SECTION IV

23 November to 29 November 1992

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only thirteen days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

You could have forgotten the dark ages, had the progeny of Babar atoned for the misery they inflicted on your ancestors. You could have forgiven them had they confessed to the guilt of suppressing your religion. But in their hearts, echo the verses from the Quran, teaching them to hate all those who worship a god other than theirs. In them, the love for Allah takes precedence over devotion to the motherland. Their belief in the infallibility of the Quran has made them inflexible. Their belief in the immutability of the holy text has made them bigoted. It is for their religion they lift their swords and fight, it is for spreading Allah’s message do they live and die.

These principles defined their behaviour even when they were ousted from power. These principles determined their conduct under British rule. You say we have glossed over more than a century of the country’s history. You wish to know what the Muslim rulers did in the decades following the death of Aurangzeb Alamgir. Bear with us, hear our abridged version, the Mughal empire declined rapidly on the death of Aurangzeb the Terrible. What then followed was a procession of ineffectual rulers, a series of desultory battles, the familiar story of deceit and gore. Do you want us to expend energy on establishing the chronology of who followed whom to the throne? Know this then, we teach you to read afresh what you already know, we teach you to interpret the stories already narrated to you.

Suffice it to say, from the middle of the eighteenth century, the writ of the Mughals was confined to the capital city of Delhi. Muslim governors became bold enough to declare independence in the provinces. There, thus emerged three important Muslim lineages – in Bengal, Hyderabad and Oudh. From the tenuous hold of the Mughals also snapped away Hindu kings. In the upheaval of the eighteenth century, there arose three great Hindu powers – the Marathas, the Sikhs and the Rajputs.

Three Hindu powers contended against three Muslim dynasties in several indecisive battles. Here, the Maratha won, there the Sikhs were defeated. Now, the Muslim king of Hyderabad was victorious, a little later, Oudh was vanquished. Through this confusion the Mughal emperor remained reconciled to his diminishing power. Indeed, the three Hindu powers could have rallied together to overthrow the Mughal dynasty. They could have then targeted the Muslim rulers of Bengal, Hyderabad and Oudh. Alas, wise sons, they lacked the foresight to combine and challenge the Muslim hegemony. They failed to exploit the opportunity for establishing the Hindu nation. O noble sons, the eighteenth century was a century of political stalemate between Hindus and Muslims.

Into this political equation entered the British. Their rise to power was spread over nearly two centuries. In 1600, Queen Elizabeth of England granted the East India Company the sole monopoly of eastern trade. Nine years later, an English mission under Captain Hawkins was granted the right to establish a factory in Surat. In 1615, Sir Thomas Roe visited the court of Emperor Jahangir. During his stay of three years there, Roe managed to gain the right to establish factories in Agra, Ahmadabad and Broach. In 1636, Madras was leased to them; they dropped anchor at Hugli, Patna and Casimbazar. In 1668, Bombay was transferred to the Company by King Charles II, who had received it as a dowry from the Portuguese.

But their trade suffered because of the prolonged war between Aurangzeb and Shivaji. The misgovernance in Bengal eroded their profits. The hefty customs duties the local chiefs imposed worsened their problems further. We very well know, peace and political stability are prerequisites to commerce and trade. And so, in December 1687, the directors of the East India Company decided to lay the ‘foundation of a secure English dominion in India for all time to come.’

Let us cut the story short, let us narrate your history in a few quick strokes. In October 1764, the British defeated the combined armies of Bengal, Oudh and Mughal emperor Shah Alam II. Compelled was the Mughal emperor to bestow on the British the right to collect revenue from Bengal, Bihar and Orissa. Thus was legitimized British rule in India. Thus was it allowed to strike roots in Indian soil. It was just a matter of time before the British wore down all resistance to their quest for domination. Clever were the British, they did not seek to conquer the entire country at once. They’d defeat a ruler, annex a portion of his kingdom, and appoint a British resident in his court to supervise administration. If the ruler persisted in his opposition, he would be brought to his knees through threats of yet another invasion.

Soon came the turn of the Marathas to countenance the might of the British. From 1765, the two were engaged in a series of battles. At every ceasefire, the British gained additional territories. In this manner, they nibbled away at the power and prestige of the Hindu state that Shivaji had established. In 1818, the kingdom of the Marathas was brought under British rule. Earlier, the Nawab of Oudh had been defeated in the battle of Buxar. He too was made to accept a British resident in his court. The last great Indian power to fall was the Sikh kingdom of Punjab. Defeated twice in successive battles, their state was directly annexed to the British empire in 1849.

Alas! India was enslaved again. The British ruined your handicrafts, destroyed your agriculture, and carried away to their country, raw materials at prices lower than the cost. They treated your motherland as a dumping ground for British manufacturers. About all this, the storytellers wax eloquent. They cite figures to prove their point. There is none more knowledgeable than them to talk about imperialism and colonialism. There’s none better than them in understanding the agenda underlying the theory of the white man’s burden. What they forget to tell is the manner in which the British broke the stalemate between Hindus and Muslims. What they ignore is the gradual empowerment of Hindus under British rule. What they conceal is how the British helped the Hindus to emerge from the dark ages. About all this, we will talk at length tomorrow. Till then, rise and raise your arms, rise and say Lord Ram.

They came down Rajpur Marg and felt the temperature drop as the road skirted along the edge of the Ridge. From the pillion, Rasheed asked Kris to slow down. He promptly cut the speed at which the motorbike began to sputter and billow a trail of smoke, allowing Rasheed to gaze around and see the degree to which this quiet quarter of the city matched his memory of it. During his years in Delhi University, located a kilometre or so further up, he and his friends would occasionally stroll up and down Rajpur Marg, and feel they had slipped back in time at the sight of quaint bungalows with sprawling compounds overlooking the Ridge.

‘It has changed,’ Rasheed muttered. ‘Where have the bungalows gone?’

‘I hardly ever came here,’ said Kris.

Rasheed was disappointed. His memory was at variance with the view he beheld. A few bungalows were tucked among apartment buildings he could not recall, much like extracts from ancient texts in a book written in the twentieth century, the language of quotations archaic and yet retaining their beauty and wisdom. ‘It’s a pity memory doesn’t age with time,’ Rasheed said. Kris continued to cruise down the road.

On Rajpur Marg, as elsewhere in the city, architects and real estate developers were rewriting history in stone. The romance the street had exuded was dying, and a new world was emerging from the rubble of the old, demolished in the maniacal search for more living space and greed for money. A way of living – and a style of architecture – was on the verge of extinction.

From the distance, they saw cars and motorcycles parked on either side of a stretch of the rather deserted Rajpur Marg, and presumed these vehicles belonged to those attending the meeting that Prof. Utpal Chatterjee had convened at the Centre for Gandhian Studies, against the author of Secret History. Kris wedged his motorbike between two cars and switched off the ignition.

Rasheed slid off the pillion, pushed back the sleeves of his sweat-shirt up to his elbows and adjusted the fork of his jeans. He stared at the building, its whiteness smudged by time, squatting in the middle of a four-acre plot. It looked decrepit, neglected, even abandoned, as if the wilderness of the Ridge was soon to claim it. Yet the building spoke of its past grandeur through its raised plinth, and a long, deep verandah with columns that overlooked a semicircular lawn, not mowed, it seemed, for weeks. A flight of ten steps, shaped in a semi-circle, led up to the verandah. Once there had been a boundary wall, of which there was no trace now. In its place, a barbed-wire fence separated the road from the semi-circular lawn, around which ran the graveled driveway connecting the entry and exit gates. The unkempt hedge of lantana bushes separated the driveway from the rectangular lawns which flanked the building. From where Rasheed was, he could not see the lawns, but only the amaltas and gulmohar trees at the far end of their perimeter.

‘It still looks the same?’ asked Kris, unzipping his jacket.

‘Yes,’ Rasheed replied. The Centre was Rajpur Marg’s only hope of preserving the past. Its association with Gandhi gave it a sanctity the realtor’s bulldozer could not violate.

‘I’m telling you again, don’t rush things,’ Kris said.

He was referring to their morning discussion over the advisability of Rasheed resigning from the Mirror. Kris had wanted Rasheed to take Ashok Kumar Bajpai into confidence and secure an extension of leave. But Rasheed had been unwilling: he couldn’t live the way he had; the future must not resemble his past, he had argued.

‘You are not required to choose now,’ Kris reiterated.

‘So much has changed,’ Rasheed said, looking around, oblivious to the irony of his statement.

They watched people saunter into the Centre. A little ahead, a tall, dark man, dressed in a blue kurta and white pajamas, alighted from a Maruti van. He glanced at them, before walking through the gate. A three-wheeler stopped near them. Two men and a woman got out. She was familiar, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she joined the Mathematics department the year they graduated? Time had changed her, made her plump.

‘Let’s go in,’ Kris said. They began to walk towards the gate.

Men and women were huddled in knots on the driveway, or sprawled on the semicircular lawn. A few were sitting on the steps of the verandah, basking in the sun. The atmosphere had the congeniality of a social gathering. There were professors and students, writers and activists. They were, in many ways, creators of memory, peeling away layers of incomprehension and forgetfulness shrouding the past, or ensuring what existed in the present wasn’t lost to the future.

A couple emerged through the gap in the overgrown hedge – a thin, short man in thick black framed glasses and a woman, a tad taller than him, in a cotton sari, with her hair cut short and parted in the middle. She was sipping tea from a plastic cup as she walked.

‘Ah, Ashish and Tanushree,’ a man with a shaggy beard, wearing denim trousers and a white shirt, greeted the couple.

‘Hi Dinesh,’ the bespectacled man said, stepping forward to shake his hand. ‘I thought you were still in Chicago.’

‘Returned last night,’ Dinesh Mehta said. ‘Saw Prof. Chatterjee’s invitation in the mail. I decided I must come despite the jet lag.’

‘Good,’ Ashish Mukherjee said, in a patronizing tone. ‘Did you read the same paper?’

‘Yeah,’ Dinesh replied. ‘Nation, ethnicity and violence. I incorporated some of your suggestions.’

Two or three groups broke up instantaneously to form a circle around the couple. Ashish Mukherjee was a historian of repute; his study of the national movement had punctured a few myths a nation usually creates on its liberation. Tanushree taught English, and her literary column was popular among the city’s elite. Ashish took out a cigarette; someone promptly provided the light.

‘Tanushree, where did you get the tea from?’ asked Vinod Pande, striding towards them. He was just two inches over five feet, rotund and boyish. A loose kurta concealed his girth. Younger than others in the group, his academic potential had Ashish Mukherjee’s endorsement.

‘Down there,’ Tanushree said, pointing to the lawn on the left, behind the lantana hedge. As Vinod Pande walked away, Ashish Mukherjee blew smoke in the air and remarked, ‘Good response. Must congratulate UC.’

‘Impressive student participation,’ Dinesh Mehta added.

‘Even Suman Kumar Jha is here,’ quipped the forty-something, beefy economist Sanjay Kumar, nodding towards the verandah.

Suman Kumar Jha was standing there puffing a beedi and talking to a bunch of students. Short and bearded, dressed in his regulation kurta-pajama, Jha (abbreviated to SKJ), was popular among students because they could walk over to his residence for late night sessions of coffee and discussions on what he called the Establishment, whose shadow he found looming everywhere. The Establishment, he’d say, was the bane of human existence. It sought to steamroll the individual; it crushed particularities and peculiarities; it strove to tame the recalcitrant. Jha was suspicious of conforming. Co-option scared him. That is why, he would tell the students, he had never joined any organized political activity on the campus. With the beedi smoke curling out of his lips, and the steaming cup of coffee keeping the dying hours of the night alive, SKJ would, once a year, tell his favourite batch of students, ‘Bete log, organized opposition is another way of securing consent.’

Not only did SKJ oppose power, he also opposed opposition to it. Every year, SKJ would organize a blood donation camp in the college where he taught. For him, it symbolized the unity of the human race. ‘There are just two classes in the world,’ he would declare, ‘donors and recipients.’

Dinesh Mehta whispered, ‘SKJ has mistaken this meeting for a blood camp.’

The group tittered. ‘His beedi smells awful,’ Tanushree said. ‘Hope he doesn’t smoke at the meeting.’

‘You can’t object,’ sociologist Ramesh Gupta remarked. He was lanky, clean-shaven and fair. In a light blue shirt, black trousers and a navy blue blazer, he was among the few at the Centre who were formally dressed. ‘And if you do, he’ll remind you that beedi is a working class smoke.’

They all laughed.

Sanjay Kumar, the economist, moved aside to let Vinod Pande join the circle, as he muttered, ‘SKJ will soon surprise all of you. His book is to be published soon.’

‘What’s the book about? Coffee?’ asked Ramesh Gupta.

‘Come on,’ Kumar said, simpering. ‘Though I am not absolutely sure, I think the title is something like Silence as Rejection of Power and Protest.’

‘All that beedi smoke has knocked out his grey cells,’ Tanushree remarked.

‘Wait till you see the book jacket,’ Sanjay Kumar continued. ‘It has the national emblem. But the faces of the lions have been substituted by those of donkeys. The famous cartoonist Irfan designed it just before he was murdered.’

‘The publisher has accepted it?’ Tanushree exclaimed.

‘What an idea,’ grinned Ramesh Gupta. ‘But to truly symbolize the state, the national emblem should have the donkey’s face, the elephant’s body, and the lion’s paws.’

Tanushree laughed out loud. ‘Ramesh, you should take up graphic designing.’

Ashish Mukherjee patted down his thin strands of hair, and crushed the cigarette stub under his shoe. ‘Silence as rejection,’ he said somberly. ‘Is SKJ implying that the silent multitude is in agreement with neither the state nor those who oppose it? I could go with it, really, I could. Tell me, what percentage of our population actively participated in the movement against the British? Five per cent, ten, at best twenty?’

Ramesh Gupta was engrossed in the alternative jacket design he had thought of. With an amused expression, he said, ‘My design symbolizes our times. The state thinks like a donkey but attacks ferociously.’

‘It has become tame these days,’ Ashish Mukherjee responded. ‘They stick the Secret History gibberish all over the city, they threaten to destroy the mosque in Ayodhya – and yet, all that the state has done is bray occasionally. Where is its deadly paw?’

Two women joined the group around Ashish and Tanushree. One of them was fair; her crumpled sari suggested she had come to the Centre straight from work. The other woman was dusky, tall and bony. She was in a yellow and white shalwar-kameez, and her hair was tied in a plait.

‘Anu,’ Dinesh said to the fair woman. ‘I had given up on you.’

‘Madhuri couldn’t get away from her meeting early,’ Anu replied, pointing to the woman next to her. Madhuri smiled self-consciously.

Dinesh turned to Ashish Mukherjee and said, ‘Madhuri works on a literacy programme in … Where?’

‘Saharanpur,’ Madhuri answered.

‘Yes, Saharanpur,’ Dinesh repeated. ‘She and her team recently toured different towns in north India to assess the impact of the Ayodhya agitation. I thought we should have her share her experiences with us.’

‘Is the situation bad?’ asked Vinod Pande.

‘Bad would be an understatement,’ Madhuri replied, with an air of superiority. They gawked at her, waiting to hear what she had to say as she tried to condense her group’s report in as few sentences as possible.

‘People are edgy,’ she said. ‘We came across new techniques to create tension. We were told in many towns that, suddenly, a group of men would be seen running down a crowded street. Believing they were fleeing from a rioting mob, others would rush indoors, too scared to even make inquiries. The streets would become deserted, as if the town was under curfew. Such incidents suggest a deliberate attempt to keep people in a state of permanent anxiety.’

She paused to catch her breath. It was obvious she hadn’t yet completed her narration. ‘Muslims feel besieged,’ she said. ‘At nights, they organize their own neighbourhood watch. They say they don’t trust the police. In some towns, you hear terrifying screams at night; you hear shouts of “bhaago, bhaago”. Do you know what these are?’

She paused and added dramatically, ‘Tape-recorded sounds.’

‘Let’s meet UC,’ Rasheed whispered to Kris.

They walked down the three steps, through the hedge, to reach the lawn laid below the graveled driveway. At the centre of the quadrangle was a pipal tree, under which was a wooden table. On it was a carton of plastic cups and a cylindrical container with a spigot.

‘There’s Prof. Chatterjee,’ Rasheed pointed out, recognizing him by his long hair, gelled and plastered to his scalp.

Prof. Utpal Chatterjee’s back was towards Kris and Rasheed. He was talking to the man in the blue kurta whom they had seen at the gate. Intermittently, the man would jerk his head to throw back the hair sliding down over his eyes.

Diagonal to Rasheed and Kris, to their left, about twenty metres away, was Ashok Kumar Bajpai. He was talking animatedly to a young woman in white trousers and blue shirt. Rasheed and Kris began to walk towards them, passing gaggles of students sprawled on the lawn, engaged in conversation. One group was discussing the deplorable performance of the Indian cricket team in South Africa. Could the temple movement in Ayodhya have adversely affected the morale of the team, one student asked. No stupid, responded another, the Indians were incapable of negotiating the steep bounce of the wickets in South Africa. A little ahead, a girl scratched her arm and bemoaned the Centre’s neglect of their property.

At the sight of Rasheed and Kris, Ashok Kumar Bajpai began to stroke his belly; his puffy, oval face crinkled into a sardonic smile: ‘Radicals can never be punctual, I say,’ he said.

‘We have been around,’ Kris protested.

‘Chalo,’ the woman said. ‘I will drop in at your office one of these days.’

Bajpai waited for her to move out of hearing distance. He turned to Rasheed and asked testily, ‘What happened?’

‘I was ill,’ Rasheed said stiffly.

‘Your friend, what’s her name, yes, Uma. That’s what she told me.’ The smirk on Bajpai’s face suggested he did not believe Rasheed. ‘Join the night shift today,’ he snapped. ‘There are two weeks left for 6 December. There’s tremendous pressure on all of us, I say.’

Kris glanced at Rasheed.

‘I won’t.’ Rasheed was curt.

‘Won’t?’

‘I’ve decided to resign,’ Rasheed said, his voice low and sharp. ‘I’m quitting journalism.’

‘Really?’ Bajpai exclaimed, screwing up his eyes in disbelief.

‘I won’t be coming to office, neither today nor in the future.’

Bajpai scowled, infuriated at the temerity of his subordinate staring back at him. ‘What about the notice period? Every employee is required to serve thirty days’ notice from the time he tenders his resignation. You haven’t even resigned officially.’

Pausing to let his words sink into Rasheed, Bajpai added sternly, ‘You have to serve the notice period, I say. All your dues will be withheld otherwise.’

Rasheed shrugged his shoulders.

‘What’s your plan?’ Bajpai insisted. ‘Which organisation are you joining?’

Kris glanced nervously at Rasheed.

‘In another six months I’ll migrate from India,’ Rasheed said.

It wasn’t an answer Kris had expected. He gaped at his friend.

‘I see,’ said Bajpai ‘Where?’

‘Let it become pucca,’ said Rasheed.

There was a glint in Bajpai’s eyes. The business of migration sounded phony to him. Just because the bastard was quitting the Mirror, he felt emboldened to behave cockily with him? Inexcusable, unforgivable behaviour, he thought. Of all the guys on the desk, he had rated these two high, even taken them out for drinks. They were insolent and ungrateful. But, realizing it was futile to flaunt authority before someone who had decided to resign, and thinking the best way to overwhelm him was to behave contrary to expectations, Bajpai smiled and threw his arm around Rasheed’s shoulder.

‘Your decision,’ Bajpai said. ‘But six months is a long time to sit idle at home.’

It was a gesture unexpected of Bajpai. He had initiated reconciliation, and it was now Rasheed’s turn to reciprocate. He had behaved in pique, because of the tone in which he had been spoken to.

Speaking softly, in feigned mirth, Rasheed said, ‘I could use the time to bust those behind the Secret History papers.’

Bajpai laughed, dropping his arm from Rasheed’s shoulder. And because the tension between them seemed to have ebbed, he didn’t want to return to the topic of his resignation. So Rasheed continued, ‘I am all for Kris’s idea. We should start with those who paste the History papers in the city every night. Follow them, bribe them, do whatever we can to find out who they work for. It is obvious the authorities won’t stop them.’

‘Do whatever we can,’ repeated Bajpai, mockingly. ‘And if they don’t tell you, what do you intend to do, subject them to the third degree?’

Bajpai was amused. Two young men in their earnestness were contemplating an implausible action.

‘Get real,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you are up against.’ His smile changed into a thoughtful pout. He added, ‘Prof. Chatterjee plans to form a committee today. I suggest the two of you volunteer for it. Let’s meet him, I say, he was looking for the two of you.’

As they began to walk towards the pipal tree, Ashish Mukherjee emerged through the gap in the hedge and shouted, ‘UC, let’s begin the meeting.’

‘This migration business is a load of bullshit, I say,’ Bajpai remarked suddenly, deadpan. ‘You can’t fool me.’

‘It’s true,’ Kris said, ‘He has already disposed of most of the household stuff.’

Bajpai didn’t say anything.

There was a flurry of activity around the lawn. Prof. Chatterjee strode towards the steps. The man in the blue kurta was a few paces behind. Those on the ground had started to pick themselves up, dusting their bottoms and scratching their arms.

Prof. Chatterjee stopped and exclaimed, ‘Look, who’s here: Kris, Rasheed!’

They had last met the professor at the time he had come to their office, two years ago. He matched the image preserved in their memory of him: the top two buttons of the shirt were open, the spectacles were gold-rimmed, and the sickle-scar glistened on his chin.

Holding out his hand to Kris, Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘I read your story on the football match. Great stuff.’

‘Rasheed’s eyes,’ he said, shaking his hand, ‘are as inscrutable as ever.’

‘More so today,’ Bajpai said. ‘They want to volunteer for the committee.’

‘Good,’ Prof Chatterjee said, nodding at them. Fingering his sickle-scar, he continued, ‘Bajpai, can you come along with me? Want to discuss something with you.’

Kris and Rasheed watched them disappear behind the hedge. The man in the blue kurta glanced at them.

‘Behan chod,’ sighed Kris, ‘you carried the migration business too far.’

‘His tone,’ Rasheed muttered, shaking his head disapprovingly.

‘Want tea?’ asked Kris, moving towards the table.

Rasheed thought he shouldn’t have come to the Centre. Instead, he should have inserted an advertisement in a newspaper inviting those facing imminent death to contact him. They could have together formed a society of blighted fates, hopeless lives, medical cases on the verge of becoming history: Society of the Sick and Dying. SO SAD. A body of people doomed to irreversible sadness. Perhaps he could have had SO SAD pass a resolution condemning the author of Secret History.

Rasheed felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the man in the blue kurta. ‘Halim. Rasheed Halim, no?’ the man said, jerking his head.

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t recognize me, no?’ the man continued. ‘I heard Prof. Chatterjee address you, or else I wouldn’t have known either. All of us change, no? Krishnamurthy, your classmate. Edayathu Pochiah Krishnamurthy. Remember, no?’

Smiling, Krishnamurthy stepped forward to embrace Rasheed.

‘Uma says you still remember me,’ Krishnamurthy said, laughing, ‘as that little boy who was spanked daily.’

‘You are a software engineer, right?’ Rasheed watched Kris gulp down the tea as he walked towards them.

Krishnamurthy smiled warmly. ‘Must have surprised you, no? Failure, zero at arithmetic, and now in software development. Life is full of ironies, no? I, too, stay in Hemant Kunj. We should meet for drinks.’

Kris reached them and tossed the cup away. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, glancing at Krishnamurthy.

‘Kris, this is Krishnamurthy,’ Rasheed said. ‘We were classmates in school.’

‘In fifth grade, meeting for the first time since then,’ Krishnamurthy added.

‘You guys recognized each other, behan chod?’

Krishnamurthy winced at the expletive. ‘We were expecting each other here,’ he said.

Rasheed and Kris entered the hall, behind Krishnamurthy. They took the two vacant seats in the last row, to the left of the aisle. Krishnamurthy moved up. Along the length of two walls, white in colour, were book racks, each seven feet in height. The hall was poorly ventilated and claustrophobic. On the wall opposite the entrance, was a large portrait of Gandhi. Beneath it, painted in black, was the line: An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.

The invitees were sitting in groups they had formed earlier. Vinod Pande was with Ashish Mukherjee and Tanushree. Ramesh Gupta and Sanjay Kumar were a row behind, third from the front, with the aisle separating them from Dinesh Mehta, Anu and Madhuri. About eighty of the hundred chairs were occupied.

Prof. Utpal Chatterjee and Ashok Kumar Bajpai stepped in from the door on the right, far up the hall. Leading them was a short man in a khadi kurta-pajama. His hair was dishevelled. Prof. Chatterjee and Bajpai stopped where SKJ was, in the chair extreme right of the front row. The man in khadi continued to walk purposefully across the hall, and on reaching the top of the aisle, he turned to the audience and smiled.

‘Friends,’ he said, the flat tone of his voice in contrast to his smile. ‘I, Ramchandra Sharma, director of the Centre for Gandhian Studies, welcome you.’ He was to the point. ‘Every morning the author of Secret History incites people to demolish the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya and resort to violence. What is alarming is that we haven’t heard voices publicly express their opposition to Secret History. When I came to know that Prof. Utpal Chatterjee planned to convene a meeting against Secret History, I offered him the use of the Centre’s premises for the noble purpose he had in mind. I request the professor to begin and moderate the meeting.’

Ramchandra Sharma swiftly moved down the aisle and took a chair in the fourth row, behind Dinesh Mehta. Prof. Chatterjee reached the spot from where the director had spoken. A half-smile played on his lips. His eyes swept across the hall. Then he said, loud and clear, ‘At the root of our anguish is politics.’

Prof. Chatterjee pursed his lips before continuing, ‘In a collectivity, it is only natural for a multiplicity of ideas about the future to exist. Each of these ideas seeks to determine the way the society should organise itself to realise its collective potential. Ladies and gentleman, this is the fount of politics.’

Prof. Chatterjee had spoken the last sentence with a flourish. He began to rub his neck gently, as was his wont. ‘We negotiate among these competing ideas or visions of society, and choose which among them we should implement. Democracy is the method of exercising this choice. It allows a group of citizens, organized as a political outfit, to present their blueprint for the future before the people and ask: do you accept our vision and repose faith in us to realize it?’

His voice turned soft, and his hand dropped from the neck, as he said, ‘To many here, what I am saying will sound quite elementary. Bear with me. It’s important to outline the reasons for our anguish to our younger audience.’ He removed his gold-rimmed spectacles, quickly rubbed the lens against his shirt and put them on again.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘democracy enables us to choose one among competing visions and temporarily bestow power upon its proponents to implement their blueprint for the future, for transforming society.’ Subtly assuming the interrogative tone people adopt to articulate a contrarian point, he continued, ‘But it is likely for people to conclude that a particular blueprint has failed to realize the promised goals, that an alternative must be sought and tried, perhaps from those rejected earlier. Democratic politics is a perpetual competition among proponents of competing visions to win or retain the endorsement of people.’

A few in the audience were shaking their heads in disagreement.

‘It’s true my description of politics is far removed from reality,’ he said, anticipating the criticism of a section of the audience. ‘But through this description, I seek to evolve a method of judging human action. For, ladies and gentlemen, politics is ultimately about action.’

Prof. Chatterjee caressed his sickle-scar, as if trying to distil from it the essence of his experiences in life. ‘Ah-ha,’ he exclaimed. ‘Are all visions of the future justified? Are all blueprints acceptable? Isn’t there anything beyond the pale, taboo, forbidden?’

It was obvious Prof. Chatterjee was to talk about Secret History.

‘Should we oppose the author of Secret History?’ Prof. Chatterjee asked. His eyes panned the hall before he declared dramatically, ‘Yes, we must.’ He added, ‘So then: why is his blueprint beyond the pale?’

He lowered the pitch of his voice as he argued, ‘A blueprint can be faulty in its conception. It can be found wanting in creating a better future for society. Indeed, what appears exceptional today could, in future, turn out to be a case of gross misjudgement, a recipe for disaster, a tragedy beyond imagination. It is therefore incumbent upon us to minimize the cost a blueprint entails, to have the humility to accept our limitations and not commit follies we cannot undo. Can we in the present know the irrevocable mistakes of our future? Can we commit ourselves to action in a way its result does not condemn us eternally?’

Prof. Chatterjee paused to clear his throat. ‘Not commit follies we cannot undo. Indeed, politics must keep outside the ambit of choice, that which is irrevocable and irreversible. For us, sacred is what we cannot reverse. It is this which is not negotiable, and cannot be sacrificed on the altar of progress and collective good, or subjected to a vote and popularity contest.’

He paused again and asked, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what is irreversible?’

‘Death,’ he said.

Kris glanced at Rasheed.

‘Death,’ the professor continued, raising his voice again. ‘I mean death in the larger sense: the very condition of death, what is anti-life. This cannot be on the agenda. This isn’t negotiable, because you cannot, once the enormity of the mistake dawns on you, return what you have taken away. All actions must pass the test of revocation. It requires us to ask: are the consequences of a contemplated action reversible?

‘What does anti-life mean? A blueprint is anti-life if, for instance, it makes an individual feel less than a human being, or inferior to others. Anti-life is brutalizing. Ambiguous, isn’t it? Those prone to dissimulation will screw up their eyes and look confused. The others know the rule of empathy. You ask the question: Will I accept for myself the conditions a blueprint imposes on others? No? Well then, you must oppose even the most popular agenda.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Prof. Utpal Chatterjee said with a flourish, ‘the author of Secret History instigates people to kill; his vision is anti-life. He fails the tests of revocation and empathy. Secret History isn’t just another worldview, an idea among ideas, an extreme point of our ideological spectrum. Ladies and gentlemen, even with all the support the author might garner, his politics will remain beyond the pale. We have to oppose it.’

University students erupted into a thunderous applause. Others, too, joined them, though not as enthusiastically. Dinesh Mehta was on his feet.

Prof. Chatterjee gestured to the audience to become silent.

‘UC,’ Dinesh said, ‘your description of politics favours status quo. For the benefit of students present here, and I think they are an important reason why this meeting has been convened, I must say your portrayal of politics is simplistic.’

‘Excuse me,’ SKJ interjected, getting up.

‘I’m not finished yet,’ Dinesh said, tousling his beard in irritation. ‘It’s true that groups of people, or political parties, compete with each other to win for their blueprints the people’s support, but then this competition is often one of conflict. Different blueprints represent different interests, and each seeks, one way or another, to determine the distribution of power in society, consequently bringing groups into conflict. And …’

‘My analysis of politics did not rule that out,’ Prof. Chatterjee countered. ‘I only wanted to explain why certain political agendas are illegitimate.’

‘In the politics of conflict,’ Dinesh argued, ‘it is not always possible to adhere to the tests of revocation and empathy. For instance …’

SKJ couldn’t hold himself back. ‘Mr Dinesh Mehta seeks to ideologically justify violence of a particular kind,’ he said, ‘We are all acquainted with his brand of politics.’

Ramesh Gupta quipped, without getting up from the chair. ‘Blood donation camps don’t need ideological justification.’

‘Nor does banal criticism,’ SKJ shot back. ‘I’m afraid nitpicking …’

‘Nitpicking!’ Dinesh exclaimed. ‘I guess you only understand silence.’

‘Please,’ Prof. Chatterjee intervened, trying to pacify the speakers.

In a quivering voice, Dinesh continued, ‘In the politics of conflict, it’s not always possible to adhere to the tests of revocation and empathy. For instance, a blueprint for radical land reforms will almost necessarily invite a backlash from landlords. It will, again, necessarily spawn hatred between two sections of people. A blueprint that seeks to promote a more equitable distribution of power will always do so.’

