his friend’s hand hard and cautioned them that not a
word
must be said to anybody about what would soon be out on
Viewstrack
and in the
India
Post
. Father and daughter responded by giving their solemn word.

‘And then husband and wife shut the door in our faces and went to rejoin the happy-clappy circle around the beauteous Mitali,’ the Judge concludes bitterly. ‘And did I mention, she’s highly eligible. Her father is a very senior IFS officer.’

Mrs Mamta extracts several long silver hairs that are clinging to her maroon comb, winds them into a tiny ball and throws them into a frilly cloth dustbin embroidered all over with cross-stitch pansies. The Judge gets the sense that she is consigning Dylan Singh Shekhawat to frilly oblivion. ‘Thank god Dabbu’s job is going well,’ she says. ‘It’ll distract her from this whole mess. Still, it’s sad – she was settling down so nicely and then that wretched letter came along and upset her all over again.’

‘We shouldn’t have taken her to the anniversary party,’ the Judge says heavily. ‘But she wanted to go. She said so.’

After a pause, Mrs Mamta says, ‘Chalo, the good news is that your friend’s son will be out of the hawalat soon. And if you think about it, LN, Dylan and this girl broke up in March, he came to Delhi and fell for Dabbu in April. Sounds like a rebound affair to me. Good thing it didn’t work out. Let’s just rally around Dabbu and cheer her up.’

13

J
uliet Bai attends early morning Mass on Sunday. She leaves home before the
India
Post
arrives, but on her way back she pauses at her kirana to pick up the latest issue of
Viewstrack
. She asks for it in a voice trembling with anticipation, hurries home and switches on the VCR. She doesn’t have to alert the rest of the family – they are already lined up neatly on the sofa – two men and a boy who have just tumbled out of bed but are radiating the tense, focused energy of athletes poised on a racing track, waiting for the whistle to blow.

Juliet Bai inserts the cassette with a thumping heart and sinks down on the sofa between her boys.

‘Please, god,’ Ethan mutters.

The
Viewstrack
theme music kicks off with a flourish of keyboards and drums; slick graphics roll, images of India unfold, the screen freezes on a 3D
Viewstrack
super and then the camera cuts to the presenter – a beautiful Bombay film actress, now married and a mother of (reportedly drug-addicted) teenaged children.

‘Hello, and welcome to
Viewstrack
. This month, our teams travel the length and breadth of the country to bring you political updates from Srinagar and Ayodhya, a report on the state of the rhino in Assam’s Kaziranga National Park, a cosy tête-à-tête with delicious new debutant actor Aamir Khan, the star of the superhit film
QSQT
, and last but most definitely not the least, they discover that there is much more to the Kamalpreet Kaur bribery case than meets the eye.’

The Shekhawats bounce up from the sofa, clapping their hands and whooping hoarsely. Ethan does a little dance around the room, while Jason dives down to the VCR and fast-forwards it – past the wounded soldiers in Kashmir, past the screaming activists in Ayodhya, past the rhinos who are apparently being poached in large numbers for the aphrodisiac powers of their horns in Kaziranga, past delicious debutant actor Aamir Khan – and stops at a shot of the presenter looking into the camera with grim sincerity.

‘And finally, a hot-off-the-press exclusive investigative story that links the prime accused in the anti-Sikh riots investigation with the very woman who allegedly received a bribe for giving false evidence against him. This story has wheels within wheels within wheels. Brace yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, for what is, in this year of exposés, perhaps the biggest exposé yet, brought to you by
India Post’s
Varun Ohri and
Viewstrack
correspondent Mitali Dutta!’

Juliet Bai draws a long shuddering breath. The presenter fades out and an image of the porch of the Yuvati Niwas fills the screen.

Ethan turns to look at his parents, his eyes fever bright. ‘This is it,’ he crows, his grin triumphant. ‘This is the point where Dylan Singh Shekhawat rises like a phoenix from the ashes and rubs Hardik Motla’s nose into the dirt! Are you ready, people?’

They nod, eyes glued to the screen where the image of the Yuvati Niwas porch seems to have frozen.

Jason frowns.

He presses a few buttons on the VCR.