Prof. Chatterjee shook his head. ‘I don’t get the point of your criticism.’

‘Let me reformulate Dinesh’s question,’ Ramesh Gupta said in a serious vein. ‘Is a blueprint that leads to violence, not because the proponents preach or foment it, but because their paranoid opponents resort to it as a sabotage strategy, any better than one explicitly propagating hatred? By your definition, both are anti-life.’

‘Exactly,’ Dinesh said.

Prof. Chatterjee glanced at his watch, to somehow convey to those arguing with him that they had assembled here for quite another reason. He said, ‘Democracy, no doubt, is about exercising choice. It’s also about bowing to popular will. Since you haven’t specified, I assume those who will take recourse to violence are in a minority, because only they would want to oppose a blueprint that has won popular endorsement.’ He paused and added emphatically, ‘The minority in any referendum should acquiesce to the will of the majority. The only conditions are that the blueprint must pass the tests of revocation and empathy. Your land reforms example passes the twin tests.’

But Dinesh hadn’t run out of steam. He said, ‘What do you say of a situation in which those who are to lose out resort to preemptive violence, or worse, subvert the popular blueprint, say, through state power and money? What do you do then?’

Across the aisle, Ramesh Gupta added, ‘Let me put it this way: are we opposed to violence against the violence of the powerful?’

‘Well,’ answered Prof. Chatterjee, with his hand around his neck. His eyelashes fluttered behind the lenses. He wanted to articulate his thoughts beyond rebuttals. ‘Let me tell you,’ he said softly, ‘those who possess power, those who control the state, always secretly want their opponents to resort to violence. It enables them to justify their ruthless oppression, you see.’

Dinesh responded, ‘So violence becomes an issue of strategy, not morality.’

‘Is violence justified against an illegitimate agenda?’ Ramesh Gupta asked. ‘Suppose India accepts the author’s blueprint tomorrow, are we justified in resorting to violence against its proponents?’

Ramchandra Sharma stood up, raising both his arms as soldiers do to announce surrender. ‘Why this, why this debate?’ he moaned. ‘It is odd to talk of violence here, in this institute. I can’t understand this obsession with violence.’

Ashish Mukherjee took the cue. He got up and said, ‘We can sharpen our definitions at leisure. For the moment, we should think of a course of action on issues we are in agreement upon: how can we ideologically counter the author? What measures can we initiate to ensure Secret History doesn’t appear in the city?’

‘Excuse me,’ said SKJ, lighting a beedi.

‘Please,’ Tanushree protested. ‘No smoking, please.’

SKJ took two quick drags and crushed the beedi on the floor. Pointing to Dinesh, he said, ‘I hope the gentleman there understands we can’t oppose the author and yet support a particular brand of violence.’

Dinesh sprang to his feet. But even before he could speak, Prof. Chatterjee implored, ‘Please Dinesh, let us concentrate on the two issues Ashish has identified. Our intervention must be quick and effective.’

Sitting down, Dinesh muttered under his breath, ‘Bloody idiot.’ Those sitting around him tittered.

The professor asked, ‘Any suggestion?’

Several hands were promptly raised. Prof. Chatterjee gestured at Krishnamurthy to speak. Tossing his head to push back the hair sliding down over his eyes, Krishnamurthy said, ‘We can’t stop Secret History from appearing in the city. We don’t know who the author is, and who’s behind its distribution.’

Kris had, meanwhile, stood up, holding the jacket which he had taken off in the stuffy hall. Self-conscious, he said, ‘We should identify the author.’ Those in the front rows had turned around to look at the speaker. He felt awkward; he wasn’t accustomed to public speaking. Swallowing hard a couple of times, he added, ‘It’s important for us to know who we are opposing. It’s only then can we hope to prevent the Secret History papers from appearing in the city.’

‘Why?’ shot back Tanushree. ‘It’s the duty of the state to ensure such scurrilous writing does not appear in the public arena.’

‘I think it is irrelevant to know who the author is,’ Ashish Mukherjee added. ‘For, ultimately, he can be defeated only through a mobilization of public opinion against him. Much needs to be done, and fast.’

‘NGOs could be of help,’ Madhuri suggested. ‘I think a meeting between university teachers and NGOs should be organized.’

Dinesh Mehta asked Prof. Chatterjee whether he knew what Madhuri and her team had found on their tour of north India. ‘Let her speak,’ Dinesh said. ‘It will give us an idea of what we are up against.’

Madhuri was on her feet, detailing the new ploys adopted in towns, remote from Delhi, for fanning tension. She talked of miscreants playing recorded sounds to torment people. They listened to her in silence, aghast at the ingenuity of those wedded to the idea of violence, as also stunned at the challenge confronting them.

‘We need peace committees,’ the plump mathematics lecturer said.

‘We don’t need it in Delhi, nothing will happen here,’ Vinod Pande declared.

‘Well,’ remarked SKJ, ‘have you forgotten what happened in Delhi in 1984?’

‘I think,’ economist Sanjay Kumar said, ‘We should form different groups and conduct discussions at each of the colleges affiliated to Delhi University. The idea should be to win, as they say, the hearts and minds of people.’

‘Schools,’ someone added. ‘If we are not looking for immediate results, I think we should begin from school – English medium, Hindi medium, government school.’

‘We should have a long-term perspective. But,’ Ashish Mukherjee pointed out, ‘there also has to be a plan for the immediate. We need a committee which could coordinate our activities and, to begin with, draft a resolution asking the government to take appropriate measures to prevent the appearance of Secret History in the city. The committee could present the resolution to the President of India. Our friends in the media can be relied upon to highlight this. Likewise, we should organize a protest march. We should write opinion pieces in newspapers and contest the author’s dubious history lessons.’

Kris started to laugh. What he had been in dread of was to happen now. His laughter, initially, had been barely audible. But a few, those sitting around him, had turned to look at him. Kris saw the confusion in their eyes, and their inability to comprehend what amused him. The earnestness with which they were immersed in their plan to counter the author of Secret History, he realized, was an attempt to camouflage their own helplessness. As honourable men who were opposed to the author and alarmed by his popularity, they understood that, morally, a commitment to action was required of them. But they knew they had woken to the challenge too late, or their commitment did not run deep, or that they were aware that, without an organization having money and clout, their contemplated action was bound to be ineffectual. This was why they were content to do just enough, what would suffice to counter the voices of reproach in them. For, it was obvious to Kris – and he was sure it was to them too – that what they were planning was inadequate to vanquish the author.

As Kris understood their compulsions, his laughter became louder. All heads in the hall were now turned towards him. Prof. Chatterjee looked puzzled, Bajpai appeared amused at the discomfiture of the audience while Ashish Mukherjee frowned.

Certain he had their attention, Kris said, ‘What I hear is hilarious. Should I tell you what will be achieved from the plans you have been discussing?’

No one in the hall spoke.

‘Take the suggestion of petitioning the President,’ Kris continued, modulating his voice to ensure he did not sound insulting. ‘Surely you know what happens to such petitions. These are despatched to the Home Ministry, where they lie buried in a file. The media will mostly ignore it. But because the news editor of the Mirror is here, your petition might get about 10 cm of space, not on the front page though. Forget about it.’

Kris had ended his submission, and yet they remained silent, believing he was to now unfold his own plan. But Kris desisted from offering suggestions.

‘I think what he … what’s your name?’ asked SKJ, grinning.

‘Krishna Kumar, Kris,’ Prof. Chatterjee prompted.

‘I think he’s telling us to stop shamming.’

‘What should we do then? Wring our hands in dismay?’ Ramesh Gupta asked.

The hall echoed with laughter.

‘Dramatic situations need dramatic responses. We could go on hunger strike, fast unto death,’ suggested Ramchandra Sharma, the Centre’s director.

‘You must have someone famous to sit with you, or otherwise—am I right Krishna Kumar—who cares?’ Ramesh Gupta said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘All protests have become routine, consequently ineffectual,’ SKJ remarked.

‘And for a change,’ exclaimed Ramesh Gupta. ‘I agree with him.’

Again, the hall echoed with laughter.

‘But, let me tell you,’ Ashish Mukherjee said forcefully, ‘your suggestion of identifying the author will take us nowhere. We all know who is behind Secret History: it is the Organization. And what’s called the Organization isn’t tangible. It is akin to a rumour. We don’t even have proof of its existence.’

‘It’s dangerous,’ Bajpai added. ‘Deadly is the word, I say.’

‘Right,’ agreed Ashish Mukherjee.

‘To be precise, it’s rumoured to be dangerous,’ corrected SKJ. ‘For the attribute of what is a rumour can only be a rumour.’

University students applauded. As the hall quieted down, Prof. Chatterjee asked, ‘Now, Kris, assume you have identified the author, what next?’

Puzzled, Kris asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘For one,’ SKJ said, sneering, ‘you would have proved the Organization’s guilt. You would have proved that the Organization isn’t just a rumour. We are old and our blood has gone cold. Kris wants to link the Secret History papers to the Organization, and I think we should guide him.’

The last two rows of the hall clapped rapturously. Once the applause subsided, Ashish Mukherjee continued, ‘If that is the verdict of this house, I am willing. But …’

His voice was drowned in whoops of delight and cries of affirmation.

Ashish Mukherjee continued, ‘But this shouldn’t be at the exclusion of other proposals. We should protest; we should influence public opinion. That is important. Ultimately, what is the Organization all about? It’s an idea around which some people rallied. Once confined to the periphery, it is now dictating terms, it dominates us. Why? We were asleep, that’s why.’

There was a murmur in the hall, expressing agreement with Ashish Mukherjee.

Ashok Kumar Bajpai raised his hand and began to speak, ‘From today, aren’t we collectively responsible for anything any person here in the hall does?’

Ashish Mukherjee said, ‘In a way, yes.’

‘That’s my worry, I say,’ Bajpai continued. ‘Kris and his friend Rasheed will accuse me of betrayal but we can’t allow them – or others – to pursue what they had suggested to me before the meeting.’

‘What?’ Ashish Mukherjee asked.

‘They think we should apprehend those who paste the History papers and extract information from them, I say,’ said Bajpai.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ shouted a university student.

‘The author wants violence, let’s give him a taste of it,’ suggested another.

The rows of students at the back began to clap. The director of the Centre shook his head disapprovingly.

‘We can’t take the law into our own hands,’ Mukherjee said.

‘I know, I understand that,’ agreed Kris.

‘I think,’ Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘we should form a core committee to supervise our work, relating to what both Ashish Mukherjee and Kris have suggested. Students should be in the larger team of volunteers, to implement the committee’s decisions. Those who wish to offer their services for the team of volunteers should register their names with Ashish Mukherjee.’

‘Yes,’ replied Ashish Mukherjee. ‘I am willing. But you should lead the committee. Anyone has any objection?’

There was none.

Ashish Mukherjee said, ‘UC, please form the committee. Those volunteering to join it should be sure that they can devote time for the core committee’s work.’

‘I think Kris and Rasheed should be there,’ Bajpai said. ‘And I, to control them.’

Some members in the audience smiled. There was excitement in the hall. Prof. Chatterjee took out a pad from his pocket and wrote down their names. ‘Any volunteers?’ he asked.

Krishnamurthy raised his hand.

‘Krishnamurthy,’ the professor said, writing down his name.

SKJ offered his services.

‘If he’s there, then I should be there too,’ Ramesh Gupta said.

‘No women volunteers?’ asked Prof. Chatterjee.

Someone took Tanushree’s name. She nodded her consent.

‘One more volunteer,’ Prof. Chatterjee said.

A person at the back, in the right corner of the hall, raised his hand. The professor couldn’t recognize him.

‘Your name?’

‘Dr Vikram Rathore,’ he said.

‘Yes … Dr Rathore,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘Okay, the committee shall meet tomorrow at 2.30 p.m., same place.’

The aisle was filled with people. University students walked to Kris to shake his hand and talk to him. Rasheed moved back to give room to the admirers of his friend, astonished, as also furious at the presence of Dr Vikram Rathore at the Centre. He did not belong here, as much sartorially, dressed as he was in his customary black trousers, white shirt and tie, as by inclination. Rasheed saw Dr Rathore look at him expectantly. He smiled tentatively at his patient.

Rasheed Halim abruptly turned around and walked out the exit.

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only twelve days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

O wise sons, we are not ashamed to declare: British rule was necessary for you to recover your confidence. We do not shy away from saying: you needed the British to propel you out of the dark ages. Only under them could a glorious civilization discover its antiquity, the fact it had survived over centuries in continuity. Only under them did you learn to take pride in your heritage. You look amazed, you say this is balderdash. You remember the freedom movement, the fight Mahatma Gandhi spearheaded against the colonial rule. You are confused, a voice in you whispers, beware of the writer of history, for he praises British rule.

O wise sons, we tell you, history isn’t a movie in which the villain always does evil. So ask: did the British loot your temples and render your gods homeless? Did they break idols and impose religious taxes on you? Did they raid the Somnath Temple repeatedly? O Hindus, we teach you the truth, we teach you to counter falsehoods. In us are absent the prejudices of those storytellers, their wily ways and ingenious sophistry. Understand it then, the British came to India as traders and merchants. Missing in them was the proselytizing zeal of Babar the Barbarian. Never was it their principal aim to convert your ancestors to their religion.

We know you want to cite the example of Christian missionaries to prove our assertion wrong. Know it then, the Christian missionaries, unlike the Muslim ulema, did not receive state patronage. Unlike them, the British did not spread their faith under the shadow of the sword. Persuasion was the key, blandishment was the other trick in their armoury. But never were your ancestors asked to choose between death and Christianity. This is why the missionaries had only limited success in your motherland. To test our thesis, compare the population of Muslims and Christians. Ask: why are Christians in such small numbers in your country? For the first time in centuries, the link between state and church was severed. For the first time in centuries, the state did not discriminate against citizens on the basis of their religion.

Centuries of Muslim rule had emasculated your forefathers. Defensive had they become about gods and goddesses, worthless did they think were their schools of philosophy and religious scriptures. To these they now turned without fear, critically analyzing the weaknesses in their sources of tradition. No wonder the nineteenth century saw the birth of religious reformers, from Raja Rammohan Roy to Dayanand Saraswati to Swami Vivekananda. They questioned the caste system. They talked about the rights of women. They challenged the ills plaguing your social system, such as untouchability.

Gradually, under British rule, you overcame your amnesia about the greatness of your forefathers. In the rediscovery of your roots, the British helped you immensely. In 1784, Sir William Jones founded the Asiatic Society. It initiated the task of making accessible Sanskrit works to the British. His colleague Charles Wilkins translated the Bhagvad Gita, Jones rendered into English Kalidasa’s Shakuntala, as he did Manusmriti and Gita Govinda in quick succession. Stunned was the world at the genius of your ancestors. Amazed was it at the profundity of the Vedas. The rediscovery of ancient India took another turn in 1837. James Princep interpreted the Brahmi script and deciphered the edicts of Ashoka the Great. Astonishing was the discovery of the Indus Valley Civilization. Its antiquity was dated all the way back to the middle of the third millennium bc. Witness what Babar the Barbarian did to you, see what the British did to help you overcome your inferiority complex.

O wise sons, isn’t it true that the British created new opportunities for employment? A modern administration different from that of the Mughals needed people other than the elite under Muslim rule. The courts needed barristers and judges, schools and universities teachers and professors, trading companies their clerks and managers. To English schools did the Hindus send their children, confident that they wouldn’t turn away from their roots. To trade did your ancestors take, certain that the rule of the sword had come to an end. To modern ideas did your forefathers turn, aware that a culture could be rejuvenated through the coming together of East and West.

In this gradual manner was the political stalemate of the eighteenth century decided in favour of the Hindus. You began to monopolize government jobs reserved for Indians. You started to dominate trade and industry in several provinces. A new middle-class among the Hindus began to emerge in the nineteenth century, professional and educated and modern in its outlook. Hindu in its ethos, and Hindu in its culture, it began to devote itself to the service of the motherland. It sought to understand the reasons for India’s backwardness. It tried to remove the causes responsible for the country’s enslavement. It began to demand the right for deciding the destiny of the motherland.

What do you think the Muslims were doing? And what do you think was their response to British rule? Deeply suspicious of the English language, they continued to send their children to madrassas. To the Holy Book they turned, believing their transgressions had undermined Muslim rule. Deprived of power and denied of state patronage, they started to slip behind those who were once their subjects. Any possibility of Muslims staging a comeback was delivered the final blow through the disarming of the Indian population. No longer could arms be possessed without government licence. Great was the consequence of this decision. For, those who relied on violence to rule were now deprived of their primary instrument of power.

We can see you smile, we can hear you tell each other, British rule was beneficial, for it broke the political stalemate between Hindus and Muslims. You are shocked at the duplicity of those storytellers, you are angry at what they had concealed from you. In you, there is the lament – O writer of history, why didn’t you counter the storytellers decades before? Why did you allow them to spread lies and falsehoods? The fault, wise sons, is as much yours as ours. We spoke in whispers but you never strained your ears to listen to us. Our voices were muted but you never encouraged us to speak aloud. We waited patiently but you never came to us to ask what we wanted to tell you. The time has now come to educate you about the treachery of Muslims, the manner in which they sabotaged your struggle for independence. We will tell you about the ways the Muslims collaborated with the British to check the Hindus from coming to power. It is then you will understand the inevitability of the battle between the two communities. It is only then you will come to Ayodhya to reclaim what is yours. Rise and raise your arms, rise and say, Lord Ram.

At 1.50 p.m., Rasheed opened the door and was relieved to see Sheela standing outside. ‘Kyun bulaya?’ she asked, saying that she had been surprised to receive his summons last evening, delivered through the maid from the flat across the landing. Just because she had come late in the day he should not think of her as a matlabi who didn’t feel obliged to him for the sweaters and blankets he had given her. It wasn’t that, she said; she couldn’t come in the morning because, bhagwan qasam, it had been impossible for her to find time then.

In Rasheed’s left hand was the sheaf of Secret History papers. He glanced at his wrist watch and gestured her to come inside. He was impatient. The meeting at the Centre for Gandhian Studies was to commence at 2.30 p.m. and it could take him anywhere between sixty and ninety minutes to reach there. Closing the door behind her, Rasheed thrust the sheaf of papers before her.

Sheela gazed at his face and gushed, ‘Theek lag rahe ho.’ Shaking her head in disbelief, she said on that afternoon – two, three, no, four days back – forget the exact date, but the day following the evening she had taken sweaters and blankets and the duplicate key, she had, as she had promised, entered the house to find it khaali, without the furniture and the refrigerator, and her Muslim boy dozing in the easy chair, oblivious to her shouting and clapping, just like those drug addicts.

‘Yaad hai?’ she asked. Rasheed nodded, and waved the papers at her. ‘Dekho, isko dekho.’

‘Kidhar gaya furniture?’

Her question irritated Rasheed. But he restrained himself. He said he had gifted it to a friend because he planned to replace it.

Sheela clicked her tongue at the irony. On that afternoon, at the sight of him, she had even contemplated calling for help until, mysteriously, because of divine will, she said, there had appeared a sahib-friend of his to assure her about his health.

Rasheed knit his eyebrows in confusion. Who was the person who had visited him? It couldn’t have been any of his colleagues: not even Kris had then known he had cancelled his holiday and stayed behind in the city. But thinking it had to be Wasim Khan, and apprehensive of Sheela’s jabber, he waved the sheaf of papers at her.

Sheela had noticed his eyes flicker with surprise. Strange was the world of these sahibs, full of suspicion and secrecy, quite unlike what it was in the jhuggi-jhopri. First, the sahib-guest requested her to keep his visit secret; then he didn’t, as he had promised, inform the Muslim boy about it. And so she said, to confirm her suspicion, surely the visitor sahib had told him about her, that it was she who had let him in?

Rasheed slapped the sheaf of papers on his thigh and shouted, ‘Damn you.’

She didn’t understand those English words. The tone of his voice, though, told her she had been cursed. Doe-eyed, she stared reproachfully at him.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Please dekho isko,’ he implored.

Sheela took the sheaf from him. As she ran her eyes across the paper on the top, her expression changed, from astonishment to confusion and fear. Her recognition was visual and tactile: the paper was full of words, similar to the kind the big machine in the new sahib’s house spat out daily. Sheela touched the brown adhesive strips – these were exactly the kind she handled daily. She continued to riffle through the sheaf. The murmur of her heart segued into loud beats, in rhythm with her growing suspicion.

He silently watched her, realizing she couldn’t verify whether these were the same papers to which she had stuck the brown adhesive strips. Sheela’s rudimentary reading skills didn’t include deciphering the English language.

She felt his eyes pierce into her, in the manner of a police constable. The Muslim boy’s demeanour riled her. Couldn’t he recall her description of the big machine with the TV screen, and the way it spat out papers full of words, black in colour, beyond her comprehension? And didn’t she tell him that she was required to paste sticky brown strips to those papers for a salary quite incredible? And wasn’t it he who told her that there was nothing illegal about her new employment?

Na, na, Sheela thought. She should have listened to her inner voice and not accepted the new job. She cursed her fate. And she cursed her ignorance. The world was perpetually tilted against people like her. Why did her Bhagwan create two languages – one for the poor, the other for the rich, and giving them the advantage of understanding both? Had she been educated, she could have read the printed papers and judged on her own whether or not to accept the lucrative employment.

She began to fashion out her own response: she wouldn’t tell the Muslim boy anything more than she had already done; she wouldn’t betray her employer who paid her lavishly. No more treachery, no more disloyalty to the leader of the jhuggi-jhopri who had recommended her for the new job. There was also the issue of security. In less than a week the jhuggi-jhopri leader had warned her twice against disclosing the nature of her job to anyone.

Her expression confirmed Rasheed’s suspicion. He didn’t need to be told explicitly that the papers in her hands were the kind she worked upon daily.

‘Sheela,’ he said, hoping to coax her into speaking.

Was she to now deceive her Muslim boy? Lie to him?

He deserved it, she thought, for the condescending indifference he had displayed at the time she had sought his advice. And now, after she had already allocated surplus cash under different heads of expenditure, the Muslim boy wanted her to renounce the new world she had embraced. He could not persuade her to abandon the new job. It was too late for that – besides, she didn’t want to.

Yet her heart continued to thump. Why had the Muslim boy called her over to identify these papers? Had she been trapped in a crime?

Rasheed looked into her eyes. In a stern tone, he said he had been reminded of her new job the moment he had seen these papers. The brown strips, the brown strips, he repeated to emphasize the point. Wasn’t she required to stick the brown strips to papers at the new sahib’s house? Hadn’t she been puzzled at the inordinately high salary paid to her for such a simple job? Her salary was indeed a bribe for shutting her mouth. Really, he ought to apologize to her, Rasheed said. At the time she had asked for advice, he hadn’t suspected her new sahib of being complicit in a crime the police were bound to investigate. Perhaps they might have already begun the probe, under pressure from powerful people who were, he knew for sure, agitated over the papers.

Sheela’s arms dropped to her side. She was scared of the police; she was also frightened of the jhuggi-jhopri leader. Sheela couldn’t decide which of the two was of greater danger to her.

Rasheed pressed on. He said he didn’t want to scare her. Sure, she had taken the job out of ignorance. He understood this, and he trusted her. But ignorance did not provide a person protection against conviction in court. She had been hired because she couldn’t read English. Since she couldn’t read what her sahib printed daily, it was impossible for her to understand his dark deeds, or suspect his involvement in a conspiracy aimed at fomenting khoon-kharaba in the country. Did she want poor women like her to be killed?

Sheela was lost in the tumult of her soul. Though the Muslim boy had not asked her explicitly, she realized he was keen to know the identity of her employer. Sheela decided to be cautious. The papers in her hand were indeed similar to those she worked upon: they looked the same, they felt the same. What she wasn’t certain about was the text. She thought it was important to verify that the papers in her hand were from the lot she handled daily, that it was 100 per cent her sahib who was guilty of the crime the Muslim boy was talking about.

Stranded between the two sahibs, Sheela took the middle path. First confirm, and then decide. This could help her make the morally correct choice, she thought.

Tomorrow, Sheela said haltingly, she would, before leaving the sahib’s house, fold and slip a paper into her kameez. She would then come over to the Muslim boy’s flat, say, between 3 p.m. and 3.30 p.m. He could verify whether what she worked upon was similar to the papers in her hand. And were he to still declare her sahib guilty of crime, she would take him to the house where the big machine, as he seemed to suggest, churned out evil.

He nodded, taking the papers from her. Her eyes were restless with anxiety and fear. Rasheed wanted to put her at ease, change the topic of conversation. He asked her whether the person who had visited him last week had a white beard.

Silently, she shook her head. If it wasn’t Wasim Khan, who was it then?

Sheela saw he was puzzled. Strange were these sahibs, perpetually conspiring against each other. In their games she was trapped now. No more talking, no more answering the Muslim boy’s questions: who can tell what her reply could entangle her in?

Had she seen the visitor before, he asked. Did she know him?

She sensed his eagerness to know the identity of the visitor. It bolstered her resolve not to tell him the truth, to ensure she wasn’t sucked into the world of sahibs more than she had been already.

‘Na,’ she said, adding that the sahib-friend of his had to be well known to him, for he had entered the house as she had left for her home. She said she had let him in because what could anyone take from a house ekdum khali.

He screwed up his eyes, and creases appeared on his face in sheer incomprehension. Why hadn’t the person, whoever he was, told him about the visit subsequently? Why did the person leave without waking him? Since it wasn’t Wasim Khan, as she had said the visitor didn’t have a beard, Rasheed was miffed at the violation of his privacy. Could it have been the old man’s son?

But the telephone began to ring. He said he would wait for her the next day, between 3 p.m. and 3.30 p.m. to bring a paper from her sahib’s house. Sheela nodded and walked out, closing the door behind her.

The hall at the Centre of Gandhian Studies felt desolately spacious, even sinister. Most of the hundred chairs that had seated the audience the previous day had been taken out. The front door leading to the verandah and semi-circular lawn was closed, blocking out the only source of natural light and fresh air. The door had not been opened because Ramchandra Sharma, the Centre’s director, had mistakenly taken its key with him the previous day. He was not scheduled to come to the office today, his secretary explained, as he led the members of the committee as they arrived, one by one, through a dingy corridor to the hall. On entering it, each of them felt, to varying degrees, they were being whisked into a lair for a meeting convened to hatch a conspiracy, as in the films. This impression arose from the interplay of light and shadow. A 200-watt bulb dangled from a high ceiling by an insulation wire, shining from under a concave shade, over a large and sturdy table, bathing it in a strong pool of light that became muted as it reached the walls lined with book-racks. A pool of light surrounded by darkness, intimidating and eerie. Each had gone to the table and taken a seat.

Prof. Utpal Chatterjee, in a navy blue sleeveless sweater, was at the head of the table, with his back to the door to the verandah. He lifted the cup before him to take a sip of the coffee. There were two vacant chairs. On one, across Prof. Chatterjee, were dumped briefcases and sweaters; the other was to the extreme left of the professor. This was where Rasheed was to sit, opposite Kris, who was talking to Ramesh Gupta on his left.

‘The Mirror is struggling to play television in print. Look at the nangi snaps of models your paper prints,’ Ramesh Gupta complained.

‘Ask him,’ Kris said softly, pointing to Ashok Kumar Bajpai, who was two seats away, next to Tanushree, to the right of Prof. Chatterjee. Pressing the ball in and out of the pen in his hand, Bajpai was watching Dr Vikram Rathore, seated opposite, gratuitously advising Suman Kumar Jha about the perils of smoking. Next to them was Edayathu Pochiah Krishnamurthy, who was describing to Tanushree the different computer models she could choose from.

‘Get a computer from the grey market,’ Krishnamurthy said, leaning forward. ‘It is as good as the branded products and yet cheaper, with excellent after-sales service. Typically the Indian way of beating competition, no?’

Suman Kumar Jha fished out a bundle of beedis from under the off-white shawl he was wearing. He took a beedi out, tapped it on the table and put it between his lips.

‘No, SKJ,’ howled Tanushree. It distracted others from their conversations. ‘Hold on, I’ll give you a cigarette if you must smoke,’ she said, rummaging through her handbag.

SKJ grinned. ‘The doctor just told me beedi is less harmful than cigarette.’

‘Who cares for your lungs,’ she responded. ‘Here, I bought it for you.’ Tanushree slid the packet across to him.

He lit a cigarette, took a drag and muttered, ‘Awful.’

The slender jet of smoke spread and hung above them. The click-click sound of the ball going in and out of the pen punched the air. Silently they drank their coffee, unable to immediately return to the conversations they had initiated in awkward acknowledgement of their physical proximity to people they were barely acquainted with.

‘Shouldn’t we begin?’ Bajpai said, putting the cup on the table. ‘My peak-time work at office begins in another hour, I say.’

‘I think we should wait for Rasheed,’ Prof. Chatterjee said, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.

‘Might as well,’ agreed Tanushree. ‘So, Krishnamurthy?’

‘Buying the printer, too?’ Krishnamurthy asked. The others were listening to him. ‘What’s it for – office or personal work? You are financing the purchase, no?’

‘What difference does it make?’ she asked.

‘It does, no?’ Krishnamurthy responded. ‘For domestic use, and on personal finance, dot matrix is your best bet. But the print quality is poor; images of words are, basically, reproduced as closely spaced dots. And it takes a lot of time to print lengthy documents.’

‘What are the other options?’

‘Two,’ Krishnamurthy said, jerking his head to push back his hair. ‘You have laser and inkjet printers, both mighty expensive. In fact, the inkjet technology isn’t popular in India; not even in the United States, where it was invented in 1977. The print quality is excellent, but …’

‘And laser printers?’ asked Tanushree.

‘Exorbitant,’ Krishnamurthy continued. ‘In India it is largely used in big offices. Unlike the inkjet, the laser printer can print millions and millions of pages a month; it works fast. Its quality is excellent, close to real text type.’

Pointing to the Secret History papers lying on the table before Tanushree, Krishnamurthy said, ‘Those are from a laser printer, as is every History paper pasted on the walls in the city. The author could have made copies, no? But he doesn’t do that. Photocopying leads to deterioration, more so with the kind of volume he handles daily. The author loves his font, the image of words, their shape and appearance.’

Bajpai stopped clicking the ball pen in his hand. ‘We use laser printers in our office,’ he said.

It seemed to Prof. Chatterjee that the meeting had been initiated, though on a course different from what he had intended. He decided to nudge the discussion ahead. ‘I thought you said a laser printer is expensive.’

‘Two lakh rupees. Expensive, no?’ Krishnamurthy exclaimed.

‘Expensive?’ laughed Ramesh Gupta, loosening his tie. ‘With that money, I’d buy a brand new Maruti. Damn the visual appearance of words.’

‘If it is so expensive, then isn’t it a bit strange for the author to possess one?’ Prof. Chatterjee asked.

‘It is,’ Krishnamurthy replied. ‘The laser printer is yet more proof that an organization is behind Secret History.’

Dr Vikram Rathore cleared his throat to speak. ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘we are back to the fundamental question: is it an organization or …’

‘Not an, doctor,’ Bajpai interrupted him. ‘The. The Organization.’

‘Right,’ agreed Dr Rathore. ‘So, is Secret History the work of an individual or a group? You know what I mean.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Ramesh Gupta shot back.

‘I understand you, doctor,’ SKJ said, dropping the cigarette in the cup. It sizzled before extinguishing. ‘Does one individual write Secret History, or do a few people together compose it? Isn’t that your question?’

Dr Vikram Rathore nodded.

‘It’s the work of an individual,’ Tanushree said. ‘In Secret History, you, quite understandably, find the ideology of the Organization. But there’s also anguish in it, of a personal kind. Secret History throbs with pain.’

‘The next thing you will do,’ Gupta said, ‘is to talk of the author as victim.’

‘In a way, all of us are,’ Tanushree responded, ‘We are victims of our minds.’ She looked around and said tentatively, ‘The author’s imagery; there’s something to it.’

It was obvious she hadn’t concluded her submission. Tanushree dug out from the handbag her reading glasses. The click-click of the pen was the only sound in the hall.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. Bajpai kept the pen on the table.

‘Hear this,’ Tanushree said. She picked a paper from the sheaf and read aloud: ‘On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood …’ She paused and chose the words relevant to her case: ‘[…] and raped her.’

Looking over the rim of the spectacles, she said, ‘This imagery of impotence and rape and the sexual undertone of who is a legitimate citizen recurs in every edition of Secret History, explicitly in the opening lines, implicitly otherwise. Such imagery speaks to me of a man tormented by his inadequacies.’

‘You can’t read too much into it,’ Ramesh Gupta rebutted. ‘Aggression and concepts of manhood are closely linked in the popular psyche. Frankly, the imagery is pedestrian. Mother as a symbol for the country is older than this century.’

‘I know,’ she agreed, taking off her spectacles. ‘The use of such an archaic symbol only bolsters my point. It has a certain appeal for him, subconsciously.’

Tanushree turned away from Ramesh Gupta to face those across the table – Dr Rathore, SKJ and Krishnamurthy – and continued, ‘The text is an appeal to the children of a Mother who is presumably in distress. But what I find strange are phrases such as “you the Hindus”, or “your Motherland” or “your Mother”. It’s rarely “we the Hindus” or “our Mother”. Why doesn’t the author count himself among her children? Do you get my point?’

‘I don’t get you,’ Kris said.

‘If the author isn’t the child of Mother, and he is quite distressed at her condition, who is he then?’ asked Tanushree. She glanced around and added, ‘I think Secret History is the exhortation of a father, a father who is powerless to mitigate the plight of his children’s mother, his wife. It explains his rage, his subconscious choice of the imagery. History and psychology here are fused together.’

She began to speak passionately, ‘There is this historical Mother, the motherland, which was subjected to centuries of conquest and bloodshed; there is also, in 1992, in flesh and blood, a woman in tremendous pain, whose husband agonizes over her condition. History and individual psychology, personal pain and a recreated memory of collective trauma have become fused. This explains Secret History’s imagery.’

‘And he exhorts the children to attempt what he can’t?’ SKJ asked.

‘In a way, yes,’ Tanushree replied. ‘Why does the author have to exhort children? Perhaps his own children are indifferent to their mother, just as a large number of Hindus are indifferent to the ideology of Secret History. Or he exhorts the children of the motherland because his own, like him, are in no position or can’t rescue their mother, his wife, from her condition. It’s what is called psychological substitution; it is an attempt to fulfil a deeply felt personal wish through public action.’

‘Excellent,’ said Dr Rathore. ‘Very interesting.’

‘Why do you think her literary column is so popular,’ remarked Ramesh Gupta.

Bajpai was back to clicking the pen in his hand. He smiled and said, ‘It’s a very seductive explanation. But why does the author target Muslims?’ He looked at her and added, with a hint of condescension, ‘What psychological purpose could there be in his choice of the target?’

‘There must be a purpose,’ Tanushree said. ‘But I can’t figure it out.’

‘We are back to where we were, I say,’ Bajpai said. He glanced at Tanushree and continued, ‘Your analysis is interesting. So? He is psychologically disturbed. So? We have been sidetracked from deciding on a course of action, I say.’ Around the table they were taken aback by Bajpai’s tone. He realized it himself. He glanced at Prof. Chatterjee and said, ‘Sorry. But I’m pressed for time.’

‘We understand,’ Prof. Chatterjee said, patting Bajpai’s forearm. ‘I thought of waiting for Rasheed.’

‘Forget him,’ responded Bajpai. ‘This generation, I tell you. He can’t arrive on time for the very first meeting. It speaks a lot for him, I say.’

‘Something must have held him back,’ Dr Rathore said, raising his eyebrows to seek an explanation from Kris. For Dr Rathore, Rasheed’s absence was a possible sign of his return to reclusive ways.

Bajpai craned his neck towards Kris and asked ‘Where is your friend?’

Kris could understand Bajpai’s prickly tone, his barely concealed bellicosity. Tanushree’s analysis of a powerless, helpless father had lacerated his wounds. Kris remembered the evening Rasheed and he, sitting in a smoke-filled room, drinking rum, had heard Bajpai narrate the pain of begetting children who were spastics. This had scarred him deeply – it had been obvious to them even then. Kris wanted to calm Bajpai down, and ease the tension in the hall.

He decided to divulge the reason for Rasheed’s absence. There was no harm in that. For one, he thought, Rasheed must have already met the part-time maid. There were only two possibilities: she had either confirmed Rasheed’s suspicion or rejected it outright. In the first instance, the breakthrough had to be reported to the committee. The second possibility – and Kris was convinced that that was to be the outcome – did not demand caution. The disclosure could help ebb the tension in the hall.

Calmly, he said, ‘Rasheed was to meet someone who just might be connected to the Secret History project. Personally, I don’t think it’s possible.’

‘What do you mean,’ Prof. Chatterjee asked.

‘Rasheed says he knows of a person who was recently employed in Hemant Kunj to put to hundreds of computer print-outs brown adhesive strips, the kind used for sticking Secret History papers on walls.’

‘What?’ the doctor exclaimed.

‘That’s what …’ Kris paused. Out of sheer habit he had wanted to say behan chod. He checked himself. ‘I mean that’s what Rasheed told me,’ continued Kris. ‘He was to meet the person early afternoon. Perhaps he has been delayed.’

SKJ lit another cigarette.

Ramesh Gupta leaned forward and said, ‘Employ? The Organization is supposed to work as a secret society. Why should it employ someone?’

SKJ pulled hard on the cigarette and exhaled. ‘This person, Kris,’ he asked, ‘didn’t this person tell Rasheed what those computer print-outs contained?’

‘This person is illiterate,’ the doctor said, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Imagine someone who can read English: wouldn’t that person have described the text of the computer print-out to Rasheed? Wouldn’t you?’

‘I would, anyone would, no?’ added Krishnamurthy.

‘Perhaps those computer print-outs are advertisement bills, or something like that, you know,’ Tanushree suggested.

‘One minute,’ the doctor remarked, ‘Kris, is this person a he or she?’

Across the table Kris saw Prof. Chatterjee frown at the question. The others weren’t facing the professor. They were looking at Kris, waiting to hear his answer. The professor quickly enlarged his eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles and pouted his lips to convey, don’t.

‘He … she … I’m not sure,’ Kris said.

‘Let Rasheed come,’ Prof. Chatterjee added.

Bajpai turned to Prof. Chatterjee and said, ‘I think the person whom Rasheed knows could be working with the author of Secret History. I say that because of the brown adhesive strips. They are unique, very unique.’

Bajpai paused and added, ‘Doctor, you should have recognized those strips. If I could, you should have too, I say.’

Dr Rathore looked surprised.

Bajpai pulled the sheaf of posters lying before Tanushree. He picked one on the top. ‘The brown strips are not there,’ he said. ‘These are photocopies.’

Back to looking at Dr Rathore, he continued, ‘Tomorrow morning, doctor, take a Secret History paper off the wall and bring it home. Measure the brown strip: you’ll find its length is 76 mm, its breadth 21 mm. Hold it against light: you’ll see tiny square patterns and perforations on its non-sticky surface. Perhaps it would then strike you what it is. But you want to be sure. Go to the neighbourhood chemist. Ask for Heal-Wound adhesive bandage. Examine it. The measurements are the same, the square patterns and perforations are there. Its obverse side has two thin translucent slips covering the glue. On them is embossed the brand name of Heal-Wound. Doctor, tomorrow morning, after you take the paper off the wall, you should look down on the ground. You will find four such slips. Pick these up. But they won’t have the brand name of Heal-Wound.’

‘Very interesting,’ the doctor said.

Bajpai paused and looked around the table. ‘I am sorry I lost my cool,’ he said apologetically. ‘I should be in office. I had come to the Centre hoping to point to this clue in our discussion which couldn’t start on time because of Rasheed. We have something on our hands. And now Rasheed …’ Bajpai left the sentence incomplete.

Instead, he said, ‘Every Heal-Wound adhesive bandage has two translucent slips over the gluey surface. This person whom Rasheed has met, this person peels away the translucent slip from every Heal-Wound adhesive bandage. This partially exposes the sticky surface, enabling the person to stick the brown strip – or rather, the Heal-Wound adhesive bandage – to each of the four corners of the posters. So you have four brown strips sticking from the four corners of the paper, each with the translucent slip covering the remaining portion of the gluey surface jutting out. You can remove the translucent slips from the four corners for sticking the paper to a wall. Heal-Wound manufactures the longest and widest adhesive bandage.’

Kris was impressed, as were others.

‘Excellent,’ said SKJ. ‘You have the archaeologist’s talent.’

‘It’s truly impressive,’ said Prof. Chatterjee.

‘If it is so,’ added Tanushree, ‘If it is so, well then …’

‘Wait,’ Bajpai said, gazing directly at Dr Rathore. ‘The doctor looks puzzled. Because he has seen what you all haven’t, I say. The adhesive bandage has a tiny cotton pad containing Benzalkonium Chloride. The brown strips used for sticking Secret History papers to walls don’t have the pad. But …’

‘I was about to point that out,’ the doctor agreed.

‘The absence of the pad from Heal-Wound strips provides us a glimpse into the operation. I could be wrong, I say. But I feel these are lifted directly from the Heal-Wound factory, before the pad is affixed to them and the brand name embossed on translucent slips. This also gives us an idea of the Organization’s network. It isn’t a solo operation, as we had all along suspected.’

‘It’s better we wait for Rasheed than …’ said Ramesh Gupta.

‘Than analyzing the psychological motivation of the author,’ Tanushree said, laughing. ‘How long do we wait for Rasheed?’

‘Let’s call him up,’ Bajpai suggested. ‘Kris, you know the number.’ He glanced at the others and continued. ‘If he hasn’t yet left, let’s ask him what he has found out.’

The others nodded in agreement.

‘Come,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘I’ll show you where the phone is.’

As Bajpai, Prof. Chatterjee and Kris got up, Tanushree suddenly asked, ‘But why use adhesive bandages to paste the papers to walls?’

Bajpai replied impishly, ‘Perhaps it is a psychological substitution on the author’s part to cover his wounds, I say.’ They laughed at his remark.

They walked into the anteroom of the Centre’s office, where Ramchandra Sharma’s secretary was reading a magazine. Prof. Chatterjee informed him that they wanted to make a call from the privacy of the director’s chamber, and closed the door behind them as soon as they entered the room.

Bajpai walked to the table, lifted the handset and began to press the digits Kris dictated. Prof. Chatterjee was behind them. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and looked at the pipal tree outside, under which he had yesterday met some of those who had attended the meeting.

‘Rasheed, what happened?’ Bajpai asked. ‘Have you met the person who handles the adhesive strips? Kris told us, I say.’ He paused and continued, ‘A woman who used to work at your place. I see. So then?’

Kris glanced at Prof. Chatterjee, who took two steps to stand closer to them.

‘She didn’t tell you anything. Not even her employer’s name?’

Prof. Chatterjee placed his hand on Kris’s shoulders.

‘Tomorrow? One minute,’ Bajpai said. He cupped the mouthpiece and without turning around, said, ‘Rasheed says tomorrow she is going to bring a sample of the papers. We will have to wait till then, I say.’

Bajpai was back to talking to Rasheed, ‘Didn’t she tell you the address where she works. No? Paranoid about what – her boss? But didn’t you ask her to describe her employer? No? What is this? Rasheed, extremely careless of you, I say. Do you know where she stays, her address? No? What the hell do you know?’

‘Relax,’ said Prof. Chatterjee softly. ‘Let me have a word with him.’

‘She’s from a nearby jhuggi?’ Bajpai continued. There was urgency in his voice. ‘Which one? Okay, you can find out from the maid in the opposite flat. Here, talk to Prof. Chatterjee.’

Bajpai handed over the handset and shook his head disapprovingly.

‘Rasheed,’ Prof. Chatterjee said calmly. ‘You need not come all the way here. We will disperse now and tomorrow, as soon as you check the paper she brings, give me a ring at my home. I wish we had come to know today the identity of her employer.’

Prof. Chatterjee sighed, and remained silent for a minute.

‘You see, Rasheed,’ the professor continued. ‘Yesterday, well, do you remember I had, just before the meeting began, asked Bajpai to come with me because I had wanted to discuss something with him?’

Kris glanced at Bajpai.

‘I had expressed my fear to Bajpai,’ Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘well, about the possibility of the Organization sending someone to attend our meeting. Not for anything particular, but to mock us in Secret History.’

The professor was silent again, presumably listening to Rasheed. ‘Can’t you see what I can?’ he said. ‘Now eight people know about your part-time maid and what she does. Anyway, we can only hope that my fears don’t come true’

He kept the phone down. Standing next to each other, they stared out the window.

Bajpai spoke in an aggrieved tone, ‘Professor, it is too late, I say. The Organization’s mole could be in the core committee. We should have warned Kris and Rasheed, you and I can trust them.’

Prof. Chatterjee remained silent, his gazed fixed on the pipal tree.

‘We can cook up whatever we want. But the mole has been warned,’ Bajpai said.

‘So that was why you didn’t want me to divulge the person’s gender,’ asked Kris.

‘What’s that?’ asked Bajpai.

‘Kris was about to answer the doctor’s question on the person’s gender. I gestured him not to,’ Prof. Chatterjee said, taking a step back to face his companions.

‘Who’s this doctor?’ Bajpai asked.

‘He’s Rasheed’s doctor,’ Kris said. ‘He treated him.’

‘Oh,’ exclaimed Bajpai. ‘Kris, you should have kept your bloody mouth shut.’

‘How the hell was I to know,’ Kris said, flaring up. ‘I mean, I didn’t even take the whole thing seriously. I mean if this … if this Organization is so secretive, so powerful, why would you ever think it could employ the maid?’

‘I know,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘And yet to have someone sticking brown adhesive strips … I mean, yes, worth checking upon.’

‘And worth not talking about, I say,’ Bajpai said, quite agitated. ‘How do you think conspiracies – political, criminal, whatever – get busted? There’s always a slip-up, an intrusion of chance upon a sequence of events carefully orchestrated by conspirators.’

‘Let us go back,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘And disperse.’

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only eleven days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

O wise sons, your support for us has rendered the storytellers nervous. Your love for us has made them jealous. Didn’t we tell you about their plan to counter us? Well, on Monday the storytellers did meet at the Centre for Gandhian Studies. Among them, we too were present. To the authorities they have decided to petition against the publication of Secret History. They have also formed a committee to identify the author of true history. Who can tell what their plan is? They could suppress or silence us. Who can tell what their intention is? They could vilify or even jail us. Will you, in our absence, turn away from the path we have shown you? Will you fall for their lies and nonsense? You look to each other and utter, no, no, no. You stomp your feet and mutter, never, never, never.

Let us now reflect over the situation prevailing in the mid-nineteenth century. Once the last Mughal emperor had been exiled in 1858, the Muslim elite were finally convinced that they couldn’t return to power. They also realized that the Hindus had used modern education to overtake them in every sphere. There were Hindus in the administration, there were Hindus in trade and industry, there were Hindus in courts, and there were Hindus waiting to free their motherland from the foreign yoke.

Into this scenario stepped Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. He wanted his community to take to science and liberal education. In 1875, Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan established the Muhammedan Anglo-Oriental College in Aligarh. (It’s now called Aligarh Muslim University). This was to be the cradle of educated Muslims, here were to be groomed the modern leaders of the Muslim community. Now listen to the paradox: forbidden was the Fund Committee of the college to draft as members those who were not Muslim. Forbidden was it to ask subscriptions from anyone other than Muslim or Christian. Cunning were they, for they allowed the college to take donations from Hindus only if they offered it of their own accord. Contrast their attitude to that of your ancestors. Generous were they, on their own did several Hindu rulers step forward to contribute their mite to Sir Sayyid Ahmad’s creation.

Pity your ancestors, they did not see through the design of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan. Guess who laid the foundation stone of the Muhammedan Anglo-Oriental College? It was none other than the Viceroy Lord Lytton. Guess the nationality of the first few principals of the college? They were all Englishmen, friends of viceroys and governors. Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan appealed to Muslims to shun politics and remain loyal to the British. In return he demanded preferential treatment for Muslims in government employment.

Bared was his ignoble intention at the time the Indian National Congress was born. In the nineteenth century, in different parts of India, voices had started to rise against British rule. The patriots began to agitate for political reforms and equal treatment with the Europeans. They invoked the principle of democracy to seek participation in governance. In 1885, it was decided to bring together nationalist leaders under the umbrella organization of the Indian National Congress. This was the first firm step your ancestors took towards overthrowing the British. This was the beginning of your long journey towards glory and freedom.

Did the dream of independence fire the Muslims? Listen to what Sir Sayyid Ahmad did before you answer. In 1886, a year after the Indian National Congress had been established, he founded the Annual Muslim Educational Conference. On this common platform were Muslim notables to gather every year. Their ostensible task was to collect information on the educational level of their brethren in the country. Their real goal, however, was to promote the concept of Muslim India and dissuade the British from believing your motherland was one nation. Lest you doubt us we quote to you from the Aligarh Institute Gazette, which spelt out two years later the goal of the Educational Conference. The Gazette hoped that ‘by the vigorous work of one generation the tide of misfortune may be turned and the Muhammedan nation may be set moving on the tide of progress abreast of all the other nations of India.’

Don’t you see in this statement the diabolic motive of teaching Muslims to consider themselves a separate nation? Don’t you discern among Muslim leaders the tendency to treat religious community and nation co-terminus? Anti-Hindu was Sir Sayyid, he soon began to openly campaign against your ancestors. In a speech in Meerut in 1888, he said Muslims could not befriend Hindus – and he cited the Quran to bolster his case. He asked Muslims to cooperate with Christians – and he invoked the Quran to justify his contention. Our blood begins to boil every time we remember the letter Sir Sayyid Ahmad wrote to Badruddin Tyabji. In it, the tallest Muslim leader of the nineteenth century wrote, ‘I object to every Congress in every shape or form which regards India as one nation.’ Only a Muslim could have written such a line, only a Muslim believes religion must subsume nationality.

Alas, wise sons, the support Sir Sayyid Ahmad received from Muslims emboldened him to establish the Indian Patriotic Association, in 1888. The agenda of the Association? To inform the British that India was a medley of nations, not all of which supported the Indian National Congress. Isolated was not Sir Sayyid in the community, from strength to strength did he grow. In 1893, he floated the Muhammedan Defence Association, seeking to promote the interests of Muslims and represent their views to the government. It aimed at conveying to them that their interests the Hindu politician would never promote.

Wise sons, don’t get angry, you haven’t heard about the demands he raised two years later. Is it possible you don’t know that he started to talk about Hindu domination? Is it true you don’t know that he began to ask for equal representation for Muslims and Hindus in local governing bodies? Isn’t it a fact he began to demand separate communal electorates with Muslims voting for Muslims only?

Such ideas began to divide the nation between communities. Thus were sown the seeds for the partition of your country. Look at the tragedy of your motherland, understand the treachery of Muslims. They destroyed your temples and converted millions to their faith. They then conspired with the British to keep you enslaved. Their fidelity is only to Allah and the Quran, their loyalty is to their community and not the country in which they are born. That’s why we have put them to test, that is why we say dedicate the Babri Masjid to Lord Ram. They should either surrender the mosque or prepare to face your wrath on 6 December. Till then, rise and raise your arms, rise and say Lord Ram.

The light outside was dimming rapidly, and buildings and trees now loomed in silhouette. Sheela should have been here in the afternoon, between 3 p.m. and 3.30 p.m. as she had promised yesterday. It was so unlike her to miss an appointment, to not meet her commitment, Rasheed thought, as he stood at the balcony-window and anxiously watched all colours and shapes dissolve into the sameness of night.

He turned around to glance at Uma. She was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, lifting a sweater from the pile of clothes and placing it neatly in the suitcase straddled across the arms of the easy chair.

‘Switch on the light,’ Uma said.

He walked towards the switchboard, located next to the door. In the flood of light their eyes met. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked her.

‘Fifteen minutes from the time you asked last,’ she replied. In the last forty five minutes he had asked her the time thrice.

‘She isn’t going to come,’ Rasheed said. He began to walk up and down the room. He was restless; he wanted the wait, and the suspense about the identity of her employer to end, for Sheela to ring the doorbell.

Uma, too, was disappointed at the way the day had turned out. For over sixty hours she had been at the hospital where Joy Michael’s father had undergone an angiography of the heart. In those hours of separation her imagination had rushed to anticipate the three days she and he were to spend out of the city. She had planned their sojourn to the hills to every last detail, the spots where she would take him to watch the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas turn golden in the morning light and then to amber minutes before dusk; to the pine forest where she loved to walk, to the brooks which gurgled over rocks. Uma was disheartened at the unravelling of her plan – he had told her as soon as she arrived late in the morning that he couldn’t accompany her to the hills. He had his arguments, his reasons: as the identity of the author of Secret History was soon to be disclosed, through what had been decidedly a stroke of luck, he couldn’t abandon the investigation now, could he? The core committee needed him; he was its most important member, for it was only through him the others could access Sheela.

‘I can’t leave the city at this crucial juncture, can I?’ Rasheed had argued.

It had crushed her to hear him pull out of the trip, to throw her plans in disarray. Uma couldn’t postpone her trip to the hills. It was too late for that – those who were to buy the family property she and others were to sign away had reconfirmed the date of transaction two days ago. But she hadn’t given up. ‘Suppose the paper Sheela gets doesn’t belong to the Secret History series, then?’ Uma had asked.

‘She sticks Heal-Wound adhesive strips to computer print-outs,’ he had replied. ‘She has to be employed with the author.’

‘But suppose the paper she brings doesn’t belong to the Secret History series, will you come along with me then?’ Uma had insisted.

‘Yes.’ Rasheed had been sure he wouldn’t be required to meet the commitment.

At 2.30 p.m. the day had slipped into winter quietude. They had been on the mattress, in the room adjoining the bedroom, with the sunlight pouring through the balcony window. His presence next to her had been only physical. His mind had been elsewhere – at the entrance to the flat, waiting for footsteps coming up the staircase, for a sound to convey the arrival of Sheela. He hadn’t pulled Uma close to him; he had been on his back, staring at the ceiling, obsessively glancing at his wrist-watch as its arms moved imperceptibly around the dial. He had, under mounting anxiety, taken off the wrist-watch and placed it under the pillow, so that he did not compulsively track the passage of time.

It was 6.30 p.m. now. The streetlights had come on. Her suitcase was packed. On the mattress, in a pile, were two pairs of jeans, two shirts, a set of kurta-pajamas, and a sweater. These were his. Uma’s hope to live the sojourn her imagination had conceived depended on Sheela – if what she brought did not belong to the Secret History series. Uma was sure it would be that way.

He was at the window, his hands tucked into the pockets of his fawn jacket. Disappointment and apprehension shadowed his face. Rasheed was certain Sheela wouldn’t come now. It was just too late.

The sound of the doorbell punched the air. Rasheed promptly rushed out. Uma followed him, stopping at the door from where the entrance to the flat was visible. ‘Switch on the light,’ she said.

But he had already flung open the door. Outside, a man, in a blazer and tie, stood holding a leather bag. The man smiled and asked, ‘Good evening sir. Do you use a water purifier?’

‘Damn,’ he cursed, banging the door shut.

‘Rasheed,’ Uma reprimanded.

He leaned against the door. Through the darkness of the drawing room, over the distance of thirty feet, his expression wasn’t visible to her. But she knew he was crestfallen.

‘Switch on the light,’ she repeated. ‘Sheela will think you are not at home.’

‘She won’t come,’ he said.

‘It’s only ten past seven. What are you so tense about?’

He began to walk towards her, in short and ponderous steps. On his way, he turned on the light of the drawing room and then the dining room. His complexion had turned inky, and his eyes darted around restlessly. He stopped near her, and she pulled him towards herself, leaning against the door to support the weight of his body. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘What are you so worried about?’

‘They could have killed her,’ he whispered.

She squinted and dropped her arm curled around his waist. He stepped back.

Rasheed explained to her what Prof. Utpal Chatterjee had told him over the phone – that the Organization could have infiltrated the meeting at the Centre, even have its mole volunteer for the core committee. In such an eventuality, the Organization would have been warned about Sheela’s betrayal, the Secret History paper she was to smuggle out. The Organization would bump her off to ensure the author’s identity was not revealed.

‘I wish Prof. Chatterjee had warned us too,’ he moaned. ‘Kris wouldn’t have talked about Sheela then.’ Shaking his head, he continued, ‘I thought it couldn’t be true. But Sheela hasn’t come. It is so unlike her.’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t handle the History papers,’ Uma suggested.

‘She had been warned against disclosing the nature of her work to anyone. Now, tell me, why would anyone do that?’

He waited for her expression to change. He thought what he had disclosed would alarm her. But her eyes were as still as before. In fact, all that Uma did was to pull on her blue jersey over the black slacks she was wearing.

Suddenly, she grasped his arm and said, ‘This isn’t for you.’

‘This isn’t for you,’ she said a second time. And because he couldn’t comprehend her, she added, ‘Come with me to the hills. Please.’

Her reaction surprised him. He had assumed, after what he had told her, she wouldn’t insist he leave Delhi and abandon the investigation at this crucial juncture. Sheela was his responsibility. It was he who had exposed her to danger and imperiled her life.

‘Come to the hills. For my sake,’ she implored, tightening her grip on his arm.

The telephone ring prompted him to disengage from her. It was 8 p.m. As he walked through the dining room to take the call, Uma moved towards the mattress where her handbag was.

‘No, she hasn’t come,’ Rasheed said to Ashok Kumar Bajpai, who was calling from Prof. Chatterjee’s residence.

‘I want to speak to Prof. Chatterjee,’ Rasheed said. It took a few seconds for the professor to come on the line. Rasheed asked, ‘Do you know the addresses of the committee members?’ Before disconnecting, he said. ‘No, I asked just like that.’

Rasheed stared at the wall opposite him. Sheela should have arrived hours ago. She hadn’t: she would not come, now or ever.

Sheela had been murdered, Rasheed was convinced.

His amorphous thoughts of the afternoon began to take a definite shape. What his mind had sensed and conceived demanded scrutiny. If Sheela had been killed to prevent her from revealing where she worked, then at least one among the eight committee members did indeed belong to the Organization.

Who was this person? Was he simply the Organization’s mole? Or was he the author of Secret History?

In today’s edition of Secret History the author had claimed to have been present at the meeting convened at the Centre for Gandhian Studies. Rasheed remembered the relevant sentence from Secret History: ‘Among them we too were present.’ Did the author personally participate in the meeting? Or was it the Organization’s representative who was present at the Centre? Did the word ‘we’ connote the Organization? Or did it mean just the author, whose pomposity had him to refer to himself in the plural? These questions had been haunting him from the time the deadline for Sheela’s arrival had expired. Rasheed was in agreement with Tanushree’s hypothesis – the writing of Secret History was the work not of a group, but a person. She had reached this conclusion through the stylistic and tonal examination of the text in which was manifest the pain of an extremely personal kind.

Assume, Rasheed thought, Secret History’s authorship is singular; assume too that his claim to having participated in the meeting at the Centre wasn’t a boast. Couldn’t the author have volunteered for the core committee constituted the same day?

Who among the eight committee members was the author?

Theoretically, all of them were suspects.

Rasheed dismissed this line of examination. He couldn’t accept the involvement of some: Kris, Prof. Chatterjee, Bajpai, and Dr Rathore – they were known to him. He couldn’t imagine them as members of the Organization or murderers. There was also Edayathu Pochiah Krishnamurthy: they had been together in school. True, it was not a reasonable basis to clear his name. But Rasheed was sure Uma would vouch for the implausibility of EPK’s complicity in the murder of Sheela.

There was yet another way to approach the problem: adopt a method to preclude personal biases.

It was now established that Sheela worked at the author’s residence. To put it differently, Sheela was employed with the author who resided in Hemant Kunj.

Who was this person? Prof. Chatterjee, Kris and Bajpai didn’t reside in Hemant Kunj; and now he knew, through Prof. Chatterjee, that the other three – Tanushree, Ramesh Gupta and Suman Kumar Jha – did not either. He could no longer shy away from the answer – Dr Vikram Rathore and Edayathu Pochiah Krishnamurthy were the committee members who lived in Hemant Kunj.

He wasn’t accusing them of the crime; he didn’t think one of the two, or both, belonged to the Organization, or could have murdered Sheela. All that he was sure of was that Sheela worked for the author who resided in Hemant Kunj. And Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy lived there as well.

‘So Rasheed, who among the eight do you suspect?’ Uma asked. Her tone was sharp.

Startled, he turned around, breaking into a smile to conceal his embarrassment. He found it amazing that she could read his mind. He noticed she had tucked her blue jersey into the black slacks, and held a cigarette packet and a matchbox in her right hand.

‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about, something strange Kris told me yesterday,’ he said, gingerly moving towards her.

She was leaning against the door of the room where they had together spent the afternoon. Her skin glowed in the light. Her dark eyes were riveted on him.

He stopped at a little distance from her. Looking at the floor and then at her, he said, ‘When Kris told the committee that I knew a person who could be handling the History papers, and that the person was illiterate, you know what, Dr Rathore asked about the person’s gender.’

Uma arched her eyebrows.

‘Don’t you find the doctor’s question surprising?’ he continued, ignoring her contemptuous expression. ‘It was only natural to assume the person was male. Even Bajpai, Kris and the professor thought so.’

‘There’s nothing natural about it,’ she said. ‘My dear Rasheed, perhaps the doctor knows Sheela worked at your place. And because she is illiterate, he assumed the person in question was her. He simply wanted to satisfy his curiosity.’

‘It is an absurd assumption,’ he said.

‘The doctor knows Sheela worked at your place, I know that,’ she declared.

He stared at her in disbelief. Her expression was deadpan. Uma took out a cigarette and lit it.

‘I should have told you before,’ she said. ‘But you are so allergic to the doctor, that he thought it was better you didn’t know I had taken his assistance in your case.’

Still leaning against the door, and smoking, she told him how she had panicked on the day HOPE had received his household goods. In her helplessness she had requested Dr Rathore to check on him, to gauge his mood, whether he had, once again, become suicidal.

‘Sheela met the doctor then, at your flat. She let him into the flat,’ Uma continued. ‘Do you get my point?’

‘What point?’ he asked, confused at the revelation. So Dr Vikram Rathore had been the mysterious visitor to his flat, Rasheed thought, thinking he should have guessed it was him: who else could have the audacity to enter a house at the time its owner was asleep.

It riled Rasheed to hear Uma had taken the doctor’s assistance in what she had described as ‘your case’. In an acerbic tone, he asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

The telephone began to ring.

Rasheed said, ‘No, Tanushree. The person hasn’t come. It’s a woman who was to bring over the paper.’ He paused and added, ‘Can’t I talk to Ramesh Gupta a little later? There is someone over here.’

He turned around and saw Uma smile sardonically. Moving to the window, and opening it, she flicked the cigarette stub out, on the front balcony.

‘You don’t suspect Tanushree and Gupta, do you?’

Her tone was insulting. He glared at her.