Nothing happens.

Jason presses down even harder. His father winces.

‘You’ll break it, Jase. Careful.’

Ethan leaps up and starts twiddling random knobs. ‘I don’t get it. Why isn’t it moving?’

The screen goes black now, and a weird beeping noise fills the air. Words scroll across the screen. Well, only one word, actually.

Censored. Censored. Censored. Censored. Censored.

Censored. Censored. Censored. Censored. Censored.

‘What the…?’

The screen remains black. ‘Censored’ keeps scrolling across it for a good six minutes – pretty much the full length of the Kamalpreet Kaur interview. And then the anchor is back.

‘And that’s all for this month’s edition of
Viewstrack
,’ she says with a smile. ‘See you next month! Till then, take care and Jai Hind.’

The signature music kicks in again, the camera pulls out and away from the glittering set. The credits roll. Finally, static fills the screen.

And still the Shekhawats sit, dumbfounded and disbelieving, before the TV screen, unable to internalize what has just happened. Ethan suddenly races out of the room and returns a minute later clutching the morning newspapers.

‘There’s nothing in the
IP
either,’ he says, his voice sounding suddenly very young, his face pale and anxious. ‘I don’t know… Mamma, Dadda… what could have happened?’

‘What the fuck, Hira!’

Hira looks up, his sad-clown face slightly haggard. ‘What?’

Varun glares at him, bewildered and angry. ‘You
know
what. Why didn’t you print my story?’

‘Did the
Viewstrack
story come out?’ Hira enquires back.

Varun’s face clouds over. ‘No,’ he admits. ‘It was censored. Motla must have pulled some strings. But that’s not the point. Why didn’t
our
story break?’

‘Do you want to sit down?’ Hira says mildly. ‘Because what I’m going to tell you may come as a bit of a shock.’

‘What?’ Varun snaps.

Hira sighs and looks him right in the eye.

‘I met Shekhawat in the lock-up,’ he says. ‘It was a rather unpleasant encounter. He admitted to bribing that young woman. Admitted it quite brazenly, actually. He said exactly what young journalists say in such situations – that the ends justified the means.’

‘What?’ Varun sits down rather suddenly. ‘But then why – how – what about all that stuff we discovered in Delhi?’

‘All that stuff
Mitali
discovered in Delhi,’ Hira corrects him gently. ‘She’s always been a little unbalanced, that one. And madly obsessed with young Shekhawat. They were an item for quite a few years, I believe. She made up a pretty little tale to get him out. And you – because you care for your buddy so much – believed it.’

Varun stares at him, slack-jawed, his mind working overtime. Mitali telling him the call had come from the Yuvati Niwas. Mitali showing him the photo of the wrinkly old man. Mitali fast-forwarding the interview tapes. Mitali clutching his arm, smiling up at him.

‘I – I can’t believe it,’ he says slowly. ‘Mitali wouldn’t… Dylan couldn’t…’ He leans in closer. ‘He actually
admitted
to you that he bribed that woman?’

Hira looks directly at him.

‘Yes.’

‘And the money?’

Hira shrugs. ‘Came from Canada.
Now
do you understand why I withheld your story?’

Varun nods shakily.

‘I’m not sure exactly what Mitali’s playing at,’ Hira continues. ‘What is true, what is concocted, if it’s all personal ambition or just plain infatuation. But one thing I know – I’m not putting anything into my paper defending Dylan after what he told me in the lock-up.’

Varun sits up a little. ‘Maybe…’ he says hesitantly. ‘They’ve been torturing him? And he said what he said under duress?’

Hiranandani gives a little bark of laughter. ‘Don’t be absurd, VO. I found him looking quite relaxed, and on first-name terms with all his captors.’

‘Still.’ Varun’s expression grows mulish. ‘I’d still like to get my story out. The wrinkly old man connects Motla and the prime witness testifying against him. That’s definitely news. How about I run it past Bade-papaji?’