Clutching the window grill with her left hand and taking a step forward and then a step back, she waited for his answer. And because he did not reply she said, ‘You think I can’t figure it out: since Sheela is employed in Hemant Kunj – unlike you, I don’t want to use the word was – it is obvious that all those, other than you, who reside here are suspects. That’s why you asked the professor for the addresses of committee members, didn’t you?’

It was true he had described to her vividly what had happened at the committee meeting. Yet Rasheed was astonished she could infer the line of investigation he was pursuing from snatches of his telephonic conversations with others.

‘Won’t you tell me who all live in Hemant Kunj?’ Uma asked.

He thought she was being provocative because he suspected Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy. It irked Rasheed to see Uma wasn’t on his side.

‘Come on, tell me,’ she pestered, moving back and forth, tittering.

‘You are being stupid,’ he shot back. He moved away from the telephone, and she became still. He stood at the centre of the dining room and scowled at her.

‘Not stupid enough to not know what is ticking in your mind,’ she retaliated. ‘Why can’t you tell me who among the committee members reside in Hemant Kunj?’

‘You know that,’ he said.

‘Krishnamurthy and the doctor,’ she said, adding, ‘Who else?’

‘Only them,’ he replied.

‘And they are suspects in a crime which you don’t even know has taken place.’ Uma simpered and exclaimed, ‘How very clever.’

‘Fuck you,’ he shouted.

It infuriated her to hear him swear. ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

But the phone began to ring, again.

Even before he could move, Uma rushed to the telephone and took the call.

‘Yes,’ she said, in an officious tone. ‘May I know your name?’ Her voice did not convey her rage. ‘Rasheed has stepped out. Could you ring up a little later?’ she said and put the handset back.

He stared at her in disbelief, rooted to the spot in the dining room. Moments ago she had been engaged in an acrimonious argument with him. Yet she had sounded calm over the phone. She possessed the actor’s ability to change voice and expression at will, irrespective of her own mood.

‘It was Suman Kumar Jha. Isn’t he the person who smokes beedis?’

Her voice was bereft of the hostility displayed minutes ago.

She walked towards him, biting her lips. ‘I wouldn’t say I know Dr Rathore well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t vouch for him as I would for Krishnamurthy.’

He waited to hear what else she wanted to tell him.

‘Before last week, before I took your case to him,’ she said, opening the packet to take out another cigarette, ‘I must have met him, maybe four or five times. At times he refers patients to us for counselling.’

Uma did not light the cigarette she had taken out. ‘Sure, you can’t judge a person in just four-five meetings. But I have a fair idea of him,’ she said, ‘from my own experience and that of others. The length to which he goes for his patients, and the care he takes of them, you can’t accuse such a person of working for the Organization. How can you?’

Placing her left hand on his shoulder, she added in a voice soft yet insistent, ‘He was so worried, so anxious about you. It was he who persuaded me to visit you. It was because of him we met.’

She paused, all the while gazing into his eyes.

Rasheed took her left hand in his. He could understand why Uma was upset. And yet Rasheed thought Uma’s loyalty should have been to him. He wanted her to see his side of the story. Sheela had been murdered – about this Rasheed was sure – and he couldn’t exclude those from the list of suspects only because they were known to Uma.

But before he could tell her this, the phone began to ring. He walked towards it; Uma followed him. Rasheed squatted on his haunches and picked up the handset. Dr Vikram Rathore was on the line.

‘No, doctor, she hasn’t come,’ Rasheed said. Behind him Uma lit her cigarette.

‘Sheela was her name,’ he continued. ‘I know, I know … Uma told me just now that the afternoon you had come over to my place, she let you in.’ His tone was friendly; he was apologetic for rebuffing the doctor’s overtures at the Centre the previous day and thanked him for his solicitousness and care.

Suddenly, Rasheed asked, ‘You knew Sheela before you met her at my place, didn’t you?’

When he kept the phone down, Rasheed continued to stare at the floor. Uma sat down opposite him.

‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand.’

Uma pulled hard on the cigarette.

‘The doctor says he knew Sheela before he met her at my place, that she had, on a few occasions, come to help her friend who works part-time at his place. He says he twice gave medicine for her child. I believe him, only that …’ Rasheed paused and looked at her.

Uma exhaled the smoke and immediately took another long drag.

‘But Sheela told me she didn’t know the visitor to my place. Why would she mislead me?’

Uma reached out for his hand.

He took it and said, ‘Sheela was petrified yesterday; she clammed up once she recognized the Secret History paper. Perhaps it was why she concealed the truth.’ Rasheed paused, waiting for a reaction from her.

He added, ‘But, if you keep aside your biases, you can only conclude that Sheela did not disclose the identity of the visitor to my flat because, to put it simply, the visitor was … is also the author. Had Sheela brought over the paper today, and had I verified it, she would have named the doctor. She didn’t then because she wasn’t sure of his crime, whether the papers I had shown her were the same she worked on.’

Uma remained silent.

‘Your hands are cold,’ he said, simultaneously stretching out to answer the phone that had started to ring.

It was Kris. They talked for a few seconds.

‘Fine,’ Rasheed said. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘Rasheed, considering what the Organization is, and had the doctor been its member, do you think he, they, would have spared Sheela once he met her at your place? Wouldn’t he have taken precautionary measures the same day?’ Uma asked.

‘You mean,’ Rasheed said, his eyes large and shining, ‘he should have silenced Sheela last week itself.’

‘Which shows he doesn’t belong to the Organization,’ she said, exhaling. ‘That he isn’t guilty.’

He pondered over what she had said. ‘You have a point,’ Rasheed conceded. ‘But then, one could also ask, why did the Organization employ an outsider?’

‘Precisely,’ she remarked, believing he had accepted the flaws in his arguments.

‘Anyway, Kris will be here around eleven, we plan to go out.’

‘Where?’

‘Here in the colony, to see who sticks those damn papers to walls.’

Uma pulled him towards her. ‘Come with me to the hills,’ she said.

‘But I can’t leave now,’ he replied, fanning away the cigarette smoke that curled into his eyes. ‘I thought you only smoked in the morning and before sleeping?’

‘You must not stay here,’ she said.

‘What are you so worried about?’ Rasheed asked.

She gazed at him, surprised at his question.

Rasheed said, ‘Your friend EPK is the only person who hasn’t called me yet.’

Uma turned her face away and exhaled.

At 2 a.m., Rasheed and Kris walked towards the bonfire at the front entrance of Sector XIII. The guard there was a Gurkha, stocky and middle-aged, wearing a coarse overcoat two sizes too big. When they were close to him, he exclaimed he now had something to report. Pointing to the corner ground floor flat located at the opposite end of the driveway, he said about half an hour earlier, two men had emerged from there; the lankier of them had a suitcase. They had walked to the parking, and once the luggage had been placed in the boot of a white Maruti, they had driven down to the gate.

‘DEC 6AY 1992,’ said the Gurkha, reading out from the register he was required to maintain of every entry and exit from Sector XIII.

He had asked for the driver’s name and his flat number: ‘Dr Vikram Rathore; flat number seventy-two,’ he read out. During the time Dr Rathore had taken to enter his particulars in the register, the Gurkha said he had tried to catch a glimpse of the doctor’s companion. But he had swathed his face in a muffler.

The Gurkha tossed a few newspaper sheets into the flickering fire. It hissed and crackled, and the flames leapt and smoked.

When he had opened the gates, Dr Rathore had craned his neck out the car window. He had wanted to know whether there had been anyone loitering around his house or inquiring about him. The doctor had told the Gurkha that should he notice anything suspicious, or abnormal, he must inform him about it, irrespective of the time.

The Gurkha glanced at them, and into the fire.

Taking out a twenty rupee note, Rasheed told the Gurkha that he wasn’t to tell anyone about their request, nor stop observing the flat in which the doctor lived. And for every piece of information relevant to them, he was to get an extra ten bucks.

Rasheed and Kris walked away from the fire, down the concrete driveway to the front row of Sector XIII, comprising four-storey blocks in succession, each containing eight flats, four on either side of the open staircase, packed on top of each other like cardboard boxes in footwear shops, identical in design and shape. They stopped opposite Flat No. 72. On their right was the strip of green, grown wild now, stretching from the gate to the shopping complex. A low iron railing separated the driveway from the strip. To their left was the parking. Beyond it was the boundary wall of Sector XIII.

It was dark and still; the colony was dead to the night.

They turned right, walked about thirty feet, and stopped where the paved path, six feet wide, cut through the front row.

‘The doctor sounds paranoid,’ Rasheed whispered, sitting down on the railing.

Kris remained standing, pulling up and down the slide of his jacket zip. His face was taut. From his right shoulder dangled a flask. It still had the coffee Uma had made for them earlier in the night.

‘Just because Sheela hasn’t come,’ Kris said, ‘you can’t assume she is dead.’

During their vigil this wasn’t the first time Kris had expressed his disagreement with Rasheed’s hypothesis. ‘Sheela will come over tomorrow morning,’ he added.

This belief was his buoy. For him to admit to the possibility of her death, to speculate who in the committee could have had a hand in her murder, was to also accept his own culpability in the crime. It was he who had told the committee about Sheela. In case she had been silenced, then Kris knew he was, in a way, responsible for her death. He didn’t want to accept his guilt even before the crime had been confirmed.

Up and down Kris moved the slide of the jacket. He tried to think of arguments he could posit against his indictment. It wasn’t he alone who was to blame for her death; there were others too – and, anyway, it didn’t make sense to think of his defence at a time Sheela hadn’t been found dead. She had to be alive, he was sure.

‘You think she is dead,’ Kris said, ‘because of Prof. Chatterjee’s fear that the Organization could have infiltrated our meeting.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rasheed replied.

‘It is the reason,’ Kris insisted, pausing. ‘If Prof. Chatterjee hadn’t told you that, you would have thought she had failed to turn up because she couldn’t find time.’

Rasheed did not counter him. He thought it was pointless arguing about what they couldn’t prove either way: whether Sheela was alive or had been murdered. Kris wanted to hope that Sheela was alive; and he wouldn’t stop hoping until the news of her murder had travelled from her jhuggi-jhopri to Hemant Kunj.

The night was cold and silent. But it wasn’t the kind of silence they knew as solitude. It was more the absence of noise, of what had been there and did not now exist, of activities that had ceased, of people who had gone to sleep. It was this note they heard in their hearts. And it filled them with dread, because the silence of the night resembled the quietness that follows the sudden cessation of a noise. It gnawed at them. Their bodies had lost the heat that had seeped into them at the time they had stood near the fire, and their heads were wet because of the dew, and their clothes damp. They needed to talk, turn away from the idea they had become obsessed about.

‘Let’s see the baton,’ Rasheed said.

Kris took out the baton from the inside of his jacket: it was two inches in diameter and over two feet in length and its top was rounded. Its one end was pushed into his trousers.

Rasheed tapped the baton on his thigh, and remarked,
‘You know, when you opened the jacket, you should have seen Uma’s face.’

Kris remained silent. He took the baton from Rasheed and tucked it back in.

‘Where did you get it from?’ Rasheed asked, wanting to draw out Kris.

‘From the security guard at office,’ Kris said.

‘We can’t take them on, just the two of us,’ Rasheed said.

Kris didn’t say anything. He wanted to keep his own company, to mull over his indiscretion. What he had done yesterday – talking about Sheela at the meeting – was of greater importance than his plans for the night. The thought that he could have risked Sheela’s life had swept away the excitement with which he had suggested waiting for those who came every night to stick the Secret History papers; not to resist them nor ferret out information, but to satisfy their curiosity about the identity of these people – and tide over the disappointment at Sheela’s failure to show up.

When Kris had called, he hadn’t known Rasheed’s hypothesis; he had been told about it on his arrival at Rasheed’s flat, a little before midnight. And now, over the last two hours, he had analyzed what he had been told; he had argued against it; he had wanted to rule out the possibility of Sheela being killed. Kris’s own struggle had acquired greater significance than the mission they were on.

‘Should we call it off?’ Rasheed asked.

‘No,’ Kris replied. ‘Let’s move on.’

They took the paved path to emerge behind the front row. On their left, two feet below, was the parking area; the children’s playground spread out to their right; beyond it was the open square. Overlooking it was the shopping complex. Adjacent to the square was the first of two side-gates of the quadrangle; the other was below the block of flats in which Rasheed lived, in the last row. Inmates of flats behind the front row accessed Sector XIII through these two entrances.

They entered the parking area. Kris leaned on the bonnet of a car; Rasheed stood near him. From here they could watch the square and the first side-gate as well as the middle-street which had, on either side, the ten rows of flats. On the walls of the flats along the middle-street the Secret History papers had appeared daily.

Rasheed asked for the flask from Kris. Unscrewing the cup, he poured coffee into it. Rasheed took a sip and passed it to Kris and said, ‘It’s tepid.’

A figure emerged from behind a block of flats. He leaned against the lamp-post and blew the whistle. They waited. It wasn’t a call for them. He was to blow the whistle three times in succession, pause, then blow again – this was how they had instructed the watchmen to signal them at the sight of anyone sticking papers to walls. Tapping the staff on the road, he ambled towards his colleague at the gate.

‘Kris,’ said Rasheed. ‘There are six guards, and none of them claims to have ever seen those who stick the History papers. It’s strange.’

His friend nodded. Rasheed gulped down the coffee, and screwed the cup back on the flask. Two beedis now glowed at the gate.

‘Your theory about the doctor suffers from major drawbacks,’ Kris said. It seemed he had been silently picking holes in Rasheed’s hypothesis.

‘One,’ Kris continued, ‘Prof. Chatterjee had feared the Organization could have infiltrated our meeting. It doesn’t mean it necessarily did.’

‘Didn’t you read Secret History today?’ asked Rasheed. ‘The author says he was present among us.’

‘For a moment, assume he isn’t boasting,’ Kris countered. ‘His presence doesn’t imply he volunteered for our committee. Where’s the evidence?’

‘Kris,’ Rasheed said, a tad testily, ‘every investigation begins with an assumption. My assumption is: one among the committee members is the author.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Kris said. ‘From that assumption you concluded Sheela didn’t come today because the author, her employer, who is on the committee and therefore knew about the betrayal she and you had together planned, decided to bump her off.’

Rasheed remained silent. His statement on assumption had not been cogent. But he did not try to rephrase the sentence, understanding the futility of arguing with his friend.

Growing in confidence, Kris continued, ‘That assumption has led you behan chod to your second conclusion: Dr Rathore is the author. And why? Because he had known Sheela even before they met at your place, but she denied that she knew the visitor. I mean, Rasheed, come on.’

Rasheed understood what he was trying to convey. Like Uma, Kris too believed that, had Dr Rathore been guilty, he wouldn’t have confessed to knowing Sheela. He didn’t want to defend his theory. It was silly to argue over a suspicion. Yet it was obvious to him that silence would not satisfy Kris.

‘Picture this,’ Rasheed said. ‘Uma requests the doctor to visit my place. Here he meets Sheela. Can the doctor deny meeting her? He can’t, for Uma knows about it.’

‘No, you are wrong there,’ Kris countered. ‘Why did he have to tell Uma that he knew Sheela? Had I been the author, her employer, I wouldn’t have.’

‘Come on, Kris,’ Rasheed replied. ‘Neither Uma nor I was aware that the maid and the doctor knew each other. When I surprised him with the question – you knew Sheela, didn’t you? – earlier this evening, the doctor paused and then …’

‘And said yes,’ added Kris, in an incredulous tone.

‘That’s right,’ Rasheed responded. ‘How could he have known what Sheela had told me? He thought it was prudent to accept that, to not be seen as a liar.’

‘Don’t you think,’ Kris countered immediately. ‘If he has indeed killed her, though I don’t think she is dead, he would have first found out from her what she had told you. Come on. Can’t you see loopholes in your behan chod arguments?’

This round of conversation had convinced Kris about the flaws in Rasheed’s assumptions. For Kris, it implied Sheela was alive.

Outside the complex, a Maruti car braked to a halt below the lamp-post. It was white in colour. Its headlights were on, the driver honked twice. Rasheed saw a guard walk out the gate.

‘Also, once he met Sheela at your place, he would have silenced her on that day itself,’ Kris argued.

‘That’s what Uma said too,’ Rasheed muttered. ‘But how could the doctor have known then that a committee would be formed, and I, of all people, would get involved?’

Outside the complex the guard stooped to speak to a person in the car.

‘No Rasheed,’ Kris said, laughing. ‘I mean why are you talking like a behan chod buddhu. Committee or no committee, had the doctor been the author, do you think he would have risked the possibility of Sheela telling his patient of his about her peculiar job?’

Rasheed saw the car move forward. It gathered speed and quickly disappeared from view. The guard stood there for a few minutes before stepping inside the complex.

Kris said confidently, ‘Sheela is alive. I am sure now.’

They heard the whistle blow, three short bursts in quick succession. Kris and Rasheed were on the move. Crossing the paved path, and jumping over the railing of the playground, they walked briskly past the slides and swings, upon the carpet of dewy grass. The last code of the signal rang ominously in the stillness of the night.

The older of the two guards, bulky and short, tapped the staff on the road. In his hand was a sheet of paper. Did the sahibs see the car that had stopped at the gate? A white Maruti, it had honked twice? A driver seeking directions, the watchman had thought, walking out the gate. Inside the car there had been four people: two at the back, two in the front. The man adjacent to the driver had handed him a sheet of paper and said, it should be delivered to the two young men roaming about in the colony: one with insane eyes, the other strongly built.

Kris took the sheet of paper. It was a laser printout, addressed plainly, Bastards. Below it, in the same typeface, was the message, ‘Go home and sleep. Your vigil is futile. We are everywhere.’

Kris muttered, ‘Behan chod .’

The portly guard said the white Maruti had stopped at the second side-gate; two men had stepped out and entered Sector XIII. Obviously, the guard said, he expected Rasheed and Kris to follow the nocturnal visitors. But remember sahibs, no fights, no maara-kaati, avoid trouble at any cost. In case they were to feel a showdown was inevitable, the other guard said, handing over his whistle to Rasheed, the sahibs too should remember the distress signal: whistle three times in rapid succession, pause, and then whistle again.

The shortest route to the other side-gate was the passage, four feet in width, between where the rows of flats ended and the outer wall of the quadrangle was. Rasheed and Kris took off. Kris stumbled, and steadied himself. Rasheed was lagging behind, holding the flask to ensure it did not sway as he ran. It slowed him.

Rasheed was breathless as they reached the other gate. The guard here had a running nose. Wiping the mucus with the blanket he had wrapped around himself, he confirmed the entry of two men; they had turned left on the street running through the middle of the colony. As tall as Kris, and whitish in complexion, they had given their flat number as 786. But there were only 756 flats in the complex. The guard said he had realized this too late, for by then they had disappeared from his sight.

Kris started to jog down the road. Trailing him was Rasheed. He glanced at his flat. The balcony door was shut. Did they know where he stayed? Had they harmed Sheela, shut her up for good? At the intersection Kris stood waiting. Rasheed reached him, panting.

The middle-street was deserted. Where had the duo vanished? They briskly walked down it, stopping at the top of each lane running between two rows of flats. They did not spot them.

It was 4 a.m.

‘Where have they gone?’ Kris was exasperated. He took out the sheet of paper from his pocket and looked at it.

‘But for Uma, nobody knew about our plan,’ remarked Rasheed.

‘Yes, true,’ said Kris, sounding hoarse.

Footsteps shuffled behind them. Startled, they turned around. Two men had emerged behind them, from around the corner thirty feet away. They stopped and stared at Rasheed and Kris. A leather bag hung from the shoulder of one who was in trousers and a sweater. His companion was two steps behind him.

Kris zipped open the jacket and took out the baton.

‘Signal the guards in case of a fight,’ he whispered.

The duo stepped directly below the streetlight. Their faces were now clearly visible: the man with the bag had a long nose; he wore a crew cut. His companion, draped in a shawl, was shorter and sported a moustache. They looked calmly at the baton in Kris’s hand.

The man with the bag smirked. ‘Raju,’ he said.

Raju jerked his left shoulder. The one end of the shawl slid down; his arms were folded across the chest. In his right hand was a revolver. Certain they had glimpsed the weapon, the man flung the shawl back over his shoulder.

‘Hijras,’ muttered Raju.

‘Hijras,’ agreed the other.

They started to walk towards Rasheed and Kris.

Seven feet away, Raju said to the man with the bag. ‘No action, time waste.’

Kris gritted his teeth. It was a provocation he wouldn’t have ordinarily ignored.

At a handshaking distance from Rasheed and Kris the duo stopped. The man with the leather bag strolled to the wall of a flat. Zipping open his fly, he began to urinate.

Raju asked Rasheed, ‘What is in the flask?’ He was comfortable speaking the English language.

‘Coffee,’ Rasheed replied. ‘It is finished.’

‘Let me check,’ Raju said.

Rasheed handed over the flask to Raju, who held it by its straps, disinterested in checking whether it was indeed empty. Instead, Raju turned to Kris and smiled, before asking amiably, ‘What are you doing so late at night?’

The man at the wall turned around. ‘Mind your business,’ he said.

Pointing to the baton in Kris’s hand, Raju continued, ‘What are you doing with that?’

Kris couldn’t hold himself back. He waved the paper and said, ‘We wanted to know who had left this message for us.’

‘And suppose you are told who, what will you do?’ asked Raju, smiling. He waited, and then came closer to them. ‘Answer …’

‘Nothing, he can do nothing,’ Rasheed said.

The other man now joined them.

‘Exactly,’ Raju said. ‘And do you know why?’

He trained the revolver directly at Kris. ‘Because that,’ he said, pointing to the baton, ‘doesn’t stand a chance against this. Am I right?’

‘You are right,’ said the man with the bag. Clutching Raju’s shoulder, he added, ‘Let’s go.’

They heard the distress signal loud and clear. Further up the street, at the intersection, the guard of the second side-gate appeared.

Raju’s eyes were on Kris.

‘Come on, move,’ urged his companion.

Raju did not budge. ‘I want his answer. Does your baton stand a chance against my revolver?’ he repeated.

Raju pushed the gun closer to Kris. He spoke slowly, ‘Does that stand a chance against my gun?’

‘No,’ Kris whispered.

‘What?’ The muzzle of the revolver now touched Kris’s chest.

‘It doesn’t stand a chance,’ Kris said, choking with helpless rage.

Raju threw the shawl around himself. ‘Good boy,’ he said, ‘Go home now.’

The duo turned around and walked away. Raju held the flask by its straps. They turned left towards the first side-gate.

Kris was trembling, and his face was pale.

The guard who had signalled was now near them. About ten minutes ago, he said, the lights in Rasheed’s flat, in the block overlooking his post, had come on. Soon his memsahib had stepped out on the balcony and requested him to summon the two sahibs roaming the colony. He had been reluctant to leave his post. But when she had said they must be informed about a death, he had walked to the top of the middle-street and blown the whistle in the style they had asked him to.

‘Death?’ Rasheed asked. He began to run up the road, turning right at the intersection. Kris plodded behind.

Rasheed stopped at his block. Uma was standing on the staircase landing of the third floor, looking down.

‘Rasheed,’ she said.

He ran up the staircase. At the point where the staircase turned to the third floor, he stopped and looked at her. She looked distressed, as she stood leaning against the inside frame of the door that was wide open.

‘Rasheed,’ she said.

He climbed the few steps to reach her.

In a quivering voice, she said, ‘About twenty minutes back, there was a phone call, anonymous, from a woman. “Bitch, whore,” she said, “why are you fucking a Muslim? Whore, go look what’s pasted on the door of the flat where you fuck.”’

Uma took a step to the side and closed the door. Pasted on its outer frame was an A-3 size paper. Secret History, it said. Above the text was scribbled: Sheela is dead.

Rasheed ripped off the Secret History paper from the entrance door, and led Uma into the drawing room. They waited for Kris, listening to the thud-thud of his footsteps as he ponderously climbed to the third floor. Rasheed did not doubt the claim about the death of Sheela. He had known in his heart what Uma and Kris had been unwilling to accept. She had missed her appointment because she had been killed. Uma reached out for his hand, in anxiety and fear, as also to commiserate with him. But in Rasheed’s mind, though, a thought, like a neon sign, kept flashing: the murder of Sheela implied that the author of Secret History, or his mole, was a member of the core committee.

Kris entered the drawing room, looking grim. He glanced at Rasheed and waited to be told the identity of the person who had died. Rasheed handed over the Secret History paper to Kris.

‘There, read that,’ Rasheed said, pointing his finger to the squiggle in ink on the computer print-out.

‘God,’ he cried out. ‘I can’t believe it.’ There was pain in his voice as he muttered, ‘We have killed her, we have killed her.’

Kris re-read the bland announcement. ‘I have killed her. I am the cause of her death,’ he said, his voice louder than before. Kris fell to his knees and buried his face in his palms and repeated, yet again, ‘I have killed her, I have killed her.’

Rasheed, too, knelt down and held his friend around his shoulders.

‘I am to blame for her death.’ Kris sounded hysterical. ‘Why did I have to kill her?’

A person standing outside could have heard his confession. ‘Softly,’ Rasheed said.

‘No, no,’ he said, reeling under the guilt gnawing at him. ‘It is because of me she is dead.’

Uma looked down at the two friends. Their expressions were a contrast. Kris’s face was contorted, in deep anguish. Rasheed’s was impassive, as if he had become inured to death, having agonized over it through many nights and days.

As Kris gasped, unable to sob, Uma said, in a tone soft and emphatic, ‘You haven’t killed her.’

‘Come,’ Rasheed said. ‘Let us sit there.’ Kris followed Rasheed and Uma and sat down between them on the floor, below the drawing room window.

‘Look Kris,’ Uma said, ‘don’t be stupid. It wasn’t because of you she died.’

‘Had I not opened my mouth,’ Kris said, pausing, ‘because I spoke at the meeting that they were warned.’

Neither Rasheed nor Uma countered Kris, thinking they should come up with a tenable argument to help him overcome the remorse he was reeling under.

The night felt sinister. They heard the guards blow their whistles and tap their lathis on the road. They heard a car honk and the gate squeak as it was opened. Rasheed turned on his knees to look out the window, and then returned to squatting on the floor. A dog began to howl; another responded, then a third and a fourth, their ominous cries reaching a crescendo in unison. To the trio, it had the quality of a dirge, to which they listened and said nothing and waited for the twilight hour.

‘Really, I never thought a part-time maid could be sticking brown adhesive tapes to Secret History papers,’ said Kris, twenty minutes later. He waited briefly for a response and then asked, ‘Rasheed, did you fear the committee could have been infiltrated?’

‘No,’ replied Rasheed.

‘Did you believe Sheela could have been working on Secret History papers?’

Rasheed could not think of an adequate reply.

‘I mean, say honestly, did you?’ Kris insisted.

In a tentative tone, Rasheed said, ‘I don’t know. Actually no, I hadn’t thought of the link between Sheela and Secret History at the time she sought my advice on her new job.’

‘See,’ Kris said, still too dazed to spot Rasheed’s equivocation. When Kris had brought over a sheaf of Secret History for Rasheed, he had been reminded of Sheela’s description of her new job as soon as he had glanced at them.

Uma craned her neck over Kris’s head and nodded at Rasheed, approving of his ambiguous reply. Once again they lapsed into silence, as the sky slowly turned a dull grey outside and birds twittered. From her experience of working at HOPE, where she had heard many suicidal voices quiver in guilt over actions they could not justify, Uma knew Kris’s torment had only begun. He was bound to return, over and over again, to talking about Sheela and his role in her death. She was to haunt him until such time others too were implicated in her death. A few of them indeed stood indicted in her eyes. Kris’s burden was not his alone.

Yet Uma did not voice her feelings. A far more pressing problem consumed her. She was to leave for the hills in another hour or so, in the cab that was to pick her up from Hemant Kunj. She was worried about Rasheed. The murder of Sheela testified to the Organization’s ruthlessness. Rasheed was particularly vulnerable, for he was guilty of abetting her betrayal.

Uma wondered about the course of action Rasheed was contemplating. Perhaps the death of Sheela could dissuade him and others from dabbling in matters they were neither equipped nor authorized to handle. It made sense for the committee to abandon their investigation, to withdraw from the path where murderers and madmen lurked. To persist even now was to invite immensely greater danger and woes, for the death of Sheela was insignificant in comparison to the possibility of a committee member getting killed. The winding up of the investigation, Uma concluded, was the most likely consequence of the sentence scribbled on the Secret History paper: Sheela is dead.

Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy would vote in favour of abandoning the investigation, Uma was sure. She was certain this would be the verdict of Kris too. Others she did not know personally and could not speculate on their stance. It was, ironically, Rasheed’s position she wasn’t confident about, for she had sensed in him a gradual transformation in the days following the night they had made love. Uma could now comprehend what the transformation in him was all about. The quest to identify the author had become his personal mission, a cause he embraced to make his otherwise meaningless life meaningful, an activity that could fill the void of his days and nights, particularly as he had, without a thought, resigned from his job. Having overcome his fear of death he was to now dread neither the Organization nor even a violent end to his own life.

Uma glanced at him and said nothing. ‘Why didn’t Bajpai or Prof. Chatterjee confide in me their fears about the committee being infiltrated?’

‘I know, I understand,’ Uma said.

‘Why did they have to keep their thoughts to themselves?’ Kris said.

‘Yes,’ Uma said. Her tone was measured. ‘They are to be blamed for what has happened.’ She hoped Kris had been consoled, at least a little.

‘I am not the only one responsible for her death,’ Kris said, calmer than before.

Rasheed was not surprised at Kris’s attempt to share his burden of guilt with others. He was sure Kris would get over it. For Uma and Kris, the death of Sheela, however sad and scary, was just an abstraction. They had never seen nor met her. They knew she was poor, had three children, and was married to a wastrel who was addicted to drugs and alcohol. And though she had acquired immense importance in their lives over the last three days, Sheela was to Uma and Kris, ultimately, just another name. For Rasheed, though, the loss was personal – he could visualize her face and her personality. He recalled several images, yet what haunted him, every time he closed his eyes, was the panic on her face as she had examined the sheaf of Secret History papers the previous day. Her reaction had been the most concrete evidence of the malevolent force arrayed against the core committee. But he had been too engrossed in cracking the case to interpret her response as a warning of what was awaiting them.

Should they continue to persist in establishing the link between the author of Secret History and the Organization? No doubt, Sheela’s death was proof of the link, but what they required was evidence acceptable in a court of law, evidence strong enough to identify and confront the author. These thoughts Rasheed promptly suppressed. This was the morning of mourning: he must not show disrespect to the dead. They must wait for other details about her death, such as the method employed to kill her and where her body had been dumped. He thought about Sheela’s three children.

‘You all don’t know what you are up against,’ Uma said, hoping to fathom the depth of their zeal to pursue the author.

Rasheed furrowed his brow in disapproval.

‘I could have been a corpse tonight,’ Kris said.

Rasheed winced at Kris’s remark. He had refrained from telling Uma about their night vigil because he hadn’t wanted to alarm her before her departure.

‘What do you mean?’ Uma asked.

Rasheed tried to underplay their encounter with the assailants. ‘Two men pointed a revolver at us. Bully tactics, you know. It can happen anytime on the streets of Delhi.’

Uma leaned forward and tilted her head sideways to stare at Rasheed. She said, ‘Two men saw both of you and decided to bully you. My God, what has happened to you?’

Putting her hand on Kris’s shoulder, Uma said, ‘Kris, you tell me. You have to tell me.’

Kris glanced at Rasheed and began to narrate to Uma what they had undergone, from the time the guard at the first side-gate had blown the whistle to summon and show them a paper addressed to Bastards. He told her about the two men who had alighted from the car and entered Sector XIII, and their encounter with them twenty-twenty-five minutes later. Kris recapitulated their conversation with the assailants, one of whom had trained the revolver on him and compelled him to make statements they wanted to hear.

‘I agreed,’ Kris said, ‘because …’

‘My God,’ Uma said, covering her face with her hands, then quickly clenching them into fists and kept shaking her head. ‘Imagine … look … oh no … anything could have happened,’ she said.

‘They were simply trying to scare us,’ Rasheed said.

‘No, Rasheed,’ Uma said sharply, her eyes large with fear. ‘What is wrong with you? They must have pasted the paper on the door.’

‘Now that you say it, perhaps they did. It never occurred to me,’ Rasheed said.

‘Suppose, because of the noise, I had opened the door?’ Uma said.

‘Come on,’ Rasheed said, glancing at Kris.

‘Suppose you had been coming up the stairs as they were sticking the paper on our door? Do you think they wouldn’t have done anything?’ The fear in her voice was laced with anger.

Rasheed did not say anything.

‘They could have shot the two of you,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see that?’

Ostensibly, theoretically, they had been two shots away from becoming dead bodies on the road.

‘Shot us?’ Kris said, emerging from the silence he seemed to be slipping in and out of. ‘For a few seconds, you know Uma, I thought of defying them, even making an attempt to snatch their revolver.’

‘And what made you behave sensibly?’ She laughed nervously, shifting to face them. ‘This is crazy, stupid, idiotic.’

Kris continued, ‘As the man pointed the gun at me, I … I …’ He trailed off.

They waited for him to explain the reversal of his decision. A few seconds passed before Uma prompted, ‘And then?’

‘The face of my wife flashed before me,’ he whispered, as if embarrassed to talk about the moment he was found feeble. Lowering his eyes to the floor, he said in a voice softer than before, ‘She is pregnant, due for delivery in January.’ He looked at Uma and said, ‘So I did what they wanted me to do.’

Uma sprang to her feet, towering over them, and with her hands at her waist, she asked, in a calm voice, ‘Is your wife at home, Kris?’

‘She is at her parents’ place, in Patna.’

‘That’s it,’ Uma declared, her voice commanding, ‘the two of you are coming with me. That’s it, yes.’

Rasheed looked at her, surprised at her presumptuous tone and at her indifference to his responsibility toward Sheela and her family. He couldn’t do much for her family, but he owed them a visit at least.

Kris said, ‘We have to report her death to the others.’

‘Damn the investigation,’ Uma said, furious. ‘They will kill you, can’t you see? Investigation is for the police, not for you all.’

‘Still, we can’t leave now,’ Rasheed said.

‘Tell them now, wake them,’ Uma insisted.

‘Oh, come on, Uma,’ Rasheed protested.

‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘We will leave in the evening. The signing and registration of the property sale is tomorrow.’

Kris glanced at Rasheed, confused.

‘It will take days for the police to complete the investigation,’ Rasheed intervened.

‘No,’ she said.

‘There are other things we need to look at,’ he continued. ‘You know, for instance, Dr Rathore had asked the guard whether anyone had made inquiries about him.’

‘What’s that?’ Uma asked, taken aback at the turn the conversation had taken.

‘That is what the guard told us,’ replied Rasheed, noticing the change in her expression.

‘I didn’t believe in Rasheed’s theory,’ Kris lamented. ‘But now, after Sheela … well, the doctor … well, it is because of me …’ Kris could not complete the sentence.

Uma did not console Kris. She understood Rasheed’s sudden reference to Dr Rathore: it was a ploy to put her on the defensive. Uma did not engage him in conversation. She had tried to protect him from harm, and he had spurned her. Uma thought she could only hope he would come unscathed from the trial he had chosen to undergo.

‘Fine,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Fine. I will get ready.’

Rasheed watched her walk out, and regretted the deliberate slight he had subjected her to. But he thought he wasn’t to blame. Her certitude, her faith in Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy riled him. An aspect of his theory had been proved correct, and yet she was not willing to suspect her friends. He wished for her support now more than ever, for he was, for the first time in his life, committed to a goal beyond the need to satisfy his self.

Rasheed wanted to persist with the committee’s investigation. He hoped other committee members too would be of the same opinion. He couldn’t count on Kris’s support, though, as he glanced at him, huddled once again, in silence. It was stupid of him to have responded to the barbs of the assailants. Rasheed thought he had tackled them exceptionally well.

He heard the honking of a car and hurriedly went to the balcony. The driver of the taxi that Uma was to take was standing on the road.

‘Ek minute,’ Rasheed shouted to him.

Uma was already out of the room, dressed in black slacks and the blue jersey she had worn the previous evening.

‘I should leave now,’ she said.

Rasheed went into the room and brought out her suitcase. They walked towards the door.

‘Kris,’ Rasheed said.

Uma said, ‘Kris, go to the police. Believe me, you will feel better.’

‘He can’t take the decision unilaterally,’ Rasheed muttered, frowning. ‘Let’s go,’ he added, stepping out on the landing.

She followed him down the stairs, silently. She did not want to argue with him minutes before her departure. On the second floor, she said in a tone he couldn’t take offence at, ‘Rasheed, we are bound by law to report a crime.’

‘We are,’ he agreed. ‘But let them first locate the body.’

Rasheed was perplexed: she wanted them to report the crime to the police, and yet she hadn’t endorsed his hypothesis. He could understand why she was appalled at the idea of suspecting Krishnamurthy: he was her friend, an important patron of HOPE. But Dr Vikram Rathore?

On the first floor landing she asked him again, ‘Why can’t you report the crime to the police?’

‘Look,’ he shot back, ‘once we report the crime, they would want to know from us whom we suspect. It is their standard procedure. Will it be fair of me to name Krishnamurthy and Dr Rathore?’

‘Is this really the reason why you don’t want to go to the police?’ she asked.

‘What do you think is the reason?’ he countered.

They reached the ground floor. The driver took the suitcase from Rasheed and proceeded to place it in the boot of the car.

‘You suspect them, and yet you don’t want to go to the police because of them,’ she said, in an incredulous tone. ‘I find it strange.’

‘I suspect them, yes,’ Rasheed continued. ‘But I don’t have evidence to report them to the police. Why are you so damn defensive about them?’

The driver closed the boot of the car and went to sit at the wheel. Uma gazed at Rasheed.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I am a bit freaked out.’

Uma stepped forward and embraced Rasheed and held him tightly.

She said, ‘Take care.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘You will be back in three days?’

Uma nodded and sat in the car, behind the driver.

As the engine hummed to life, Rasheed said, ‘See you after three days.’

Secret History

O Hindus,

On December 6, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only ten days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

Last night you reflected over what we had told you about Sir Sayyid Ahmad. You tossed and turned in bed till you decided to check the books of those storytellers. In them you found explanation for Sir Sayyid Ahmad’s diabolical thoughts and reprehensible actions. You began to murmur to yourself, why did the author of Secret History delete references to Shivaji Utsav, the Devanagari script and cow slaughter? Weren’t these three controversial issues the reason behind Sir Sayyid’s pursuit of separatist politics?

It isn’t our intention to conceal facts. Let us take each of the three issues one by one. Do you know who organized the first Shivaji Utsav? Yes, you are right: it was your first great nationalist leader, Bal Gangadhar Tilak. Do you know what Shivaji Utsav was about? Yes, you are right, it was a festival organized to commemorate the memory of Chhatrapati Shivaji, the great Hindu warrior. Secular was Bal Gangadhar Tilak’s motive, nationalist was the nature of his goal. Innumerable festivals do your countrymen celebrate, tremendous is the fervour on such occasions. Each festival is linked to one religion or another. Each festival involves some social groups and excludes the rest. In organizing Shivaji Utsav, Tilak sought to inspire the nation of India to celebrate at least one festival together.

You look surprised and you wonder aloud, what objections could those storytellers have against Shivaji Utsav? Wise sons, ask the question: whom did Shivaji fight in the seventeenth century? Aurangzeb the Terrible, you reply. Ask another question: what was Aurangzeb’s religion? Islam, you declare earnestly. Innocent are you, incapable of understanding the storytellers. In praising Shivaji’s opposition to Aurangzeb Alamgir, the storytellers accuse Tilak of celebrating the humiliation of Muslims. In drawing a parallel between British conquests and Mughal rule, they say Tilak emphasised the foreign origin of Muslims. They say the festival stoked the anxiety of Muslims, it hurt their sentiments. This was the reason why they supported the separatist politics of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan.

The logic of those storytellers baffles you. In sheer astonishment you say, indeed, the Mughals were Muslim; indeed, their ancestors came from Central Asia. Indeed, you want to shout, the reign of Aurangzeb Alamgir was unjust and cruel. In celebrating Shivaji Utsav, Tilak was underlining the inevitability of truth and justice winning in the end. Tell us, is it wrong to oppose an unjust ruler? Shouldn’t Muslims denounce Aurangzeb for imposing religious tax on your ancestors? Those who can’t look past their religion must see enemies all around them. Those whose religion is also their political ideology are doomed to become paranoid. This was the problem of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan and his followers. This was why they kept away from the freedom movement.

In the books of those storytellers you must have read about the Urdu-Hindi controversy. It must have been cited as a factor to explain the alienation of Muslims. Under Muslim rule, in north India at least, Urdu had become the language of the country’s politico-culture as well as the judiciary. At the root of the Hindi-Urdu controversy was the debate over the script the people should use. You could say Urdu was Hindi written in Persian-Arabic script. Down the centuries, though, the language became too Persianised for ordinary Hindus to fathom.

Isn’t it true, wise sons, the powerful always foist their language on the weak? Isn’t it true, noble sons, the language you write in reflects the existing power equation in society? Under British rule, the balance of power had shifted in favour of the Hindus. Your ancestors wondered at the irony of fighting for freedom from the British and yet writing in the script of the foreigners. Exquisite was the Sanskrit language in which your ancestors had created a profound body of literature. Alas, no longer was the ancient language of Sanskrit spoken among the common people. Nor was it possible to bring it back in vogue again. The least your ancestors could do was to bring into popular circulation the script – the Devanagari – in which Sanskrit was written. In 1867 was thus voiced in Benaras the demand to introduce Hindi in the Devanagari script and grant it official status.

Tremendous was the support of people for this demand. Quick were the Indians to forsake the language of the foreigners. In 1900, under popular pressure, the British ultimately accepted the demand of the nationalists. The storytellers, though, say the demand for Hindi fanned the anxiety of Muslims, they say it stoked their fears about their identity. They then argue, this was the reason why the Muslims began to think of themselves as a separate nation.

Ask the storytellers, did the nationalists commit any wrong in raising a demand the majority supported overwhelmingly? Is it justified for those in the minority to mock the sentiments of the majority? Indeed, those who can’t understand the nature of power are bound to suffer. This was what had begun to happen to Muslims in nineteenth century India. A prime example of their folly was their insistence on cow slaughter. Sacred is the cow to the Hindus, for centuries has it been venerated. Your holy men beseeched the Muslims, do not slaughter the cow, please respect our religious sentiments.

Forget what those storytellers say, the movement against cow slaughter had a popular base. Forget what the Muslim leaders argue, the practice of cow slaughter had deeply hurt the sentiments of your ancestors. Under duress had they relented to cow slaughter, under the reign of the Mughals they knew it was futile to protest. With the end of Muslim rule, your ancestors began to organize societies to protect the divine animal. Insensitive were the Muslims, they claimed their Allah had decreed they must sacrifice the cow for their festival. Obstinate were the Muslims, they said it was their religious right to slaughter the cow. Foolhardy were the Muslims, they failed to realize the consequences of opposing the popular will. Inevitable was thus the violence of June-July 1893. Riots over cow slaughter broke out in Azamgarh; from there it spread to Ballia and Gorakhpur. Soon Patna, Gaya and Saran were up in flames. There was bloodshed in Bombay and Junagadh, too.

These violent incidents, the storytellers claim, fanned the fears of Muslims. They say understand the minority complex, don’t make them feel insecure in the present. Tell them, those who can’t understand the existing power equation must always pay dearly. Tell them, those who are not willing for a compromise must always pay heavily. Either the Muslims should surrender the Babri Masjid or they should prepare to countenance your wrath on 6 December. Till then, rise and raise your arms, rise and say, Lord Ram.

The afternoon sun had turned Bajpai’s face ruddy. Perhaps it was also because of the two large vodkas he had downed quickly. He stirred his glass, the third of the afternoon. It was to Ashok Kumar Bajpai an anonymous caller had given the location where the body of Sheela was: in the thicket across the Centre of Indian History, barely two kilometres from Rasheed’s flat in Hemant Kunj.

His hand trembled as he picked up the glass to take a gulp. ‘At 11 a.m. the phone rings,’ Bajpai said. ‘I am thinking of the Secret History paper on the door of Rasheed’s flat, I am asking myself, if they know Rasheed’s flat, wouldn’t they know my telephone number, my address, my daily routine?’

Gripping the edge of the table he leaned forward, and dropping his voice, continued, ‘I am thinking of all this as I take the call. The woman on the line doesn’t ask my name. She says, as if she knows my voice, “Mr Bajpai, Sheela’s body can be found in the bushes across the Centre of Indian History.” She laughs. Can you believe it? She laughs. And the line goes dead.’

Bajpai, Rasheed and Kris were on the terrace of The Nest, a restaurant on the twenty-first floor of Blue Sky Hotel. The venue of the meeting had been Bajpai’s choice. He was already there when Rasheed and Kris arrived. A little later, Prof. Chatterjee appeared. Between the two arrivals he had knocked down the second peg, and questioned Rasheed and Kris on the information they had gathered. He had instructed them to visit the Hemant Kunj police station as journalists writing a story on the body found across the Centre for Indian History.

They had a few details: the body was discovered at 7.00 a.m., at precisely the spot the anonymous caller to Bajpai had said it would be. A police patrol had stumbled upon it and identified it as Sheela from the description in the missing person complaint filed the previous evening. Sheela was to be cremated later, after the post-mortem.

‘The woman’s laughter was insane. It made my hair stand on end, I say,’ Bajpai said, sliding back in the chair. He looked at Prof. Utpal Chatterjee, seated across from him. ‘And now after what he has told me …’ he continued, pointing to Rasheed who was to his left. ‘Professor, I asked them to visit the police station. Do you know the time the body was discovered?’

He waited, believing Rasheed would want to furnish the details.

‘The body was discovered at 7.00 a.m. I am right, am I not, Rasheed?’ Bajpai asked, ‘The body is discovered at seven and I get the call around 11.00 a.m. Can anyone explain to me the choice of time?’

Prof. Chatterjee fingered the sickle-scar, thoughtfully.

Bajpai continued, ‘I can’t figure it out, I say. If they knew Rasheed and Kris were out last night looking for those who stick the Secret History papers, they would have also known that the body of Sheela had been discovered at seven. Why call me at eleven?’

Prof. Chatterjee turned to Kris and said, ‘The two of you shouldn’t have done that.’

‘They could have shot you, I say,’ Bajpai added. ‘Two murders in one night. That would have been too much, I say.’

The glass door connecting the restaurant to the terrace swung open. A waiter in a maroon prince-coat and black trousers walked to their table. The terrace was awash with sunlight, and the breeze was brisk. Prof. Chatterjee and Rasheed ordered coffee, Bajpai asked for a large peg of vodka. Kris said he didn’t want anything.

‘Kris,’ Bajpai suggested. ‘Have a vodka. It will make you feel better, I say.’

‘No,’ Kris said.

‘Anything to eat?’ asked the waiter.

‘A plate of tikkas?’ Bajpai suggested.

Nobody had an appetite.

‘Peanuts for me,’ said Bajpai.

He waited for the waiter to walk past the glass door. Leaning towards Kris, he said softly, ‘Talk, you will feel better, I say.’

All that Kris did was to sit upright in his chair.

‘I know what is going on in your mind,’ Bajpai continued. ‘You are thinking that if the man had shot you, you wouldn’t have seen …’ He paused to inform Prof. Chatterjee, ‘His wife is expecting. He’s to go on leave from 30 December.’

That Sheela had been murdered and her body thrown in the thicket was frightening enough. But the thought of what had been averted last night was infinitely more terrifying for Prof. Chatterjee and Bajpai. Had the man pulled the trigger on Kris, had the bullet lodged in his heart, they wouldn’t have been sitting on the terrace, twenty-one floors above the ground, discussing, as they were doing now, the death of Sheela – and the demands it laid on them.

Bajpai peered into his drink. Prof. Chatterjee had pushed his chair sideways and was looking down at the floor. Rasheed glumly stared at the skyline, Kris’s eyes were shut. It seemed they were apprehensive of their eyes betraying the question they were reluctant to ask: Should they now call off their pursuit of the author of Secret History or overcome their fears, identify and link him to the Organization?

Bajpai’s hand shook as he raised the glass to his lips. ‘Kris,’ he said, ‘do not be foolhardy. Before you do anything, take any decision, think of your pregnant wife.’ He put the glass down without taking a sip.

Kris opened his eyes. ‘I betrayed Sheela.’ His voice was faint.

From across the table, Rasheed said, ‘You know that isn’t true.’

‘My big mouth,’ he moaned.

Prof. Chatterjee leaned to his left and said, ‘Kris, you did what you should have. None of us could have predicted the consequence.’

Prof. Chatterjee glanced at Bajpai, seeking his help in consoling Kris.

‘We are all to blame,’ said Bajpai, quaffing his drink, two large gulps in succession, and wiped his mouth with a tissue. ‘It’s true we are all to blame,’ Bajpai repeated. ‘We could have taken the help of the police as soon as we were told about Sheela’s job. We didn’t. Rasheed should have taken down her address the day he called her to look at the Secret History papers. We could have talked to her that same evening. He didn’t. Kris, you didn’t think it was risky to reveal what you did to the committee. I too would have, had I been in your position. Chatterjee had feared the Organization could infiltrate the committee. He told me, but I guess he had his own reason not to tell you all.’

Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘Bajpai, you know my reason. It was a vague feeling, and you too thought it was too ridiculous to tell others about it.’

‘If only you had told us,’ Kris complained.

The professor lowered his eyes.

‘I wouldn’t have opened my mouth then, I swear I wouldn’t have,’ Kris said.

They fell silent, shivering in the breeze that blew across the terrace.

A few minutes later, Kris turned to Prof. Chatterjee and said, ‘You say it was a vague feeling. But when Dr Rathore asked me the gender of the person, why did you gesture at me to not answer him?’

‘Come on, Kris,’ Rasheed intervened.

Prof. Chatterjee was provoked. He drew himself up to speak. ‘As I said, it was just a vague feeling. But suppose I had taken my hunch seriously and Bajpai hadn’t dismissed it, what should have I done? Confided in the two of you? Why? As convener I am expected to trust each one of the committee members. I suspect no one.’

The tone of his speech was emphatic, like one often employed to bring closure to an interminable debate. He continued, ‘Suppose I had voiced my feelings publicly to the committee. Can you imagine the consequences? The committee would have been riven with suspicion. And also, I would have been guilty of accusing people without evidence.’

There was silence around the table. They were stunned at the implication of Prof. Chatterjee’s confession: he had imperiled them, and the investigation, because he thought it was wrong to suspect anyone without evidence.

Prof. Chatterjee slid back in the chair and began to rub his neck. ‘I agreed to exclude the rest from this meeting,’ he said, his voice measured, ‘because the murder of Sheela has changed the situation. Yes. The Organization has a mole in the committee.’

The glass door swung open. The waiter walked in with a tray. Behind him was a man in a black sleeveless sweater. He sauntered to the parapet from where India Gate was visible. The waiter kept a plate of peanuts and a glass of vodka before Bajpai and a cup of coffee each before Prof. Chatterjee and Rasheed.

Bajpai dropped ice cubes into the vodka and watched the bubbles rise. The only sound at the table was of Rasheed stirring the coffee. They were stiff and silent. It was not the silence friends share. It was the silence arising from the fear of being misunderstood. The shadow of the author had crept amongst them, prompting each to demand unstinted loyalty from the others. And because they were incapable of extreme loyalty, they were doomed to suspect each other.

‘What do we …’ Rasheed stopped speaking as Bajpai clutched his arm and pointed with his eyes to the man at the parapet.

Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘You take too much ice.’

‘I like my drink ice-cold,’ Bajpai responded, scooping up the peanuts with his left hand.

They waited, in silence, for the man to leave. The murder of Sheela had made their world akin to a novel’s universe: chance occurrences were to no longer have a place in it. Every happening around them had to be deliberate and scripted, linked to the plot underlying the murder of Sheela. Every moment had a meaning waiting for them to unravel and understand.

As the man at the parapet walked into the restaurant, the half-smile appeared on Prof. Chatterjee’s face. ‘Should we be so suspicious?’ he asked in jest.

Rasheed lifted the cup and said, ‘Last night, during our vigil, Kris had scoffed at my suspicions.’

‘Professor,’ mumbled Kris, ‘had we been suspicious …’ He stopped: it was obvious to others what he had wanted to say.

‘Speaking of suspicion,’ Bajpai said, bringing the vodka to his lips. His sips had become smaller and his hand steadier. ‘In the gathering of academics and journalists, how could you include Dr Vikram Rathore in the committee, and that man with a strange name: something something Krishnamurthy? They were the odd balls there.’

Rasheed cupped his hands around the coffee cup.

‘They volunteered,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘I wanted the committee to be broad-based, you see.’

Bajpai leaned back in the chair. ‘I find it strange that a doctor and a computer professional should have known about our meeting.’

The professor said, ‘The doctor said he knew Rasheed very well …’

‘You know him well?’ Bajpai asked, coming closer to the table, looking straight at Rasheed.

‘Dr Rathore treated me three years ago,’ Rasheed replied. He glanced at Kris to remind him about what they had agreed upon: under no circumstances were they to reveal Rasheed’s travails of the last three weeks.

‘So you know him well,’ Bajpai said, the excitement ebbing from his voice. ‘And Krishnamurthy?’ Bajpai asked Prof. Chatterjee.

It was Rasheed who answered. ‘He was my classmate twenty years ago.’

‘Twenty years?’ exclaimed Bajpai.

‘In junior school,’ stated Rasheed. ‘All the way back then.’

‘The way you say it,’ said Prof. Chatterjee, rubbing his neck, ‘it appears the two of you didn’t keep in touch through those twenty years?’

‘That’s right.’ Rasheed could sense what they were driving at. They too shared his suspicion. But their reason was different from his. For them, Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy were suspects because they were the outsiders, the odd ones in the gathering of academics, students and journalists.

‘My friend Uma knows Krishnamurthy,’ Rasheed continued. ‘She told me that he was to come to the meeting at the Centre, and she told him I was to be there too. Otherwise we wouldn’t have recognized each other, after eighteen years.’

‘Uma found the poster on the door, right?’ Bajpai asked softly, still leaning forward. His eyes had a glint. ‘She received the telephone call last night?’

‘Yes,’ Rasheed replied, involuntarily looking away. He didn’t want to think or talk about Uma. She wasn’t pertinent to the discussion.

‘She called to inform me about your illness?’ Bajpai asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, turning to look at Bajpai. ‘Uma knows them. Dr Rathore treated me, Krishnamurthy and I were together in class years ago.’ He paused and glanced around and said, ‘But that doesn’t mean they are beyond reproach, Krishnamurthy and the doctor.’

Taking a sip from the glass on the table, Bajpai reclined in the chair, waiting for Rasheed to explain what he had said.

‘Even I suspect them,’ he said.

Bajpai glanced at the professor, who was intently listening to Rasheed. Kris seemed oblivious of the discussion.

‘Let’s begin with a few facts,’ Rasheed said and paused, in an attempt to weave his thoughts cogently, relieved he did not have to answer Bajpai’s queries on Uma. She wasn’t relevant to the analysis they were engaged in; nor her feelings about Krishnamurthy and the doctor. Her faith in them could not sustain against his verdict, which was not irrational as her trust in them.

‘We know Sheela was employed in Hemant Kunj,’ Rasheed said. ‘We can also say that Sheela worked for the author. What’s the evidence? She used to stick brown adhesive tapes to computer printouts. Her murder is another damning piece of evidence.’

Rasheed propped himself up on the table with his elbows. ‘Sheela worked in Hemant Kunj. She was employed with the author. Combine these two: Sheela worked with the author who, at least till the day of her death, resided in Hemant Kunj. Who stays there other than me? Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy.’

‘When you asked me the addresses of committee members yesterday, I could guess the reason,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘I suppose all of us have been pressing ahead along that line. But where is the evidence?’

‘It’s not our business to collect evidence, I say,’ Bajpai countered, sitting upright in the chair. ‘Let us report to the police what we know about the murder of Sheela.’

‘We should,’ Kris agreed. The desperation in his voice prompted others to look at him. His opinion weighed heavily on them.

‘It is possible,’ Prof. Chatterjee argued, ‘that the author works out of a Hemant Kunj flat. He doesn’t reside there.’

‘Possible,’ Rasheed agreed. ‘From Sheela’s description, though, it was obvious to me that her new employer had recently shifted residence to Hemant Kunj. By the way, Dr Rathore moved into the colony a month ago.’

‘That’s it, I say,’ Bajpai squealed. ‘We should report them to the police.’

‘Rasheed, your case is based on the assumption that the author is a member of the committee,’ Prof. Chatterjee countered. ‘The Organization man could as well have been an informer. Once you accept this possibility, your entire case falls. So while it is true that Sheela worked for the author who resided or resides in Hemant Kunj, this person, the author, need not be a member of the committee. Assume this to be true, for a moment. The yardstick of residential address can’t be applied to prepare a shortlist of suspects. For the informer could be living anywhere in Delhi. Can’t you see that all of us then become suspects in the murder?’

Bajpai took a huge gulp of his drink. ‘UC,’ he grumbled, ‘why can’t you …?’

‘Do you want to hang the doctor and Krishnamurthy on assumptions?’ Prof. Chatterjee asked, shaking his head disapprovingly.

‘This isn’t a court, I say,’ Bajpai shot back. ‘Professor, we don’t have to assume they are innocent unless proved otherwise.’

There was silence around the table.

Rasheed was prepared to argue his case. He had mentally tweaked the details to exclude the precise cause of his delirium from the narration of the meeting between Sheela and the mysterious visitor to his flat last week.

‘It is not fair,’ Prof. Chatterjee persisted. ‘You can’t even prove they knew her.’

Rasheed pushed the cup away and said, ‘The doctor knew Sheela.’

‘What do you mean?’ the professor asked.

‘He knew Sheela,’ Rasheed continued. ‘He told me as much. The story is complicated. Let me explain the background.’

Rasheed turned to Bajpai and said, ‘You know I was ill last week.’

‘That’s what Uma told me,’ he said.

‘In a couple of days my fever came down. I returned to Delhi midweek,’ Rasheed said. ‘But I had a relapse; high fever. I was delirious. And …’

‘Viral?’ Bajpai asked.

‘Yes,’ Rasheed said. ‘I was so ill I didn’t want to be disturbed. I unplugged the telephone. Uma tried to contact me but she couldn’t get through.’

‘Uma doesn’t stay with you?’ Bajpai interjected.

Rasheed felt the sudden urge to piss. He was baffled by Bajpai’s curiosity in Uma. Ignoring Bajpai’s question, Rasheed turned to Prof. Chatterjee and continued, ‘Since she could not reach me, Uma requested Dr Rathore to check on me. I was too far gone to hear the doorbell. Thankfully, Sheela had arrived a little before Dr Rathore. She had a duplicate key to my flat so that she could clean the house whenever she could, irrespective of whether or not I was present. Ever since she took up the new job, she had given up regular employment at my place.’

Bajpai gestured to the waiter for his fifth vodka.

‘That was last week,’ Rasheed continued. ‘I didn’t meet Sheela till Tuesday, the day I specifically summoned her to verify the Secret History papers.’

‘I see,’ Bajpai said, ‘That explains why the doctor had wanted to know the gender of the person Rasheed was meeting.’

Rasheed was amazed at Bajpai’s quick deduction.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Yesterday evening the doctor called me, to inquire whether or not Sheela had arrived with the History paper she had said she would smuggle out. During our conversation I suddenly said to him, “You knew Sheela, didn’t you?” The doctor said yes, but he made it a point to clarify that he wasn’t her employer.’

The waiter walked in with Bajpai’s vodka.

‘Curious,’ said Bajpai, scooping up all the peanuts on the plate.

‘Did he say explicitly that he wasn’t her employer?’ asked the professor.

Rasheed waited for the waiter to clear the table and move away. He replied, ‘Not explicitly. Sheela, according to the doctor, occasionally assisted her neighbour from the jhuggi who worked part-time at the doctor’s place. On two occasions the doctor said he had given medicine for Sheela’s children.’

‘Sheela’s neighbour worked or still works at his place?’ Prof. Chatterjee asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Rasheed replied.

Bajpai silently twirled his eyebrows. It seemed he was making a mental note of the questions to ask later.

Rasheed continued, ‘When I showed the Secret History paper to Sheela, she was astonished to see in my possession the papers she worked on – and about which her sahib had warned her against telling anyone. I wanted to put her at ease, so I made small talk. I asked her whether she knew the person who had visited me last week, and where he lived in Hemant Kunj. Sheela said she didn’t know him. But Dr Rathore claimed to have given medicine for her children.’

‘Which means she couldn’t have forgotten him,’ the professor said.

‘Now why,’ Rasheed continued, ‘would Sheela lie to me? Obviously, because the visitor to my place was, is, also the author, her employer.’

‘But …’ The professor kept quiet.

‘Kris feels the doctor didn’t have to confess to me his acquaintance with her,’ Rasheed said, fidgeting in the chair. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, getting up …’

‘Complete your arguments quickly,’ said Bajpai, ‘I too want to go to the washroom.’

‘Presuming the doctor is indeed the author, why did he have to accept he knew Sheela? After all, she was already dead by then, she couldn’t have testified against him,’ Rasheed said, facing Bajpai. His voice softened as he added, ‘They would have tortured Sheela, tried to ferret out from her what she had divulged to me.’

‘Continue,’ Bajpai said, taking a gulp of the drink. He put the glass on the table, then placing his right elbow on the arm-rest, he covered his mouth with his hand.

‘Imagine what Sheela would have told the author?’ Rasheed asked others. ‘That she had divulged to me the nature of her job but not her employer’s identity; that she lied at the time I asked her whether she knew the visitor to my place.’

Rasheed was on his feet, unable to bear the pressure in his bladder. Holding the backrest of the chair, he continued. ‘The doctor, obviously, was sure his dual identity hadn’t been revealed. He was in the committee meeting of Tuesday, wasn’t he? Each member knew Sheela was to bring a sample of Secret History papers. The sample was to be verified. Only then the process of identifying the author was to begin.

‘But my question – “You knew Sheela, didn’t you?” – must have confused Dr Rathore. He must have wondered: did she lie before dying, fearing the truth could land her in trouble? My guess is he decided to play it safe in answering me – that Sheela helped her neighbour at his place, and had twice taken medicine from him. In other words, he knew her but wasn’t her employer.’

‘Now suppose,’ countered the professor, ‘the doctor and the author are not the same person and he is indeed speaking the truth?’

‘I’ll be back,’ Rasheed said, heading to the toilet.

Bajpai said, ‘UC, if you can’t explain why Sheela concealed from Rasheed the fact that she knew who the mysterious visitor to his place was, then, as far as I am concerned, the doctor is guilty.’

Rasheed entered the restroom with its glistening marble floor. He wanted to confront the author of Secret History, the murderer of Sheela. He stood at the urinal, unzipped his fly, and began to pee. Soon the spring door of the washroom squeaked open.