‘Sure,’ Hira says lightly as he gets to his feet and puts on his exquisitely tailored jacket. ‘But he’s in Delhi right now, marching to protest against the anti-defamation bill. He turned out to be right about
that.
’

‘Yes,’ Varun admits forlornly. ‘He really
is
a newsman, isn’t he? He has the nose, he can sniff out a story. Not like me – I should be running a fruit stall in Crawford Market or something.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Hiranandani smiles at him bracingly. ‘I’m headed to Delhi for the protest march too, as a matter of fact. How about we discuss your story with Bade-papaji together once I’m back? And then take a call? Okay?’

And Varun has no option but to say, ‘Okay.’

‘Hello, and welcome to a special edition of
Face-2-Face
. With me in the studio today is editor-in-chief of the
India
Post
, M. Hiranandani. Welcome to the Delhi DeshDarpan studio, sir.’

‘Thank you.’ Hira smiles, his face relaxed and disarming under the soft studio lights.

The interviewer, one of those syrupy women with the coy lips and kiss curls that DD loves, leans forward and looks at him intently. ‘Mr Hiranandani, you participated in the march against the anti-defamation bill today. What were your thoughts as you marched down Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg all the way to the gates of Parliament?’

‘Well,’ says Hira thoughtfully. ‘Naturally, I believe in a free press.’

‘Naturally, naturally, we all do,’ the interviewer neighs in immediate agreement.

‘But at the same time,’ Hira continues, ‘we cannot escape the undeniable fact that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. I mean, we do take shortcuts sometimes. We do sensationalize. It happens.’

‘It does, it does.’ The interviewer nods fervently. She’s such a suck-up, Debjani thinks, irritated, as she watches from the shadows. Agreeing with everything that man is saying. Cow.

‘So
maybe
, a judicious amount of control is not such a bad thing. Not too much, of course, nothing that compromises freedom of speech, but just enough to keep us
responsible.
’

They go on to talk at length about the protest march – ruing the poor turnout, bemoaning the apathetic public which had not responded to the call of the Grand Old Men of Indian Publishing, and hinting, basically, that the government was not going to be particularly impressed.

‘I think the bill will be passed,’ Hira says in conclusion. ‘Now all we can do, as conscientious newsmen, is to ensure that it is as toothless as possible.’

‘Haha,’ the interviewer twinkles coyly. ‘It is bitter medicine perhaps, but the patient is in need of it. And on that healthy note, goodnight.’

The lights go off. Hiranandani and the interviewer walk out of the studio and back to the green rooms. When Hiranandani emerges a little later, he is alone and Debjani is waiting for him.

‘Hello, sir.’ She smiles. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you.’

Hira nods, all suave, avuncular charm. ‘Ah, hello, you’re young Debjani Thakur, aren’t you. Quite the celebrity. Didn’t you go to College?’

‘Well, yes,’ she replies, slightly confused. ‘You have to be a graduate to read the news.’

‘But not to
the
College, clearly,’ he continues smilingly. ‘Well, you could’ve fooled me, you read so well. Very smoothly, with none of those dreadful rounded vowels favoured by the lesser DU colleges. Well done.’

What an ass, thinks Dabbu.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she says. ‘Actually, I came to the studio today specially to ask you something.’

‘Make it quick, young lady,’ Hira says, glancing at his watch. ‘I have a flight to catch.’

‘Just if you had any news of Dylan Singh Shekhawat,’ Debjani says, her cheeks very red. ‘He’s a – a family friend and I thought perhaps you might have some news of him?’

Hira’s face softens. ‘You poor child,’ he says gently. ‘I wouldn’t say this on camera but I can tell you privately: Shekhawat turned out to be a sad disappointment. Able chap, but morally unsound. He’s a disgrace to the profession, frankly, and deserves every bit of what’s coming to him.’

Debjani stares at him, her brain spinning. ‘But I thought
Viewstrack
and your paper had done a story…?’

‘That was a
fake
story,’ Hira says firmly. ‘Made up by a silly girl who was in love with him. You aren’t a silly girl too, are you?’

Debjani throws back her shoulders. ‘Oh, no,’ she says, her eyes flashing. ‘I’m not silly.’

‘Good.’ Hira pats her shoulder. ‘Forget him. He’s going to be in Tihar for a long time. Move on. That’s my advice.’