‘Excellent,’ Bajpai exclaimed.

He came and stood at the urinal adjacent to Rasheed’s. ‘I’m proud of you, I say. Look at Kris, shaking like a pansy at the first glimpse of death.’

They stood next to each other, looking down and peeing.

‘I was always suspicious of the doctor,’ Bajpai continued. ‘Imagine him not recognizing that the brown strips were adhesive bandages?’

‘I know,’ Rasheed agreed.

‘Your objectivity is exceptional, I say,’ Bajpai said. ‘Those two guys are friends of Uma. Yet you overcame your prejudices, your biases, I say.’

Rasheed said stiffly, ‘The doctor is just an acquaintance of Uma.’

‘You said she and the doctor know each other professionally.’ Bajpai glanced at Rasheed and asked, ‘She a doctor?’

‘No,’ mumbled Rasheed. ‘She runs a helpline and counselling service for depressed people. The doctor occasionally refers his patients to her.’

‘So you met her through him,’ Bajpai remarked.

Without waiting for Rasheed’s reply, and moving from the urinal to the washbasin, Bajpai added, ‘I had thought she was a social activist, you know, an NGO type working among Muslim women.’

Rasheed remained standing at the urinal, watching the last drops of urine fall. Bajpai’s persistent questioning about Uma had unnerved him.

‘You know why I thought that,’ said Bajpai. ‘Because when Uma called to inform me about your illness, she asked this strange question,’ Bajpai said, laughing lightly as he washed his hands. ‘She wanted to know whether I knew the name of the Egyptian writer who at the turn of the century wrote a book advocating the emancipation of Muslim women.’

‘What?’ Rasheed exclaimed. It was the opposite of what she had told him: it was Bajpai who had inquired about the Egyptian writer.

Bajpai placed his hands under the dryer and said, ‘I laughed and told her: lady, you obviously haven’t known your man long enough. Ask Rasheed, he would know the answer.’

‘Uma told me it was you who had wanted the information,’ Rasheed blurted, in a bewildered tone.

‘Me?’ Bajpai exclaimed, moving away from the blower and opening the door. ‘Why would I want to know about the Egyptian writer?’

Bajpai swung open the door and said, ‘See you on the terrace.’ Rasheed was stunned. He stood watching his reflection in the mirror. He remembered what she had told him – it was Bajpai who had wanted to know the name of the Egyptian writer. Why did she lie? Perhaps he was mistaken. He had been popping sleeping pills indiscriminately on his return from Mughalabad. His recollection of those days was hazy, and lacked the certainty of an experience. He hadn’t known her for long; he was not aware of her taste in reading. Yet he found it perplexing that she should seek information on the Egyptian writer from Bajpai, whom she had talked to for the first time last week.

He walked out of the washroom. Through the glass door of the restaurant he saw Bajpai and Prof. Chatterjee talking animatedly. He thought Uma had behaved oddly over the last twenty-four hours. She had been prickly during their wait for Sheela and had contemptuously dismissed his hypothesis. It was contrary to his expectations. Since she had nudged him to understand the sacredness of his meaningless life, he had expected her to be encouraging.

As he stepped on the terrace, in the sun, Rasheed accepted the feeling he had been in denial of: Uma had been unduly stubborn in persuading him to abandon the investigation and accompany her to the hills. Hadn’t she smoked double her daily quota of cigarettes yesterday?

He came to the table and sat down. They were debating whether or not to report to the police what they knew about the murder of Sheela. Prof. Chatterjee wanted to wait: the evidence against the doctor wasn’t conclusive; they didn’t have anything yet to implicate the doctor in the crime. Assumptions and suspicion and analysis, he argued, couldn’t become the basis of accusing someone of murder.

Bajpai differed from Prof. Chatterjee. They had the leads, he countered, that the police could pursue. The committee couldn’t interrogate the suspects, nor examine those who knew Sheela. Only the police could gather evidence to nail the two.

Rasheed couldn’t concentrate on the discussion. He couldn’t stop thinking of Uma. Her faith in Krishnamurthy was understandable. But Dr Rathore? There was now another question to ponder over. Rasheed took a deep breath and wondered: why did she ask Bajpai about the Egyptian writer whose writings the Muslim clergy had opposed bitterly, at the turn of the century?

Rasheed glanced at the others.

Bajpai was talking. ‘I feel responsible for them, I say. Kris could have been killed yesterday. You now want them to visit the jhuggi-jhopri where Sheela lived. We should report to the authorities what we know and wash our hands of it.’

‘Sheela must have confided in someone about her work,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘We should talk to people who knew her. I don’t trust the police, you see.’

‘You,’ said Bajpai, ‘Of all people, you don’t trust them.’

‘We could talk to her neighbour, the person who works, or worked, at the doctor’s residence,’ Prof. Chatterjee insisted.

Bajpai finished the drink in one huge gulp. He looked annoyed. ‘Suppose they visit her jhuggi and we still don’t make any headway. What then?’

Prof. Chatterjee rubbed his neck. ‘Let’s keep Sunday our deadline,’ he said. ‘If we don’t get anything, we go to the police.’

Bajpai stood up. ‘I’ll pay inside,’ he said. ‘This whole business makes me nervous.’

A little later, the four of them entered the elevator that opened into the restaurant. As it hurtled down, Prof. Chatterjee said, ‘Now suppose if others think one of us is guilty, what steps do you think they would be taking to nab the murderer, the author?’ He laughed lightly and muttered, ‘It is bizarre.’

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only nine days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

Is it possible you haven’t heard about the role of Muslims in the partition of Bengal? Are you not aware about the collusion between the Muslims and the British to weaken the nationalist movement? At the turn of the twentieth century the nationalist movement against the British had gathered momentum. Under the aegis of the Indian National Congress, a body of opinion had been gradually consolidated. Your leaders pointed to the drain of wealth from India to England, your leaders demanded participation in government. It was then the legitimacy of the colonial empire was questioned, and the theory of white man’s burden found suspect. Your leaders clamoured for civil and political rights, democracy and self-governance.

Worried, the colonial masters decided to weaken the challenge mounting against them. Bengal, they realized, was the nursery of nationalist leaders. It was in Bengal that political demands were formulated before they disseminated to other parts of the country. It was in Bengal that budding leaders went through political education. Consequently, on 20 July 1905, Viceroy Lord Curzon announced the partition of Bengal – East Bengal and Assam were together to form one province; the other would comprise the rest of Bengal, Orissa and Bihar. Lord Curzon justified the division claiming the province was too large to be administered properly. His real motive, though, was spelt out by Home Secretary Risley in an official note: ‘Bengal united is a power, Bengal divided will pull several ways. That is what the Congress leaders feel: their apprehensions are perfectly correct and they form one of the great merits of the scheme.’

The partition announcement was proof of your servility. It provoked the proud Bengalis into action. On 7 August 1905, a massive demonstration was held at the Town Hall in Calcutta. From this meeting, delegates dispersed to other parts of the province to initiate the anti-partition campaign.

On 16 October 1905 though, Bengal was formally divided. Your leaders declared it to be a day of national mourning. The city of Calcutta fasted in protest. A mammoth strike was organized, thousands walked barefoot to bathe in the holy Ganges. Thus was inaugurated a new chapter in the nationalist movement. From petitioning British rulers and depending on their generosity, your leaders took to the streets in protest. They called for the boycott of British goods, they asked the people to patronize Indian manufacturers. Bengal was in ferment, Bengal was witnessing a mass uprising.

The only people to keep away from the movement against the partition of Bengal were the Muslims. Not only did they refuse to join the patriots, they actively supported the partition. Do you know why they betrayed the nationalist movement? Do you know why they rallied behind the colonial masters? At the time of the partition announcement, it was said, Bengal had been divided to carve out a Muslim-dominated province. It was said the new government of East Bengal was to promote and protect the interests of Muslims. It was claimed that in the new province, more jobs would be reserved for them. Always insecure, and perpetually pining for their lost glory, they took the bait the British offered – and turned against your ancestors.

To the new province of East Bengal, Sir Bampfylde Fuller was sent to oversee the administration. He let loose a reign of terror against the Hindus. Students were fined for singing patriotic songs, teachers were dismissed summarily from their jobs. Fuller issued a circular asking commissioners and judges to fix in their offices a quota for Muslim personnel. Instead of opposing the policy of divide and rule, the Muslims chose to harass poor Hindus. Instead of joining the nationalist movement, they went around proclaiming that the government had allowed them to loot the Hindus. They molested Hindu women, they looted Hindu shops , they broke the idols of Goddess Kali.

We know you will quote those who see in the bloody riotings signs of class struggle. We know you will say, the Muslim underclasses took advantage of the chaos in East Bengal to target exploitative Hindu landlords and traders. The hypocrisy of the storytellers stuns us, their lack of analytical rigour puzzles us. Missing from their exposition is the influence of Islam on the rioters. Ask them, what was the class background of Nawab Salimulla of Dacca? Was he a peasant or feudal lord? Didn’t the Nawab encourage Muslims to rally against Hindus? Didn’t he oppose the anti-partition movement? Didn’t he declare his and the community’s support for the British?

We can see you bristle with anger. O wise sons, restrain yourself, you have yet to hear the entire story of Muslim treachery. The sheer ferocity of the anti-partition movement persuaded the British to remove Lord Curzon from the post of Viceroy. His successor, Lord Minto, realized something had to be done quickly to placate the Indians. Shrewdly the British hinted at their plans to introduce the principle of election in the country. This prodded the followers of Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan into action. They quickly organized a deputation to the Viceroy in Shimla on 1 October 1906. There they pleaded for separate electorates for Muslims voting for Muslim candidates. They said, since the Muslims were a separate nation, only Muslim representatives elected by a Muslim electorate could serve the interests of the community. There they also demanded a representation in excess of their population. They said this was necessary because of their contributions to the defence of the Empire.

Lord Minto’s encouraging response to these demands inspired the Muslims to float an organization parallel to the Congress. On 30 December 1906, under the supervision of Nawab Salimulla, was thus established the All-India Muslim League. Surely you have heard about the League’s role in partitioning the country in 1947. Surely you know about the bloody street politics it organized then. The Muslim League began to spearhead the campaign in favour of retaining the partition of Bengal and a separate electorate. Can’t you see the common theme running through our stories? From the middle ages down to the modern era, Muslims have been in conflict with you and your ancestors. Incalculable has been the damage they have inflicted on your country, terrible have been their betrayals. Don’t you want to punish them for their evil deeds? We want to hear your answer on 6 December. Till then, rise and raise your arms, rise and say, Lord Ram.

Authority was stamped all over Samresh Singh’s face. It showed in his bushy moustache twirled up, in the long bridge of his nose, in the ruggedness of his tanned face. His hair was oiled and patted down neatly; his six-foot frame was devoid of flab, commendable for a person in his mid-forties. Samresh Singh looked intimidating also because of the red clots in his eyes and the stern expression he sported to quell any thoughts of defiance harboured by those around him.

Rasheed opened the spiral notebook and wrote, Samresh Singh. Below it, he squiggled, leader of the jhuggi-jhopri. But Samresh Singh was more than just that: he was their patron and spokesman, their policeman and judge, their creditor in distress. Samresh Singh was the man who had procured for Sheela her last employment; he was the committee’s hope of leading it to the author of Secret History.

His influence was omnipresent. Rasheed had sensed this on entering Vijaygarh. Its residents had once owned the land on which the colony of Hemant Kunj was built. It was where they and their ancestors had cultivated crops and grazed cattle, until the expanding city began to covet the agricultural land and subsequently requisitioned it through a government order. Compensation was paid to the owners: those who possessed substantial tracts of land suddenly commanded liquidity to enter business or dabble in real estate; most others, owners of small plots or agricultural labour, were impoverished. It was their women who worked as part-time maids in the flats of Hemant Kunj.

Vijaygarh did not conform to the definition of a jhuggi-jhopri colony: here houses didn’t have tin roofs, their walls weren’t a combination of bricks and plastic sheets. Instead, the residents lived in brick and mortar structures. Yet most of these had become hovels. Penury and redundancy had forced families to rent out rooms in their houses. Overcrowding had compromised privacy, sanitation was poor, and malnourished children loitered around in rags. The gradual impoverishment of the people had enhanced Samresh Singh’s clout. It was why all those whom Rasheed had asked for directions to Sheela’s house, before informing them that he was to write a story on her in a newspaper, had declared, as if tutored, that in this mysterious case of murder only their leader was entitled to talk.

In the ten minutes they had been together on the verandah of his house, extending till the edge of the lane running through Vijaygarh, Samresh Singh hadn’t deigned to speak. Dressed in crisp white kurta-pajama with a shawl around his shoulder, he sat erect in a wooden chair, his legs apart. He poured the steaming tea into the saucer, twice blew over it, and slurped it; he repeated the act, staring over Rasheed’s head at the wall across. It seemed the ultimate test of his power was to compel his guests to wait in silence.

Rasheed doodled on the blank page. He wished his friend Kris was here. Poor Kris, he had been unable to sleep last night and had excused himself from the visit to Vijaygarh. He didn’t think he could bear the sight of Sheela’s children.

Samresh Singh kept the saucer and the cup on the table with an aluminium top. ‘Sheela,’ he grunted. His Hindi was limited in vocabulary. He relied on expletives to convey varying shades of emotions through subtle changes in pronunciation.

Bechari Sheela, yet another victim of urbanization.

But Sheela was equally the victim of her husband’s insatiable desire for liquor and drugs. His addiction had been initially financed through the compensation money the family had received and the odd jobs he picked up but couldn’t hold for long. Then the inevitable had happened. Like many others in Vijaygarh, Sheela and her behan chod mard had to rent out one room of their two-room house, to sustain his world of illusions and hers of harsh realities.

Perhaps it would have been better had the world of illusions tricked the husband into committing suicide or he had become a victim of adulterated liquor or had overdosed on drugs. Don’t be shocked, Samresh Singh muttered, of what use had that behan chod been to her? Filching money, appropriating the rent, and beating her to muffle her protests; and in moments of absent-minded lust implanting in her his blighted seeds. To her had been born four children; one had died in infancy. With three mouths to feed, and a husband who chased dreams ground to fine powder on the silver foil, Sheela, Samresh Singh said, had to offer her labour in Hemant Kunj.

Rasheed took notes in the spiral notebook, writing in English the account of Samresh Singh.

Her last job had seemed a belated awakening of her fate. One day she had returned with sweaters and blankets; on another with utensils. She suddenly had surplus cash, earning in a week from one house what others couldn’t from four in a month. She had started to look younger, radiating verve, and fanning the tittle-tattle of where she worked and what she did; there had been sly smiles and innuendoes why she wouldn’t disclose the address of her new employer.

Samresh Singh spat on the floor.

‘Madar-chods,’ he muttered. They were oblivious to the risk inherent in her job. Poor Sheela, underlying her vivacity had been the deep fear of those whom she worked for.

Rasheed underlined the word those.

When Samresh Singh had been approached to recommend a maid for a sahib, he should have anticipated the outcome. The death of Sheela was indeed linked to the job Samresh Singh had secured for her. He didn’t have proof to support his claim, nor could he narrate his story to the police. There was little he could do now because all clues had been obliterated. At the time Samresh Singh had been requested to help recruit a maid, even he had been puzzled at both the salary offered and the strange demand of the employer. But behan chod friendship had lulled Samresh Singh into doubting his own judgement. It was too late now: he could neither reverse what had happened, nor avenge the death of Sheela.

‘Vishwas Singh,’ Samresh Singh said.

Vishwas Singh?

Before the city of Delhi had gobbled up the village of Vijaygarh, nearly sixty per cent of the land was owned between the families of Samresh and Vishwas Singh. The requisitioning of land not only sparked off the village’s decline, it also splintered the two families. The compensation money had bred distrust and discord, and fanned ambitions among the male members of the two families, prompting them to take their individual shares and establish their separate households outside the village.

Vishwas Singh had shifted to Chattarpur, behind the sprawling temple complex there. He now owned a fleet of three-wheelers that he rented out to drivers. Samresh Singh was prescient enough to invest his share in three flats which the government, at the time of acquiring village land, had offered in Hemant Kunj on prices lower than the prevailing market rate. These he subsequently sold at a premium and ploughed back the profits in his real estate business.

Samresh Singh twirled his moustache and said it was Vishwas Singh who had approached him for recruiting a maid for a doctor sahib.

‘Doctor?’ asked Rasheed, looking up from the notebook.

Samresh Singh nodded.

Early one morning, about four weeks ago, Vishwas Singh had come down to meet Samresh. Here on the verandah they had had tea together. And after they had inquired about each other’s families, and lamented, as they almost always did, the cruel times fate had abandoned them to, Vishwas had sought a favour: could Samresh Singh recommend a maid of impeccable character? The work, he had said, was simple, and the salary extraordinary: a doctor sahib wanted to hire a person to put adhesive tapes to thousands of pages he printed daily, at a weekly salary of Rs 1,000. The volume of work had grown beyond the capacity of Vishwas Singh to handle – yes, he too had worked with the doctor sahib – and a decision had been consequently taken to recruit an additional hand.

Vishwas Singh’s requirement for the maid had been strange: she shouldn’t read English, preferably not even Hindi, basically a complete illiterate.

Why?

Vishwas Singh had then confessed to his involvement in political work. It wasn’t about votes and rallies. Its goal was to awaken the Hindus, to unite them and capture power. On the orders of the bosses he had been assigned to the doctor, to help distribute the thousands of pages he printed in English.

Samresh Singh said he had laughed and voiced his doubts: was it possible to win over Hindus through the English language, in a land where the foreigner’s tongue wasn’t understood by most?

From Vishwas Singh’s explanation, it had seemed to Samresh Singh that the bosses were of the opinion that their goal to capture power couldn’t be attained until they could win over the class of elites who preferred the English language to their mother tongue, whose clout was disproportionate to their numbers. The support of this class was vital. Wasn’t Samresh Singh acquainted with their influence, how the government always took their side? Once this class had been lured to the bosses’ side, and its opposition neutralized, nothing could impede them from capturing power.

The doctor’s activity was linked to this grand plan of the bosses. His work demanded utmost secrecy. They had to guard against rivals planting a mole among them, or weaning away one of the committed. That was why the bosses hadn’t requisitioned men from their own organization, apart from Vishwas Singh, whom they trusted. Because of the increase in workload with every passing day, the bosses had sanctioned an additional hand: someone who couldn’t read or write, preferably a woman; someone who wouldn’t be amenable to temptation to betray the project; someone who wouldn’t, for instance, think of slipping out a paper from the thousands the doctor printed daily.

Vishwas Singh had said his confession violated the oath of secrecy he had taken. But he could trust Samresh Singh, couldn’t he?

Vishwas Singh’s candour had moved Samresh Singh deeply. Yet there had been questions bothering him. What did the printed papers contain? Weren’t Vishwas Singh and his doctor abnormally paranoid? Samresh Singh had consequently inquired about the legality of the doctor’s business.

The query had upset Vishwas Singh. What gains in deceiving a friend, partners of a lost world, struggling to make adjustments now, he had asked emotionally.

There and then Samresh Singh had sent for Sheela. He had explained to her the details of the deal. Her eyes had widened at the mention of the salary. Yet Samresh Singh had taken the necessary precaution of asking Sheela to think of her three children and swear on them that she wouldn’t tell anyone about her job, or where she worked, or who her employer was. He had adopted a stentorian tone, twirled his moustache, and warned her of the terrible consequences of treachery.

Sheela, Samresh Singh said, had reported for work at Flat No. 666 in Sector X. The flat had been bare: the kitchen had only a gas stove and a saucepan for making tea. In the master-bedroom there had been three easy chairs, and a table with a computer and printer. The adjoining room had been reserved for Sheela and Vishwas Singh to work in, she was squatting on the floor and he in the chair, sticking brown adhesive tapes to papers.

She had found the doctor amiable. He had been formally dressed, in black trousers and a white shirt and tie. In the flat there had been another man, tall and dark, in kurta-pajama. They had taken Sheela to the room with the computer. The dark man had pressed a few keys; the printer had tossed out from its bowels pages full of English words. The doctor had demonstrated to her the task she was to perform, and sent her to the other room with a box of brown strips and a stack of printed papers. Sticking and sticking and sticking. That was all she would do till the afternoon.

On the first day of her job the doctor and the dark man had been present in the flat till she had completed her task and returned home. Perhaps they had wanted to judge her skills and test her enthusiasm, for, from the following day, the two men would print thousands and thousands of pages in the morning, arrange them in stacks on the floor, and leave the flat within thirty minutes of Sheela’s arrival at 8 a.m. She couldn’t tell whether the two men spent the night in the flat, or the time at which they came in the morning. Her queries about it had angered Vishwas Singh, who reprimanded her for her needless curiosity.

Samresh Singh paused to clear his throat. Rasheed was excited. He knew who the two men were.

It was on Monday evening, Samresh Singh said, he had last met Sheela. He had been sipping tea on the verandah. Sheela had come over and, as always, begun to chatter about her children, her work and salary, and the new supervisor who had been at the doctor’s flat earlier in the day.

New supervisor?

The new supervisor was to substitute for Vishwas Singh who had gone out of the city for two days. Samresh Singh said he had queried Sheela about her new supervisor.

Could he describe her?

Yes. A woman, perhaps between thirty and thirty-five years of age, whose skin was the colour of earth, and her hair short and bouncy.

‘The woman’s name?’ asked Rasheed.

Samresh Singh continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard the question.

‘Her name?’ Rasheed repeated the question.

What name, snapped Samresh Singh, why was he so obsessed about names? Didn’t he know that for part-timers the men at the place of work were sahibs and their wives, memsahibs, distinguished from one another by their flat numbers?

On Wednesday, when Sheela didn’t turn up at home by 8 p.m., Samresh Singh had asked a factotum to accompany her husband to the police station and lodge a missing person complaint. He, though, had taken out his motorcycle to go to Sector X. Flat No. 666 had been deserted. He had made inquiries from neighbours. A van, at 11 a.m., had come and taken away the furniture from the flat.

Samresh Singh said he had been stunned, and felt his body drained of blood. Where could Sheela have gone? Why had her employer vacated the flat?

He had then visited Vishwas Singh’s residence behind the Chattarpur temples. Curious occurrences, inexplicable behaviour, ominous signs: that was what Wednesday had been. He felt his heart had been plucked out as soon as he was told that Vishwas Singh had to suddenly leave Delhi, just four hours ago. His family had been perplexed not only because Vishwas Singh had returned to the city the evening before, but also because he had refused to disclose the name of his new destination, or even the reason for his sudden departure.

Around 7 p.m. on Thursday, nearly twelve hours after Sheela’s body had been found, Samresh Singh had received a call conveying the news of the death of Vishwas Singh. Yes, dead. Vishwas Singh had apparently drowned in Sohna Lake, about 30 km from Delhi, while swimming.

Apparently?

Yes, apparently, Samresh Singh said. Vishwas Singh couldn’t have drowned in the damn placid lake because he was an excellent swimmer, who in his youth had represented Delhi in the national championships.

Yes, Samresh Singh believed his friend had been murdered.

Samresh Singh said what he knew he had narrated to him. Glancing at his watch, he said he was getting late for receiving the dead body of his friend, due to arrive anytime now, at Chattarpur.

He stared at Rasheed and asked whether he wanted to come along and talk to the relatives of the dead man.

Rasheed shook his head. He felt nauseous, and fought the urge to throw up. His mind had gone blank; dark spots circled before him. He walked from the verandah to the lane of Vijaygarh, and heard Samresh Singh ask him the name of the newspaper in which the story on Sheela was to appear. Rasheed Halim did not turn around to answer him.

Rasheed pulled the sheet over his face and closed his eyes. He did not want to think. He did not wish to be more than an inert mass of sorrow. He wanted to die: he should have stifled his instinct for life and lowered the noose around his neck. It was Uma who had persuaded him to eschew violence on his own body, and now, lying under the sheet, feeling his breath against its fabric, he thought he could countenance her deception only through death. How could she dissuade him from committing suicide and yet assist in the printing of Secret History? How could she lie next to him with her sordid secret?

He did not try to answer these questions. He wished to slip into complete silence, to accept impassively the truth he had been made aware of. He knew about the identity of the triad in Samresh Singh’s story: the doctor was Dr Vikram Rathore; the dark man was Krishnamurthy; and the woman … Rasheed was sure who she was: it was Uma, it had to be her – she was the third of the triad.

His mind careened away to reflect over the past, to discover meanings in events beyond the apparent. He had been deceived. Because the doctor and Krishnamurthy were to attend Prof. Chatterjee’s meeting on Monday, and Vishwas Singh couldn’t report for work, they had deputed a woman to keep a watch on Sheela. Who was this person? Uma was the woman whom Sheela had encountered in the flat.

Triad, that was what they were. They were the triad of the Organization, working in unison, in secrecy, in complex sequences. The past was lucid now. Every action of each of them had been in tandem. It had seemingly been his choice to seek HOPE. Underlying it, was the truth he could not deny: he became aware of HOPE from the brochure the doctor had left with Wasim Khan. Rasheed thought he had been led to Uma. How could she have played such a diabolical game?

Rasheed lay still on the mattress, arms folded across his chest. He felt his heart thump against his palm. He wanted to die. Uma, Uma. Had she been in the city, he would have confronted her with Samresh Singh’s story. But Uma was up in the hills, and he didn’t have her telephone number there. Why hadn’t she left her contact number with him? Was it possible that her family did not have a phone there? More than a day had passed since her departure, yet she hadn’t called. Rasheed was sure she would disappear from his life, fearing disclosure of her real identity. Why delay relaying the news to others? What was he waiting for? Already the telephone had rung several times. He should throw away the sheet, and walk to the phone. They would be keen to know what he had unearthed in Vijaygarh. The evidence against Uma was compelling. Treacherous woman, child of a snake. He wished she was in Delhi. He would have gone to her, narrated Samresh Singh’s story and then plunged the dagger into her. Taking the bloodied blade out, he would have stabbed himself as well.

In the turmoil he was in, yet another thought arose: was he certain Uma had left the city? Who could tell what the Organization’s brief to her was? Perhaps they had deputed her to whisk Kris and him to the hills, in the hope of aborting the investigation. But he hadn’t succumbed to the pressure she had exerted on them, because of which the Organization could have ordered her to withdraw from the scene. He remembered what Bajpai had said yesterday. It was Uma who had inquired about the Egyptian writer. That fucking bitch had been playing tricks on him, even before they had met, in flesh and blood, and made love on the night of a hundred sighs. What was her motive in seeking information on the Egyptian writer? Was the Egyptian writer to appear in one of the future editions of Secret History?

There were many questions he wanted answered, to confirm the suspicion gnawing at him. Couldn’t Uma have tipped the Organization that Kris and he were to patrol Sector XIII at night? They had decided impromptu to mount their vigil on Wednesday evening, and hadn’t told any of the committee members about it. Only Uma had been privy to their plan. Yet Kris and he had received a note of warning; two armed men had accosted them. Rasheed pulled the sheet down from over his face, splaying his legs. One of them now rested on the floor. The haze shrouding the past was lifting. Couldn’t Uma have stuck on the door the Secret History paper, on which had been scribbled the news about the death of Sheela? Couldn’t she have concocted the story about the anonymous telephone call? She was a double-crossing bitch, the enemy’s mole in their camp. Her game was over now. He had seen through her love and sophistry.

Throwing away the sheet, Rasheed sat up. Who was Uma? Perhaps she had created a personal history to assume a fictitious identity. What did he know of her? Did Joy Michael exist? Did he shoot himself before her? Obviously, Joy Michael’s father existed. On his return to Delhi, from Mughalabad, Rasheed remembered it was he who had taken the call he had made to Uma early in the morning. But did he really undergo an angiography of the heart, because of which she hadn’t stayed in Hemant Kunj on Monday and Tuesday? His answer neatly dovetailed into the story of Samresh Singh. Either Joy’s father hadn’t undergone the angiography or Uma hadn’t been with him in the hospital, for on those two days she had been supervising Sheela at her work.

Rasheed began to pace the room. His mouth had gone dry. Facts countering the conclusions he’d reached earlier began to assail him. The telephone numbers of HOPE were known to him, as was its address – all these were real. HOPE wasn’t fiction, was it? Even the Organization couldn’t have created the paraphernalia of HOPE to deceive him. Why would it have lured him into a honey-trap, even before Prof. Chatterjee’s committee had been formed? Of what use could he have been to it then? Perhaps HOPE was a cover created to allow her to live a double life. Couldn’t she operate the helpline and yet work for the Organization, saviour in the day and assisting killers at night?

In a few quick strides he reached the telephone in the drawing room. Bending down, he dialled HOPE and asked for Uma. A female voice asked his name. She said the telephone at Uma’s farm wasn’t working, that she had driven down fifteen kilometres to make the calls to Delhi, first to Rasheed, and because it had gone unanswered, then to HOPE, for communicating to him the message that she was to arrive in Delhi on Sunday morning, and hoped he was all right.

He leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down to sit heavily on the floor.

Uma loved him, she still did; she wouldn’t have otherwise driven fifteen kilometres to give him a call, to find out how he was. If this act of hers wasn’t love, what was it? She was to return to Delhi on Sunday, to him, for him. Her love for him was real. Yet he wished she hadn’t appeared in Samresh Singh’s story; she hadn’t supervised Sheela in Flat No. 666. These facts conveyed to him the duplicity of her love. Couldn’t she have called him at the Organization’s behest, to find out what new evidence they had gathered to implicate the triad? It was possible Uma had wanted to know whether the murder of Sheela had persuaded them to abandon their investigation.

Once these voices subsided, yet another rose to whisper: Still?

An idea propelled him to reach for the phone, to talk to Joy Michael’s father and verify whether he had indeed undergone angiography. Once again, the lady who had taken his call earlier answered the phone. He asked to speak with Mr. Michael. A strong, deep voice echoed over the line. To the voice Rasheed identified himself.

‘Ah, Raasheed,’ he said, communicating warmth and familiarity in his mispronunciation. ‘Uma told us about you.’ He laughed lightly.

‘Did Uma call you all?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘didn’t they convey you her message?’

‘Yes,’ he said, searching for an appropriate opening for his inquiry. ‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Papa Michael said, adding, quite needlessly, ‘She is strong.’

‘So are you,’ Rasheed said. ‘How was the angiography?’

‘Angioplasty. Modern science, young man,’ he said, ‘has made things simple. There was a block in the left artery, and they put in a stent.’

‘I see,’ Rasheed said, ‘You are okay?’

‘Sure,’ the old man replied. ‘Why don’t you come over?’

‘I will, with Uma,’ Rasheed said, exchanged pleasantries and put the handset down.

Guilt now replaced his suspicion and anger. She loved him; she had talked to Joy Michael’s father about him. Rasheed felt diminished in his own eyes for feigning concern for Papa Michael about whose health, he now remembered, he had not asked Uma. Images reproached him, of the night her warm body had revived his senses. Uma had given him life: it wasn’t possible for her to stifle it in someone else. She couldn’t have killed Sheela, he declared.

He lay on the floor, helpless and confused. He was a babble of words, a medley of thoughts. Wasn’t there a little love left in him to provide Uma the chance to defend herself, for one final time? He owed this to her, he was alive because of her; and besides, Samresh Singh’s knowledge was second-hand, based on Sheela’s version. In fact, he hadn’t even named Uma. He couldn’t condemn her on such a testimony.

Rasheed tried to silence the part of him that was still prepared to believe Uma. His torment was needless, and self-inflicted. He thought he should rejoice at the confirmation of his suspicion about Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy. Underlying it was the irony: he had suspected them because they resided in Hemant Kunj. In Samresh Singh’s story, though, Flat No. 666 wasn’t their living quarters. Theoretically, any of the committee members could have rented a flat in Hemant Kunj to work from. Rasheed’s assumption had been wrong – and yet he had identified the culprits. He should have been on the phone conveying, and celebrating, the chance resolution of the mystery of Secret History.

But?

He couldn’t condemn them and exonerate Uma. The evidence against her was as compelling as it was against them. Either the triad was responsible for the murder of Sheela, or all of them were innocent.

The telephone began to ring.

Was the call from Bajpai or Kris or Prof. Chatterjee? He should blow the whistle on Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy; they were indeed the men behind Secret History. By protecting Uma, by giving her a chance to defend herself, he was also providing the doctor and Krishnamurthy an opportunity to obliterate evidence. Rasheed reached for the handset.

His hand curled around it. He was about to take the call. He heard the urgent murmur of his voice: was he to delete the reference to the woman in his recapitulation of Samresh Singh’s testimony? That was censoring the truth, tampering with evidence. Couldn’t he narrate Samresh Singh’s testimony as he had heard it? He didn’t have to tell others who he thought comprised the triad. It wasn’t his business. They would, he was sure, guess the identity of the doctor and the dark man. But they couldn’t possibly identify the woman unless he dropped hints to them or confessed to his suspicion of her. It was an option he hadn’t thought of earlier – he could tell others about Samresh Singh’s testimony, and still not indict Uma.

The voice inside him muttered: to feign ignorance about the woman’s identity would be a suppression of facts, a case of motivated obfuscation.

Rasheed was helpless. He couldn’t name Uma. He didn’t want to indict her in absentia, without giving her a chance to defend herself. He owed this to her, for all that she had done for him. The phone rang itself out.

He made up his mind: he would wait for her to return to the city. It meant a reprieve for Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy as well, about whose guilt he was convinced. But Rasheed was sure he couldn’t condemn Uma today. A delay of two days couldn’t engender dramatic consequences, he argued, to counter the voice urging him to name her.

Rasheed sneezed three-four times because of the dust. He decided what he was going to tell the others about his visit to Vijaygarh – that Samresh Singh had gone out of the city and was expected to return on Sunday, the day Uma was coming back too.

He dialled Kris.

‘What took you so long?’ Kris asked.

Rasheed ignored the question. ‘I found out the name of the leader who had secured the job for Sheela. But he isn’t around, he will be back on Sunday,’ he said, trying to sound convincing.

‘Tell that to behan chod Bajpai. He is impatient to know what you have found. He has even taken leave from work,’ Kris said. ‘He has been ringing you up and, not finding you at home, has been calling me up to ask if I had heard from you. The last time he wanted me to go to Vijaygarh, to look for you. We will have to wait, I suppose.’

‘Till Sunday,’ Rasheed muttered.

‘Till Sunday,’ Kris repeated slowly. ‘Then Bajpai would want me to accompany you on Sunday. He was livid because I did not inform him that you were going there alone. Why the fuck should I have informed him? Till yesterday he had been opposed to our going to Vijaygarh. The idea was Prof. Chatterjee’s, wasn’t it? I was obliged to tell him, not Bajpai.’

‘True,’ Rasheed said.

Kris sighed and added, ‘I’m dropping out. On Tuesday I’m taking the train to Patna, to my wife. This whole fucking thing is driving me crazy.’

‘Me too,’ Rasheed whispered.

‘Get out of it,’ Kris said. ‘I’ll ring Bajpai to tell him you are back.’

Rasheed put the phone down, and felt the quickening of his heartbeat. Bajpai worried him. To take leave from work suggested he, too, like them, had become deeply immersed in the investigation. He tried to fathom the transformation of Bajpai. Yesterday he had doubted the committee’s ability to probe a murder, insistent on reporting the death of Sheela to the police. Yet today, he was waiting and therefore hoping for a breakthrough. He suspected Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy of the crime; he was, in fact, convinced about their culpability. Rasheed could understand Bajpai’s outburst at Kris’s decision to not visit Vijaygarh.

Rasheed muttered aloud, ‘Oh no, oh god. In the absence of Kris, Bajpai perhaps fears I could change or suppress the testimonies from Vijaygarh to protect Uma’s friends.’

His mind was in a whirl at the thought of being exposed. It was possible Bajpai would decide to go to Vijaygarh, to gather clues to nab Sheela’s murderer. He would meet Samresh Singh, wouldn’t he? Rasheed jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the drawing room, cursing the situation he was in, wishing Uma was with him in Delhi, and ruing the decision to withhold from the committee the truth as he knew it. Should he confide in Prof. Chatterjee? Should he confess to Kris? He kept asking himself these questions. He stopped at the window and clutched the grill. He knew he was doomed to spend the hours till Sunday in anxiety – every call would hold out the threat of disclosure, of being found out protecting the murderers, of risking the lives of others, for who could tell what the author of Secret History in his madness was contemplating?

Yet he did not want to reverse the choice he had made. The charade had to be played out. He was prepared for the consequences, regardless of the embarrassment it was likely to cause him. He must accept his fate. Let Bajpai find out the truth and identify the triad. But Rasheed wasn’t prepared to reveal Samresh Singh’s story to others just yet, not until he had confronted Uma and heard her defence.

Rasheed dialled Bajpai’s number. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘You took a long time to find nothing, I say,’ Bajpai said.

Rasheed recoiled at the tone of Bajpai’s voice.

‘I talked to the in-charge at Hemant Kunj police station. Do you know what the preliminary report of the post-mortem suggests?’ He paused, then said, ‘Sheela died of morphine overdose, I say.’

Rasheed felt as if his heartbeat had slowed and he was sinking.

‘You should be jubilant, I say.’ Bajpai said. ‘You were the first to suspect the doctor. Morphine is yet another pointer to his role in the murder. What we need is corroborative evidence to report the suspects to the police.’

‘Yeah,’ Rasheed said softly.

‘You sound low, I say,’ Bajpai remarked. ‘You were so enthusiastic yesterday.’

‘I don’t know,’ Rasheed said.

‘Something happened in Vijaygarh?’ Bajpai asked.

‘We shouldn’t have got involved in it,’ Rasheed said.

‘It’s too late to wish that,’ Bajpai remarked. ‘You should talk to Uma about the doctor and Krishnamurthy, ask her whether she thinks they could kill someone.’

‘She isn’t in Delhi,’ Rasheed said, aware of the hoarseness of his voice.

‘You could call her, I say,’ Bajpai persisted. ‘It is important to know what she thinks about her friends.’

‘The phone at her place in the hills isn’t working,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said Bajpai, ‘Where exactly is she?’

Rasheed’s nerves were frayed. He thought he couldn’t endure Bajpai’s questioning. ‘Near Ranikhet,’ he replied.

‘Ranikhet,’ Bajpai repeated. ‘It has had a spell of terrible weather. I read it on ticker. Perhaps the phone isn’t working because of it.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rasheed said.

‘But keep trying her number, I say,’ Bajpai said. ‘Talk to her about her friends. You should also ask her why she had wanted to know about the Egyptian writer.’

Rasheed did not say anything. He was convinced that Bajpai believed Uma was complicit in the murder of Sheela and the printing of Secret History.

‘When is Uma expected back?’ Bajpai asked.

‘Sunday morning.’

‘Sunday,’ repeated Bajpai. ‘You have to meet the leader of Vijaygarh that day. Don’t forget that.’

Rasheed’s hands trembled as he put the phone back on the cradle. Bajpai suspected Uma; he wouldn’t have mentioned the Egyptian writer otherwise. He was nudging him to scrutinize Uma, and probe her relationship with the doctor and Krishnamurthy. Rasheed hoped Bajpai had believed his spiel about Samresh Singh not being in the city.

The telephone began to ring. Wearily, he picked it up. It was Prof. Chatterjee.

‘Kris told me we have to wait till Sunday to talk to the jhuggi-jhopri leader,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘You know, I had a visitor who too was certain about the author’s identity.’

‘Who?’

‘Dr Rathore.’

‘What? Whom does he suspect?’ asked Rasheed.

‘Unlike us, he refused to name the suspect,’ Prof. Chatterjee said. ‘He has devised a method which might lead us to the author. Might. He must get his chance, too, don’t you think?’

Rasheed did not reply.

Prof. Chatterjee continued, ‘Rasheed, he plans to visit you tomorrow and explain his method. Only you and I are supposed to know about it. In case someone asks you whether Dr Rathore has given you a floppy disc containing the author’s profile, you are to say, yes. I asked him to write the author’s profile. Okay?’

‘Him?’

The professor said, ‘Relax. Dr Rathore will explain everything. But you can’t betray my confidence, not even to Kris.’ He laughed and added, ‘The manner in which we are going, each of us will be accused of belonging to the Organization. Except you, of course. You are lucky to be Muslim.’

Rasheed felt a current run through his body. Sheela’s killer was to visit him tomorrow. What audacity, Rasheed thought, what shamelessness.

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only eight days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

We can understand your revulsion at the opposition of Muslims to the anti-partition movement in Bengal. We can sense the anger simmering in you because of the role Muslims played during the partition of Bengal. O wise sons, know it, the roots of their disloyalty can be traced to their religion. It teaches them to revere none other than Allah and His Prophet. It precludes the possibility of them joining a collectivity greater than the community of the faithful. So we say, in your fury, do not forget it is your duty to drag the Muslims out from their cocoon. It is your responsibility to disabuse them of their medieval notions. It is your burden to demonstrate to them the fallibility of their Allah’s command. In this noble quest you shall lift the sword. In destroying the Babri Masjid you will have also vanquished the Idea that has such a grip over them.

They have always mocked you, they have always been indifferent to your sentiments. Do you know why the Muslim League chose Karachi to hold their first annual session? Can’t you grasp the symbolic value of the city located in Sindh province? It was here the Muslims from Arabia first established their rule in India. It was this province Mohammad bin Qasim conquered in the eighth century, long before the barbarians from Central Asia came to defile your land. In selecting Karachi to host their session, the Muslim leaders sought to inspire their followers into re-establishing the hegemony of Islam over your holy land.

Do you think this allegation of ours is baseless? Do you think we are guilty of gross exaggeration? Then read the text of the presidential address to the Karachi congregation. In it, you will see the League’s president invoke the example of Mohammad bin Qasim. ‘If Qasim, at the age of seventeen, could promulgate the law of Allah in Sindh,’ thundered the president, ‘can seven crore Musalmans not make their social and political life pleasant?’ This wasn’t the only instance of their perfidy. We cite the example of the Muslim League convening an extraordinary meeting of its central committee on 9 August 1908 in Aligarh. Why do you think their leaders held a meeting at such short notice? Well, by then, it had become certain that the British were to associate Indians with the Viceroy’s Imperial Legislative Council. The extraordinary meeting was consequently convened to press the League’s demand for separate representation. Bitterly opposed were the League leaders to the concept of a composite nation. Extremely keen were they to convey to the British that Muslims constituted a separate nation.

The first resolution advanced the claim of Muslims for representation in the Viceroy’s Legislative Council. It is not the demand we are critical of, it is not their aspiration we are against. We do accept every community’s need to participate in the decision-making process. We are reasonable and rational, we are not victims of preconceived notions. But what shocks us about Muslim leaders is their decision to become supplicants to the British. What leaves us aghast is their refusal to appeal to the Congress and strike a compromise. Surely, they could have asked the Congress leaders to nominate a certain number of Muslims to the seats expected to be reserved for Indians? Surely, they could have tried to preserve the unity of the country against the insidious intentions of the British?

The second resolution, on face value, seemed quite harmless. It thanked the government for appointing a Muslim as judge of the Madras High Court. It then requested the British to nominate Muslims as judges to the High Courts of Punjab, Burma and Bombay. In the subtext of the resolution, you can grasp their fundamental belief – only a Muslim can deliver justice to another Muslim. Extend this logic, apply it to polity, look what you have – only a Muslim can provide just governance to his community.

Their wish for separate electorates was fulfilled at the passing of the Indian Councils Act of 1909. It introduced, for the first time, the principle of elections in your country. True, the elections were limited in nature. True, the elected members were less than half the total strength of the Imperial Legislative Council. This consequently rendered the Council subservient to the government. But the damage the Act inflicted on the nation was incalculable. For it accepted the League’s demand to establish a separate electorate for Muslims. Thus was legitimized the League’s claim that the Muslims constituted a separate nation. Thus was laid the foundation for the eventual partition of your motherland. The Act of 1909 was discriminatory in one other way too – the income qualification for Muslim voters was kept lower than that for the Hindus.

Ignoring the betrayal of Muslims, your ancestors continued to oppose the partition of Bengal. They organized peaceful agitations, they called for strikes and boycott of British goods. Draconian were the measures the British took against them, ruthlessly did they seek to suppress your freedom fighters. In desperation your leaders went underground, in their noble quest they took to arms.

You had Barindrakumar Ghosh and Bhupendranath Dutta attempt to kill East Bengal’s Lt Governor, Bampfylde Fuller. Surely you remember Fuller’s barbaric acts we described yesterday. Surely you see no wrong in killing oppressors. Then there was Hemchandra Kanungo, who went abroad to receive military training from a Russian. On his return, he organized a bomb factory and religious school in Calcutta. Kshudiram Basu and Prafulla Chaki attempted to assassinate a sadistic white magistrate. This accidentally, led to the death of two British women. Kshudiram was sent to the gallows, his sacrifice earned him the admiration of Hindus. In Dacca, Pulin Das organized dacoities to finance the assassination of callous British officers. Even to London did the revolutionaries carry the fight. In July 1909, for instance, Madanlal Dhingra shot dead the Indian Office bureaucrat Curzon-Wyllie. Dhingra was tried and sentenced to death. At the time of his martyrdom, the fearless Dhingra declared, ‘May I be reborn of the same Mother and may I die for the same sacred cause …’

Such courageous acts frightened the British into rethinking their decision. In December 1911, they announced the revocation of the partition of Bengal. Shocked were the Muslims at the triumph of your ancestors. You should demonstrate to them, again, the futility of defying the majority. You should compel them to rethink their decision on the Babri Masjid. You should teach them to respect your Gods and Goddesses, you should take a pledge to gather in Ayodhya on 6 December. Rise and raise your arms, rise and say Lord Ram.

Leaning against the balcony railing, Rasheed Halim scanned the front page of the Mirror. Inset into the lead story, in ten points bold, was the pointer: Curfew in Mughalabad – pg 6. He turned to it, a three-column spread on the top left of the page.

Mughalabad, 27 November: A curfew was imposed here following incidents of stabbing, arson and looting in which six people have been reported killed and a dozen injured. Police describe the situation tense but under control.

The rioting began in retaliation against the attack on a peace committee in a Muslim-dominated locality of the city. Police sources say the incident was given a communal twist even though the ire of residents was directed against a Muslim member of the peace committee.

The brainchild of Mr Wasim Khan, who belongs to a prominent business family here, the peace committee today organized its first public meeting outside the Pathar Ki Masjid, at the end of the Friday prayers. Initially, the speeches on communal harmony were met with positive reactions from a fairly large audience.

It was at Mr Khan’s speech, however, that the audience turned restive. Asking the community to ignore all provocations and eschew sentiments of revenge, he said such a step could insure them against loss of life and destruction of property. Claiming that 6 December was, in many ways, a test of the community’s maturity and forbearance, Mr Khan said under no circumstances should the community violate the law. Respect for life is an aspect of worship, he said.

At this point a person in the audience wanted to know whether Mr Khan considered life more important than mosque.

‘It’s an absurd question,’ Mr Khan retorted. ‘A mosque needs people. And the dead can’t worship.’

His response prompted a few in the audience to come to the dais, grab the microphone and demand an immediate apology from Mr Khan. ‘Maafi maango, maafi maango (Apologize, apologize),’ the crowd chanted after one Chunnu, who led the chorus.

Mr Khan said he was sincerely sorry to have hurt their feelings, but also added that the community should learn to accept opinions contrary to theirs.

This only infuriated the audience. One among those on the dais pushed Mr Khan, who was then roughed up, as were other committee members who tried to come to his rescue. The police subsequently arrived and rushed the committee members to hospital.

This incident sparked off rumours in the city about attacks on Hindus in the Muslim locality. Soon the tension spread elsewhere and incidents of stabbing and arson were reported.

Ironically, police officers pointed out, all Hindu members of the committee were discharged after first aid. By contrast, Mr Khan, who was taken unconscious to hospital, is reported to have a broken rib and multiple fractures of the leg.

Rasheed Halim got up from the mattress spread on the floor, and began to walk towards the entrance door. The moment he had been dreading had come: Dr Vikram Rathore had arrived. No probing, no arguing, sit impassively through the doctor’s exposition on his line of investigation, Rasheed reminded himself as he opened the front door.

Dr Vikram Rathore turned towards Rasheed the folded copy of the Mirror. The headline said: Curfew in Mughalabad. Dr Rathore raised his eyebrows.

This wasn’t what Rasheed had expected. He became flustered, forgetting to smile and greet the doctor, as he had rehearsed. All that he did was stand aside, in a silent invitation to the visitor. Dr Rathore was dressed in casuals: the jeans and leather sandals showing he had time on hand, or he was on leave from work.

Stepping inside, Dr Rathore read out from the story: ‘Unconscious. A broken rib. Multiple fractures.’

‘I know,’ Rasheed said, ‘Terrible.’

‘When I read the news, I thought of giving you a ring. But …’ Dr Rathore left the sentence incomplete.

It was just the moment to protest, to tell the doctor that the past was irrelevant to the challenges of the present. But the voice inside Rasheed began to murmur: the man before him, the man who looked cool and assured was the accused in Sheela’s murder.

The doctor glanced at Rasheed and continued, ‘I went over to Wasim Khan’s flat. The servant told me that the family, kids and all, had driven to Mughalabad yesterday evening.’

‘Wasim Khan is conscious now,’ Rasheed said. ‘I rang them up at Mughalabad, an hour ago.’

‘Really?’ the doctor exclaimed. His eyes were restless. ‘From what the newspaper says, I think it will take him months to recover.’ Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he added, ‘Why don’t you suggest they shift Wasim Khan to Delhi? I can organize top- class medical care for him.’

It was strange to listen to the doctor express concern for someone whom he barely knew. Could such a person write the Secret History papers, kill Sheela and Vishwas Singh?

‘No chairs,’ Rasheed said.

‘Let us go to the balcony,’ Dr Rathore suggested.

He followed Rasheed to the balcony even as he explained the complexities of multiple fractures. In the simulated normalcy, Rasheed’s mind continued its chatter: he was up against a diabolical man, the mind-reader, the murderer of Sheela and Vishwas Singh.

They stepped out on the balcony. Dr Rathore spread the newspaper on the floor and sat down, facing the barren land beyond the perimeter wall of Sector XIII. Rasheed was diagonally to his right. Dr Rathore continued to detail human anatomy and the brittleness of bones in old age.

Rasheed did not pay much attention to what he was saying. He caught on to words here and there: the femur, the tibia, the knee cap. Dr Rathore was sparring, testing his way forward, Rasheed thought. He should wrest the initiative from the doctor, and put him on the defensive.

He said, ‘Prof. Chatterjee told me you have devised a method to identify the committee member who belongs to the Organization.’

The doctor scowled. Rasheed’s interruption conveyed to him the futility of attempting to restore to their relationship its former warmth. He turned away from Rasheed and pursed his lips. A minute passed in silence.

‘Frankly,’ Dr Rathore said. He paused to stare at Rasheed and continued, ‘My name should be on the list of suspects who could have killed Sheela. Mine and Krishnamurthy’s.’

Rasheed’s face became flushed. He did not deny the doctor’s remark.

‘It is only logical for the others to suspect me,’ Dr Rathore said, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘On the evening Sheela was to bring the Secret History paper to you, I told Krishnamurthy, if she’s dead, we would be prime suspects in her murder.’

Rasheed did not respond; he could not respond. He hadn’t expected such audacity from Dr Rathore. Nor could he articulate the thought that had surfaced to warn: Bastard, poseur, shrewdly trying to ferret out the evidence against him.

‘Come on, Rasheed,’ Dr Rathore chuckled. ‘It is simple. Sheela’s murder is proof of the involvement of committee members. Only the committee members knew Sheela was to betray her employer.’ He paused and added gravely, ‘One of us, the killer, belongs to the Organization.’

Rasheed promptly concluded: Dr Rathore had been tipped off about the evidence against him. Guilt and fear had brought him here; he wanted to mislead and throw them off-track. Rasheed did not camouflage his feelings; his efforts at deception were irrelevant now: he knew his face had given him away.

From Rasheed’s expression, Dr Rathore concluded he had been right in confronting his patient. He pressed ahead, ‘Since you insist, I must tell you what I think you already know. Well. The obvious question to ask is: where was Sheela employed? Hemant Kunj. Only three of the committee members stay here – Krishnamurthy, you and I. Since you can’t be involved, that leaves the two of us. I explained this to Krishnamurthy. He was at my place the evening Sheela was to bring you the Secret History paper.’

The tone of surprise in Rasheed’s voice was apparent as he said, ‘So you know each other well?’

The doctor looked at Rasheed quizzically. ‘Aisa hai,’ he said, ‘I came to know of him through Uma. She told me that Krishnamurthy and you knew each other eighteen years ago, and I thought he could help us, you know, to reach out to you and pull you out from your self-imposed seclusion.’

He paused, his eyes riveted on Rasheed, boring into him, as if asking him to account for his ungratefulness.

Dr Rathore continued, ‘I met him for the first time, I think, on the day following your return from Mughalabad, at his house in Hemant Kunj. Uma was not there. We kind of hit it off well. I called him over for the party I was hosting at my house. Then we met at the Centre, and had tea together at the White Castle Hotel. On Wednesday, the day Sheela was to come to you, I invited him over to my house. We were sure the author would be identified. We thought it would be great to be together. He had dinner at my place. An unexpected dinner is always welcome for a bachelor like Krishnamurthy. He was to fly to Bombay early Thursday morning, and since the cab drivers were on strike, I offered to drop him at the airport.’

Rasheed remembered it was the night the guard at the gate of Sector XIII had reported Dr Rathore driving out with a man whose face had been swathed in a muffler. Incredible, wasn’t it? Two men engaged in different professions, becoming good friends overnight? Who was the doctor kidding? The voices inside Rasheed began their babble: they work in tandem, they belong to the Organization, they are behind the Secret History papers.

Was Uma the third member of the group?

His mind, in silence, conceived other possibilities: did they ferry the two assailants to Sector XIII? Dr Rathore owned a Maruti, as was also the car from which the two men had alighted.

‘What happened?’ the doctor asked.

‘Nothing,’ Rasheed replied.

‘You look kind of shaken,’ Dr Rathore said, smiling contemptuously. He added, ‘The committee believes I killed Sheela? It thinks I work for the Organization, I am the author? It does, doesn’t it?’

His disdain infuriated Rasheed, provoking him to say, ‘Suppose we do suspect you. What about it?’

‘It is not fair to me,’ the doctor replied, raising his voice. ‘The committee hasn’t cared to ask me for my story. I haven’t been given the chance to defend myself.’

‘What are you so uptight about?’ Rasheed countered. ‘Who has accused you of anything?’

The doctor was not provoked. He sniggered as he said, ‘When I explained to Krishnamurthy why he and I had to be prime suspects in the murder, he pointed to a flaw in my argument. He said that though Sheela was employed in Hemant Kunj, her place of work didn’t have to be the author’s residence. It was possible, he said, that she worked in a flat which the author could have rented for making it the base from where the Secret History papers could be distributed in the city.’ Dr Rathore paused and said, ‘What do you think?’

Rasheed shrugged his shoulders.

‘I think it is a very sound argument,’ the doctor continued, enjoying the joust. ‘I mean, considering the scale of his operation, the author could not have turned his residence into a distribution centre. You see what I am driving at: any of the committee members could have rented a flat in Hemant Kunj. Do you agree?’

‘You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to deduce that,’ Rasheed said, acerbically.

‘But I don’t blame the committee for believing I could be the author,’ Dr Rathore continued somberly. ‘It’s only natural to foreclose a few options in situations such as the one we face. This is how we doctors diagnose, through the process of elimination, instead of including all possibilities. For a fever, you don’t think the possible cause of it is a bad heart.’ He laughed and added, ‘We create a subset of causes and test the viability of each.’

‘I thought you came here to tell me about your line of investigation,’ Rasheed said, glaring at the doctor.

‘I’m getting there,’ the doctor said. ‘I told Krishnamurthy that the process of exclusion would make us principal suspects in Sheela’s murder. He was alarmed. So was I. What if they reported us to the police? The humiliation, the shame; imagine those headlines in newspapers: Doctor, IT professional murder maid. To use the lingo of you journos, page one material, right?’

Rasheed lowered his gaze. He had been outwitted, outmanoeuvred, and shamed.

But Dr Rathore was not willing to relent. He said, ‘Why are you embarrassed? It is, as I said earlier, the most logical line of investigation to pursue. Please, I am not blaming the committee for suspecting me. I can’t believe you, of all people, would suspect me of murder. Why would you? You know me well.’

Rasheed thought the man before him had abiding faith in the superiority of his mind, and consequently believed he could overcome all situations not requiring physical prowess. For him, life and relationships with others were but a game of chess in which he could outthink his rivals to establish his supremacy. He could anticipate the next move of Dr Rathore – he was to harp on their relationship before professing his innocence.

To pre-empt him Rasheed said, ‘Obviously, why should I suspect you?’

‘I tried to make amends for concealing the truth about your illness,’ the doctor continued. ‘I had Wasim Khan and his family come to your aid. It was I who persuaded Uma to visit your place. Did she tell you that?’ Dr Rathore raised his eyebrows.

Rasheed nodded.

‘It was I, not Wasim Khan’s son, Wahid, who disclosed to Kris about your depression,’ Dr Rathore continued.

‘What?’ Rasheed exclaimed.

‘Kris did not tell you? I forbade him, but I thought he would have. I thought Kris could draw you into the world of the living.’

Rasheed looked at the doctor and said nothing.

‘I suppose he got too involved in the work of the committee, in identifying the author. Perhaps he did not think of the need to tell you about it, seeing your remarkable recovery.’

Dr Rathore paused and added, ‘Recovery. I suppose the ROLT test doesn’t apply to you any longer. You are a changed man, Rasheed. I suppose you don’t keep tabs on the Return of Last Thoughts.’ He laughed, throwing his head back.

Rasheed saw his opportunity for a riposte, to have his small revenge against the doctor’s slight. ‘For me,’ Rasheed said, ‘ROLT stands for something else now.’

‘What?’

‘ROLT is the Return of Lost Thoughts, symptomatic of a person’s madness and a measure of the depth to which he had fallen.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Dr Rathore said, confused.

‘Secret History is the work of a man haunted by lost thoughts,’ Rasheed said, laughing aloud, and staring into the guest’s eyes.

‘I see,’ said Dr Rathore, with a forced smile. ‘Funny.’

They sat silently, watching the barren land aglow in the morning sunlight, until Rasheed, once again, asked the doctor about the line of investigation he was pursuing.

Dr Rathore took out a floppy disc from his shirt pocket. He waved it at Rasheed and said, ‘This could lead us to the culprit, with some luck.’

In a deadpan voice he began to talk. What was in his hand was one of the five special discs Krishnamurthy had created, specially programmed to inject a virus into the computer on which it had been inserted.

‘The idea was Krishnamurthy’s,’ Dr Rathore informed.

Five special discs had been created – one each for Bajpai, Tanushree, Ramesh Gupta, SKJ and Kris. Each of these discs contained the profile of the author, describing his personality traits and motives for joining the Organization and writing Secret History.

‘The day you missed the committee meeting?’ the doctor said, ‘That day, we analyzed the psychology of the author. Tanushree was impressive.’

Rasheed remained silent.

The profile of the author was essentially a recapitulation of what had been discussed on Tuesday. The doctor had written it out, adding his own observations to those of Tanushree’s, some derived from his own experience with patients, but mostly imagined to create an engaging text. The idea behind writing and transferring the profile on a disc, instead of printing it out on paper, was to have the committee members load it on their computers.

‘Each of the five discs has a special virus, different from the rest,’ Dr Rathore explained. ‘Our assumption is, and I think it is logical, the author among us would be most keen to read his own profile. Yesterday I met Prof Chatterjee and sought his permission to put our plan in operation.’

‘I know that,’ Rasheed interjected.

Dr Rathore continued, ‘I requested him to ring up the five and tell them that he had commissioned me to create the author’s profile. To justify his decision—as others would think he had gone mad to entrust the task of writing the profile to one of the suspects—he explained to them that he hoped the suspected author, that is me, would inadvertently reveal aspects of his personality that could prove helpful for the investigation. Does the justification sound convincing?’

Rasheed did not say anything, apprehensive the doctor was about to subject him to another ordeal.

‘It’s like this,’ the doctor said, ‘Once the disc is loaded on the computer, the virus would creep into the system. What Krishnamurthy has done is take out a few key words from the Secret History paper and assign one to each of the five members. These words are from those sentences that recur in every edition.’

Dr Rathore took out a slip of paper. He glanced at it. The word motherland had been assigned to Ramesh Gupta. Once Gupta had loaded the disc on his computer, to read the profile, Krishnamurthy’s virus would enter into the system.

‘The word motherland occurs in the first paragraph and the m in the word is in lower case,’ Dr Rathore explained. ‘Now suppose Gupta is the author and has read the profile on the same computer that he uses to write the text of Secret History, then the word motherland that occurs in the first paragraph will get transmuted. The virus has been designed, you see, to alter the m in motherland as soon as it occurs amidst a particular combination of words. No matter what he does, “the motherland” will automatically become as “the Motherland”. Once you have a Secret History paper in which “the motherland” is written “Motherland”, you know who the author is. Do you get my point? He wouldn’t bother about such a minor error, would he? At best he would simply substitute it with another word.’

He began to read out from the slip of paper in his hand.

The word Mother had been assigned to Suman Kumar Jha; the virus would transform it to mother.

It was mosque for Tanushree, in the second sentence of the first paragraph. The virus would change it to Mosque.

For Kris, it was land in the first sentence, preceded by the word holy. The virus would alter it to Land.

‘Not him,’ Rasheed countered.

‘Why?’ Dr Rathore asked.

‘Fuck off,’ said Rasheed.

‘Don’t become emotional,’ Dr Rathore said, raising his voice. ‘Why make an exception of Kris? Just because he is your friend? We included Kris for two reasons. You can’t give the disc to some and exclude others. Even Prof. Chatterjee has one. Your disc and his are not infected. You can’t be the author because you are Muslim. And had Prof. Chatterjee been the author, he wouldn’t have organized the meeting.’

‘Prof. Chatterjee agreed to implement such a bizarre idea?’ Rasheed asked, picking himself up from the floor. He did not want to listen to the doctor. His plan was diabolical: suspected of the crime, he wanted to confuse and divide the committee members.

‘I know how you feel,’ the doctor continued, getting up. ‘Frankly, I didn’t want to include Kris. But Krishnamurthy called me from Bombay, where he created these discs. He sent them over yesterday morning. His argument was that Kris let out the information on Sheela … that it could have been a ploy to make public what should have been kept secret. Think Rasheed. Had Kris not spoken at the meeting, and had Sheela still been murdered, there would have been only one person for you to suspect. That would have been Kris.’

As an argument, Rasheed found it compelling.

They were now inside the flat. Dr Rathore held out the disc to him. ‘I handed over the disc to Kris and Bajpai late last evening. You should keep one too. Just to show anyone in case they ask you.’

‘No,’ Rasheed said, reaching the door.

Dr Rathore was behind him, talking rapidly. ‘Why are you so opposed to my method of investigation? What makes you think your method is superior to mine?’

Rasheed stopped at the door and jerked around. ‘Your method,’ he gasped. ‘It is ridiculous. What makes you think the author will load the disc on the computer on which he writes the Secret History text?’

‘It is a chance we are taking,’ Dr Rathore replied. ‘Think Rasheed, how many people in India have more than one computer?’

‘He could read the disc on his office computer,’ Rasheed suggested.

‘He could,’ the doctor said dismissively. ‘When I handed over the disc to Kris at his office late at night, he said he could only read it at home. Apparently, most newspapers don’t allow their staff to load their own personal discs on office computers, fearing their system could get contaminated with viruses. Is it true?’

Rasheed countered, ‘Your author can de-virus the computer before using it.’

‘Sure,’ the doctor agreed, ‘except this virus, I am told, is difficult to get rid of. If you examine the Secret History editions, each one is written a day before it appears in the city.’ He laughed and added, ‘Now don’t think I’d know that because I am the author.’

Rasheed didn’t say anything.

‘That’s just my suspicion. Our Monday meeting was reported in Secret History on Wednesday. Since two people had their discs yesterday, and others will get it today, I suppose we should look out for the Secret History edition of tomorrow and the day after.’

Rasheed ignored Dr Rathore’s innuendo about Kris and Bajpai.

The doctor continued, relishing the insults he was directing at Rasheed. ‘Kris looked disturbed, lost. I advised him rest. And he told me he was going on long leave from next week. Did he tell you that?’

Rasheed nodded.

‘I wonder why,’ Dr Rathore said, with a faint smile playing on his lips. He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand and said, ‘For Bajpai, I personally chose the word. It’s Lord. It occurs in the last line, Rise and raise your arms, rise and say Lord Ram. The virus in his disc will turn the L in Lord into l.’

Rasheed pulled the door open. His eyes glowed with hostility.

‘Suppose you are the author,’ Rasheed said with vehemence, ‘you can write the Secret History text in a way that could implicate one of the five.’

Dr Rathore shook his head and said, ‘I had all along suspected you’d think that.’ There was contempt in his voice, as also, for the first time, bitterness.

‘Take the disc,’ he said.

Rasheed took the disc. As he watched the doctor go down the staircase, Rasheed was certain about at least one thing: Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy did indeed work in tandem.

What he now needed to verify was whether or not Uma was the third member of the triad.

Secret History

O Hindus,

On 6 December, you the Hindus, the only true people of this holy land, the only legitimate children of your Mother, will get another chance to prove your manhood, and reclaim that which was taken away forcibly by the barbarians, who came here centuries ago and defiled the purity of your motherland, plundered and raped her with a cruelty your history had never witnessed before. There are now only seven days left for the brave sons of the land to assemble in the town of Ayodhya and remove the last vestige of slavery, obliterate the symbol of your humiliation, and raze to the ground the mosque whose domes have mocked you for centuries.

Today we will outline Islam’s belief system. It will help you understand why Muslims are intolerant and violent. It will give you an idea why Muslims lust for power. It will help lay bare the roots of their orthodoxy. Surely you know the core of Islam is the revelation of God to Prophet Mohammad. Surely you have heard about the Prophet’s trials and tribulations in preaching Allah’s message to the Bedouins. Let us not describe in detail what the Prophet preached, let us tell you only what is relevant to our thesis. Mohammad said the will of God had been expressed down the centuries through the medium of prophets. He then claimed he was the last of a long line of prophets. In the Quran, so taught the Prophet of Arabia, is expressed the will of Allah. In it are commands man must obey to live righteously, in the hope of entering Paradise.

Such assertions prompted Muslims to conclude: since the Quran was the last of all Divine revelations, Allah did not think it necessary to issue fresh guidance to mankind. From this they infer that the last Message is complete and perfect. It cannot be improved upon, there can be no deviation from it. That is why their women must wear the veil. That is why their men have four wives. That is why they stone to death those guilty of adultery. For every action, they refer to the Quran, searching its text to see whether or not it has the sanction of the Divine Will. Do you now understand why they are resistant to change? Do you comprehend the origins of their orthodoxy?

It is indeed perplexing that those who believe in the Divine Will should seek to dominate the world. The impulse for this quest too springs from Islam. The intellectual tradition of Muslims says that there were two kinds of prophets – there were those who were sent to reveal a truth about God and the world, then there were others who taught these as well as revealed a system of morality. Jesus belonged to the first category, Mohammad, the second. The process of teaching the attributes of God is quite simple: either people accept the teaching, or they continue to subscribe to their own spiritual inheritance. But the method of executing the law of morality presupposes acquisition of power. Indeed, without the power of coercion you cannot implement laws, secular or religious.

It is said Prophet Mohammad waged many a fierce battle against those who persecuted him and his followers. It is said he fought many a bloody battle to establish his right to preach his religion. But we beg to differ from such analysis. We say Prophet Mohammad had to go to war because he needed political power for his mission. It was only through the acquisition of power could he have hoped to execute the laws of morality. Since power was part of the prophetic mission, its acquisition began to be considered holy and desirable among the Muslims.

Surely an ordinary Muslim of today can’t consider himself equivalent to the Prophet? Surely what was necessary for Mohammad’s generation could be superfluous for his followers? But therein lies the problem. Just recall the first principle, the last and perfect expression of Allah’s will is the Quran. This means the Book and the Law are not confined to the Prophet’s generation. It consequently encourages Muslims to acquire power in perpetuity, to execute Allah’s law in eternity. Since the validity of the Quran isn’t confined to a generation or race, it only becomes the duty of Muslims to bring the entire world under its sweep. Do you now understand why Muslims are intolerant? Do you now realize why they are resistant to change?

It isn’t as if there hadn’t been men among them who tried to reform Islam. It isn’t as if there hadn’t been attempts to inject modern impulses into the religion of Arabia. Go procure Albert Hourani’s Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age. In it you will read about the quest of Arab intellectuals to reform their society. There was, for instance, Mohammad Abduh who sought to transform Egypt. But he succumbed to compromises and desisted from shaking the foundation of his religion. Instead of rejecting the tenets of his religion, he tried to demonstrate how Islam could become a source of strength in the Age of Reason. Abduh had many disciples, Abduh had tremendous influence on the intellectual tradition of the Arabs.

The inability of reformers to tame Islam was proved through the fate of one of Abduh’s many disciples. His name was Qasim Amin, and he was born in 1865. At the age of thirty-four, Amin published a book in Egypt, arguing for the emancipation of women. He said the reason for the Islamic community’s decline was the subjugation of its women. He argued that the nature of any society is dependent on the status it accords to its women. Bold was Qasim Amin, courageous was he in supporting education for Muslim women. He said they must work and become independent. He opposed their seclusion and advocated equal divorce rights for them.

Amin’s book raised a storm in Egypt. Pamphlets were written condemning him, newspaper articles criticized him virulently. Bold was Amin, he refused to recant. Brave was Amin, he decided to take the fight to his intellectual enemies. The following year, in 1900, he wrote yet another book on the new woman. This time, though, he didn’t cite passages from the Quran to bolster his arguments. Nor did he try to please the orthodox. Very plainly, he said that Islamic civilization wasn’t great. He said freedom of women was the basis of all freedoms. He said real civilization must grant equal rights to women and men. Once again, a howl of protest greeted Amin’s book, once again they condemned and berated him.

There’s something about Islam, it is opposed to ideas and debates. There’s something about Islam, it seeks to suppress those who question its principles. In 1900, they hounded Qasim Amin, eight decades later, they issued a fatwa of death against Salman Rushdie. This only shows they have gone from bad to worse. This only shows they will remain prisoners of the Idea born in the deserts of Arabia. It is your responsibility to set them free, it is your duty to ensure they embrace modernity. Since the Idea can’t be changed, you must ensure they develop an aversion to it. Since the Idea can’t be reformed, you must show to them its irrationality. This is the reason why you must join those who will be in Ayodhya on 6 December, this is why you must become footsoldiers in the fight against the idea of Islam. Rise and raise your arms, rise and say Bhagwan Ram.

At 7 a.m., Uma put the suitcase on the floor and pressed the doorbell of Rasheed’s flat.

He was sitting on the mattress, leaning against the wall and holding the day’s edition of Secret History. Because the word Lord was missing from the last sentence of the text, he thought he could draw one definite conclusion: either Ashok Kumar Bajpai was guilty or the triad had conspired to frame him in the double murder. It was either them or Bajpai; the other committee members had been exonerated.

The ring of the doorbell echoed shrilly in the flat. Either Dr Vikram Rathore had concocted the story about the infected discs or Bajpai had substituted the word Lord with Bhagwan because the keyboard wouldn’t type an L. But there was also the other aspect he could not ignore. Should he assume Dr Vikram Rathore was the author and had used Bhagwan instead of Lord to implicate Bajpai in the crime, then the mention of Qasim Amin in Secret History indicted Uma, too. Why would the triad risk exposing Uma?

It was bloody simple, he thought, as he heard the insistent ringing of the doorbell. He now understood why Uma had claimed it was Bajpai who had asked her about the Egyptian writer. It was a ploy to frame him, to persuade Rasheed into believing that Bajpai was the author of Secret History.

But a thought contrary to that conclusion confronted him immediately. The conversation between Uma and Bajpai over the Egyptian writer had preceded the forming of the core committee at the Centre of Gandhian Studies. How could she have anticipated that Bajpai would volunteer for the committee?

So then? Rasheed stood up as the doorbell rang again.

Outside, Uma had started to rue the decision of driving straight to Hemant Kunj. What was taking him so long to open the door? Was it that he wasn’t at home?

So then? Rasheed asked, tossing the Secret History paper on the mattress. It was ultimately about deciding who between the two was telling the truth: Uma or Bajpai.

The doorbell echoed three times, in short bursts, prompting him to walk briskly and open the door.

Uma smiled expansively at him and said, ‘I was about to leave.’

He did not smile at her. Rasheed hadn’t expected her to appear early in the morning at his door. And now that she was there, she had to be confronted about the triad in Samresh Singh’s story and Bajpai’s claim that she had inquired about Qasim Amin. In the imminent confrontation, their relationship could assume inconceivable shapes. Rasheed picked up the suitcase and walked into the flat. She followed him.

‘I went down to Ranikhet to call you,’ she said. ‘But you weren’t there.’

Rasheed went silently into the bedroom. He put the suitcase down and turned to her. She held him around his waist and looked into his eyes. She thought it was odd for him to be in jeans at this time.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You have not slept at all?’

‘One of those sleepless nights,’ he replied.

Rasheed, too, belatedly put his arms around her waist. He would tell her everything: all that he had heard and thought and felt during the hours she had been away. ‘Is everything all right?’ Uma sensed tension between them.

He nodded, waiting for her to settle down, to unwind and relax, before asking her about her conversation with Bajpai.

‘Do you want tea?’ he asked. ‘I’ll make tea.’

‘Okay,’ she said, disengaging from him, and took a cigarette packet from the pocket of her jeans. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll go to the toilet.’ She lit a cigarette and tossed the packet away. It landed on the Secret History paper lying on the mattress. She took a drag and exhaled. The smoke drifted across the room. She too had wanted to ask questions, about the investigation and whether Sheela was indeed dead. His sombre mood suggested unhappy tidings. Uma decided to wait for him to disclose what had happened in her absence.

Rasheed hurriedly left the room. The truth had to be told to her now; those terrible questions had to be asked. He couldn’t hold her in his arms if he suspected her of being a murderer. He entered the kitchen and placed the saucepan with water on the gas stove. What was his opening remark going to be? What would he ask her? She will be horrified, he thought. For one last time, as the water began to simmer, he asked himself: was she guilty?

He thought she couldn’t be involved in the Secret History conspiracy and still appear at his door and demonstrate her love for him; she couldn’t have held him in a clinch or looked into his eyes lovingly. But then, Uma had inquired about Qasim Amin, and lied about her conversation with Bajpai. There was also the woman in Samresh Singh’s story. These facts implicated her as much as her love for him exonerated her.

The water in the saucepan began to hiss and bubble.

‘Rasheed,’ Uma called out loudly. ‘Rasheed,’ she repeated.

He lowered the flame and, reaching for the tea leaves, said, ‘Just a minute.’

‘Come here. Immediately,’ she insisted.

He switched off the gas and put the lid on the saucepan.

The bedroom door was ajar. She was on the mattress, her back against the wall, her legs stretched out, reading Secret History. As he entered the bedroom she asked, ‘Have you read this?’ She waved the paper at him. ‘Read what’s written here.’

Rasheed felt a lump rise in his throat. They were hurtling towards confrontation; they were to emerge from it badly scarred, their relationship skinned to reveal its ugliness. He sat down next to her with his shoulder and right thigh touching hers.

‘The Egyptian writer and his book on women,’ she said. ‘There’s a reference to … who is it … Albert Hourani too. Do you remember?’

He took the paper from her, wondering what he should tell her.

‘Dumbo,’ she said, tapping his shoulder lightly. But he didn’t look up at her. ‘This was the information your boss had sought. Don’t you remember?’

She did not find his silence incongruous. Uma continued, believing she was required to refresh his memory, ‘Don’t you remember, I was like, wow that you remembered the Egyptian writer’s name in the mental condition you were in. You also wanted me to tell Bajpai about this Albert Hourani’s book called …’

‘Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age,’ he completed the sentence.

‘Exactly,’ she cried out, slapping her thigh.

The silence in the room lasted a few seconds.

‘It is curious,’ she said. ‘Don’t you find it curious?’

He didn’t know what to tell her. He kept the paper aside and turned towards her. He put his right arm around her shoulder.

‘What?’ she asked, her smile evanescing into an expression of incomprehension.

‘Sheela is dead,’ he said.

‘No,’ she muttered.

‘Her body was found across the Centre of Indian History.’ She was still, and her eyes were trained on him.

‘Well, on the day her body was found, Kris, Prof. Chatterjee, Bajpai and I met at The Nest, the restaurant at Hotel Blue Sky, to discuss the murder,’ he said, adding slowly, ‘the precise details of which are irrelevant. But I happened to mention your name and Bajpai said he remembered you because of your strange request, that … well … he remembered you because you had asked him whether he knew the name of the Egyptian whose book on women had raised a huge controversy, decades ago. He apparently told you I’d be the best person to ask.’

‘What do you mean?’ Uma looked puzzled.

‘I mean, did you ask him about the Egyptian writer?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’

As he continued to look at her, trying to comprehend from her expression the veracity of her statement, she spoke with astonishment, ‘Why did he say that? Why should he lie?’

His gaze shifted from Uma to the Secret History paper on the mattress. In a monotone Rasheed began to speak, ‘So much has happened from the time you left. At The Nest, it was decided that Kris and I would visit Vijaygarh, where Sheela lived. He dropped out. I went there alone.’

He raised his eyes to look at her, curious to see her reaction to what he was about to disclose. ‘I met Samresh Singh,’ he said. ‘He’s the leader who got Sheela her last job.’ Rasheed narrated Samresh Singh’s story – who Vishwas Singh was, why Sheela was chosen to stick brown adhesive strips to computer printouts, and the people who supervised her work.

‘Samresh Singh didn’t know the names of those for whom Sheela worked,’ Rasheed continued. ‘But Vishwas and Sheela did describe her employer and supervisors. Apparently, there were three – a person who was referred to as doctor, a tall dark man and a woman whose complexion was, was, much like yours, light brown.’

He stared at her. In a few seconds her face became contorted with rage. Uma slid away from him, to the other end of the mattress. Her eyes reflected revulsion.

His right arm dropped to his side with a jerk.

‘Bastard, I get your point,’ she hissed.

He tried to reach out, to pull her towards himself. She slapped his extended arm. ‘You think I asked Bajpai about the Egyptian writer. You, you …’ Uma choked on her words.

‘Look …’ Rasheed remonstrated.

‘Because this Egyptian is mentioned in the poster,’ she said, her voice quivering, ‘I am guilty. So are the doctor and Krishnamurthy. You cheap little bastard.’

‘Listen to me,’ he pleaded.

‘You swine … Who do you think I am?’

‘Listen Uma, it’s a serious matter,’ he said, trying to justify his conduct. ‘I am not implying you write Secret History …’

‘Maybe you think I undertake research work for the Organization. Perhaps you think I have been sleeping with you to …’

Rasheed too had moved across the mattress. He stretched out and clasped her forearm. ‘Listen to me for a second.’

She wrestled free and stood up. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she shouted.

With her hands on her hips she glared at him and hissed, ‘You think I am too dumb to tell? Just because I defended Krishnamurthy and the doctor, you began to suspect me too … I wonder why I ever …’

‘Saved me?’ he shouted.

‘Fuck you,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving.’

He sprang to his feet and blocked her way. She darted to the side; he moved too. ‘Go away,’ she gasped and swung her fist at him. He took the blow on the chin. In one quick movement he caught hold of her arms and pinned her to the wall. She struggled initially and then began to sob.

‘Listen to the entire story … You can then leave,’ he said, slowly easing the pressure on her, convinced he now had her attention.

Rasheed paused and backed away from her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes were fixed to the floor.

‘When I returned from the slum in which Sheela lived, the others rang me up,’ Rasheed said. ‘They were keen to know what new information I had gathered. Do you know what I told them, Uma?’

She was crying; she continued to look down. ‘Do you know what I told them?’ he repeated. ‘I told them that the leader who had secured the job for Sheela was out of Delhi, and wasn’t to return till Sunday, today. Why do you think I lied?’

Uma sank to the floor, burying her face in her palms.

Rasheed sat on the mattress, facing her. ‘If Samresh Singh had only talked about the doctor and the dark man, I would have reported the story to the others. But there was also a woman and, and …’

He paused, fumbling over the choice of words. Her tears were real. He was relieved to find his decision to conceal Samresh Singh’s story from others had been vindicated. He had been saved. His love had been cleansed of the smudges of suspicion. She wasn’t guilty of the murder; she was not involved in the Secret History conspiracy. His verdict was irrevocable.

‘Why do you think I didn’t tell them about Samresh Singh?’ he asked.

Uma sniffed, cleared her throat and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. She looked at him and said, ‘Pass the packet.’

He picked up the packet from the mattress and gave it to her. As she lit a cigarette, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

She said, ‘He is the culprit. Bajpai is.’

He didn’t ask her for an explanation.

She pulled hard on the cigarette and moved on her knees to him.

‘You want proof, don’t you?’ she asked, blowing smoke. Her voice continued to quiver and her words were soaked in tears. ‘We have a device at HOPE which tapes all our conversations. It was installed two years ago, after a parent took us to court on the charge of abetting his son’s suicide. It was Krishnamurthy who installed the system – the moment the phone is answered, the recording system is activated. We usually keep the tapes for a year before erasing them.’

She placed her hands on his knees and said, ‘My conversation with Bajpai should be on tape.’

He stared at her, astonished.

Uma said, ‘You can hear him ask about the Egyptian writer.’

‘Really?’ he exclaimed.

It hadn’t yet occurred to him that the investigation had ended and the identity of the author was now beyond doubt.

Rasheed threw his arms around her and burrowed his head into her shoulder. He was now free of the voices inside him, of the burden his mind had become.

But Uma didn’t hold him. ‘Should we go and search the archive for the tape?’ she asked.

‘I believe you,’ he replied.

Three puffs later, she asked, ‘You suspected me, didn’t you?’

He did not answer her.

‘You suspected me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Rasheed mumbled.

She heard the reply and crushed the cigarette on the floor and held him tightly – she on the floor, and he on the mattress.

Rasheed suddenly lifted his head and disengaged from her. He got up and said, ‘Who is Samresh Singh? What about his story?’

She looked up at him, trying to understand what he had said.

‘I’m going over to Bajpai’s place.’

‘No, you are not,’ she said.

But even before she could stand up, he was already in the drawing room.

‘No, please don’t go,’ she shouted, running after him.

Rasheed was already closing the main door.

‘No, no,’ Uma said, hearing him latch the door from outside and his footsteps going down the stairs.

Rasheed Halim was trapped in an eddy of fury. It showed in the restlessness of his eyes, in the quivering of his lips, in the occasional incoherent mutter. It could be sensed in the involuntary closing and opening of his fists, in the rapid rhythm of his breathing. The veins in his temple stood out. Anger and horror imparted to his gaze a piercing intensity. He was instinct, driven to find a release. It had swept aside his power to reason and brought him to Ashok Kumar Bajpai’s house in Gulmohar Park.

Voices arose inside him to repeat what was now beyond doubt: Bajpai had killed Sheela and dumped her body on the roadside. He was the author of Secret History. Rasheed shuddered at the thought of what he was to witness now. It was terrifying as well as tragic. Evil beckoned him. It was evil stripped of its camouflage. In the house before him, was the darkness of the grave, threatening to swallow anybody who came near it.

Rasheed walked to the gate, painted black. The yellow single-storey structure looked transformed since the last time he had been here, a year ago. The front door had been walled. It was possible his memory was playing tricks: perhaps the door hadn’t been there even then. Its inaccessibility was forbidding. Two windows in the front overlooked an unkempt lawn. Thick curtains were drawn across them. From the gate, a driveway ran along the boundary wall, separating the house from the neighbour’s. A Fiat was parked in the porch. A door here provided entry to the house.

Rasheed swung open the gate. What was he going to seek from Bajpai – an explanation? Or was he going to insist on a confession to the police? He strode down the driveway, through the space between the car and the wall, to reach the entrance. He jabbed at the calling bell, simultaneously pushing the door. It squeaked open. A staircase to his right led to the roof. Across from him, about eight feet away, was another door, presumably bolted from inside. He stood with his legs apart, one hand on the waist, the other on the buzzer, pressing it again and again.

The sound of the doorbell tore through the house, in prolonged bursts. Where the hell was Bajpai? Rasheed walked to the inside door, across from him. He tried the knob; it turned. Opening the door a little, he peeped inside. Down to his right, ten feet away, were two rooms, with their doors closed. At the other end, the corridor opened into the drawing-cum-dining room. Opposite him was the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ Rasheed said hoarsely.

He was reluctant to step inside. This was the nether-world, inhabited and visited by men who had lost their souls. Here, where madness masqueraded as extreme rationality, who could tell what might happen once the outside world was shut out. Where could Bajpai have gone? In mentioning the Egyptian writer in today’s edition of Secret History Bajpai had sought to implicate Uma in the crime. He should have been at home, next to the phone, waiting to hear the disconsolate voice of Rasheed condemn his love.

Inexplicably, Rasheed’s skin bristled. A strange kind of emptiness, born out of fear, suddenly gripped him. He could guess what had happened. Bajpai must have called up Hemant Kunj. Uma would have answered the phone. She would have told Bajpai about the tape on which he had testified against himself. Rasheed had been pre-empted. Bajpai had fled in panic, to evade being shamed. But to leave the house open, to not secure the entrance? This wasn’t the way people went into hiding. Besides, Bajpai wasn’t a nonentity. Unexplained permanent absence from office would have his colleagues inform the police and mount a search for him; there would be stories in newspapers and the television would flash his photograph. Really, in what place could Bajpai take refuge where he wouldn’t be found and made to suffer the shame of his crime?

Death, Rasheed muttered.

Bajpai was dead. He had opted for an abrupt end, a sudden closure, Rasheed was certain.

The door had been left open to deliver the last blow to the victorious. Rasheed pushed it wide open. The light from the entrance swept out the darkness from the corridor. Should he check the bedrooms? Or should he access the phone in the drawing room and dial for help? Rasheed could not decide what to do. Really, he did not have to fear a dead body. It was all over now; there were only formalities to complete, for the body to be discovered and the police to be informed. The investigation had ended in the manner of most conspiracies: the culprit was dead; the case would be declared closed; and the chance of exposing the link between the Organization and Secret History squandered. The apparent was to now become the story.

Crestfallen, he stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the muted light. Where should he check first – the bedrooms or the drawing room? Instead, he entered the kitchen. At the far end, next to the sink, were two plates kept aside for rinsing; the knives had jam on them. On the gas stove was a saucepan of water. The tray had been prepared: it had two porcelain cups, sugar and milk pots. Near the tray lay an open box of teabags.

Two plates and two cups?

It was obvious Bajpai had had someone over for breakfast. And just when the water had been put to boil and the tea bags were about to be taken out, the phone call to Hemant Kunj was made. It was absurd. Surely, Bajpai couldn’t have talked to Uma in the presence of his guest – and before him, committed suicide. Rasheed rejected that possibility. He re-imagined the scenario. Two men had finished their breakfast and were waiting for the water to boil. The call to Hemant Kunj could have been made then. Two contradictory assumptions were reconciled: the visitor hadn’t been an ordinary guest. He was a comrade-in-arms, a partner in the conspiracy. That was why Bajpai had talked to Uma in his presence.

The Organization had consciously brought the two men together: Bajpai was thought, the guest was action, working in tandem. What Bajpai conceived, the guest implemented. It seemed so simple now – it was the guest who had sent the bullies to scare them on the night they were patrolling the colony; and it was he who had injected death into Sheela. Bajpai didn’t have a criminal’s experience to organize a murder and dispose the body of the victim.

It was murder, indeed it was. Bajpai had been bumped off to conceal the complicity of the Organization in the crime.

His body turned taut and cold. His anger was submerged in the rising tide of fear; his ears strained to pick a sound; an inexplicable desire to run out of the house surfaced. His mind was emptied of all thought. Yet Rasheed remained rooted to where he was, paralyzed, conscious of only the thumping of his heart and the silence and darkness of the house. Moments passed. Switch on the light, a voice inside him commanded. Really, what was he so petrified about? A dead person, he tried to reason, couldn’t suddenly spring to life. Switch on the light, the voice repeated. The idea of seeing a ghastly image was repelling. Switch on the light, the voice was relentless. Was Bajpai stabbed or shot? He walked into the corridor and turned on the fluorescent tube. The light flickered into the drawing room, illuminating it. The carpet was frayed; beyond it was an easy chair. On its seat was a newspaper, folded twice.

It was too late to flee. He decided to search the house, to walk the length of the corridor and examine the drawing room. He took a step, a short one. Suddenly, he pirouetted around. It was possible the guest-comrade was still inside the house, hiding in one of the rooms, waiting for Rasheed to leave.

He stared at the bedrooms. Perhaps he should make noise, and warn the assailant of his presence: continuous silence could convince the killer that it was safe to slip out of the house. This could bring them face to face, in direct confrontation. Rasheed reached out for the knob of the door opening out. A part of him wanted to flee. It was an involuntary response to the danger to his life. Could he betray Sheela? Should he forego the opportunity to sabotage the Organization’s blueprint for bloodshed?

His hand dropped from the knob.

Rasheed rushed into the kitchen and pulled out the drawers, one after another, opening and shutting them, until he found among the cutlery a carving knife. It had a black grip; the blade was nine inches long and tapered into a pointed end.

Back in the corridor, he prepared for the assault. He was breathing heavily and his legs felt heavy. Rasheed held the knife in his right hand. Now, he told himself, now. One, two, three, he counted, and rushed towards the drawing room. His feet fell softly on the floor; his mind was still. He was now two strides into the drawing room, hearing nothing and seeing nothing.

Suddenly a voice, loud and measured, echoed, ‘You took a long time to come.’

Rasheed Halim spun around, his incoherent cry stifled before it could become a full-throated scream. His left arm braced before his chest, the right arm swung in the air, knife poised to swipe.

He recognized the voice.

Standing in the light that cut a swathe from the corridor into the room, he saw, in the far right corner, Ashok Kumar Bajpai. Facing him, three feet away, a man was sitting in a rocking chair placed, rather incongruously on the carpet, with his back to the corridor and Rasheed. To Bajpai’s left was a couch; to his right was a peg table; beyond it were two sofas.

Rasheed gazed at Bajpai, stunned. His arms dropped to his sides, limp.

‘Were you scared of entering the house?’ Bajpai asked, switching on the floor lamp beside him.

Dressed in a safari, he sat erect in the rocking chair. His posture was imperious, typical of those who command authority. His voice was cultivated, as if stapling every syllable he uttered to the stillness of the room.

‘Why were you scared, Rasheed?’ Bajpai continued.

His voice exuded power and derision. The usual mischievous twinkle of Bajpai’s eyes had been replaced by a stern gaze; the ruddy complexion was wan. The ambience of the room was surreal: two men staring at each other in a dimly lit room, in silence, like mannequins in a dingy warehouse. This impression was heightened by the person in the easy chair. In a white kurta-pajama, immobile and silent, he hadn’t even turned around to look at the intruder.

Rasheed wanted to speak but his tongue seemed to have turned to rubber. He could feel the life-force draining out of him. Something inexplicable was happening to him. A dark force was gradually overpowering him.

Ashok Kumar Bajpai grinned.

Rasheed was shocked at the sight of a man revelling in his fall.

‘Why … why … did you do it,’ Rasheed whispered.

Bajpai laughed. ‘Why did I do it?’

For a few seconds, the room was entombed in silence.

‘You haven’t met my friend, have you?’ Bajpai asked, his eyes wide and icy like those of an unrelenting deity.

‘Come here and meet him,’ he commanded as one habituated to obedience. Fear rustled Rasheed’s soul. It prompted him to tighten his grip on the knife. He took a step, then another.

Bajpai’s mouth curled into a sardonic smile. The superior will was commandeering the obstinate opponent, breaking him gradually.

‘You haven’t met him, have you?’ Bajpai’s words were biting.

As if on cue, the man turned around: the bushy moustache was twirled upwards, his eyes had red clots and the face was tanned. Rasheed recognized Samresh Singh.

The leader of Vijaygarh, the benefactor of Sheela, held a revolver in his hand.

‘You lied to me, Rasheed,’ Bajpai continued. ‘You met Samresh. You heard his story. Yet you lied to me, to us.’

For Rasheed, Bajpai’s statement seemed a perverse ploy to establish his moral superiority, a subconscious expression of anguish at the unravelling of his plan. Bajpai, even now, was inscrutable.

‘How could you do it,’ Bajpai reprimanded. ‘You lied to me … You …’ His style was staccato, stringing together a few words in a rasping voice and then falling silent.

Rasheed Halim was in a daze. The Organization was everywhere – in slums, in newspaper offices, in middle class colonies; it was there in the underbelly of the city, surfacing at night in streets; it lurked behind curtains of respectable drawing rooms. The Organization was akin to termites, present everywhere.

‘You … You betrayed my confidence,’ Bajpai said.

But Rasheed was listening to his own voice. In every soul existed the essence of what the Organization preached. It was there in him too – the palpitating heart of the beast; the untamed, ruthless aspect of the self, seeking to establish its domination. What Bajpai had done to him was what he sought to achieve through his writing of Secret History: inspire people to break the shackles binding the brute in them.

Love was his saviour. It was the love Uma knew; it was what Prof. Utpal Chatterjee too possessed, as did Wasim Khan. Rasheed too had discovered that love; and with it, his faith.

Bajpai laughed hollowly. ‘Samresh Singh was right,’ he said. ‘Kris and you should have been killed the night the two of you were patrolling your colony.’

Rasheed glanced at the revolver cocked in Samresh Singh’s hand.

‘It is damn simple to pump bullets into a body,’ Bajpai continued. ‘But I became too ambitious. I was sure I could drive all of you crazy with suspicion.’

They will kill me, Rasheed thought.

He saw Samresh Singh switch the revolver from one hand to the other. They were at the edge of time. A little later, Samresh Singh cleared his throat loudly. It was to distract Bajpai from himself. Samresh Singh pointed to his wristwatch.

‘I know,’ Bajpai whispered, his voice distant and hoarse. ‘It’s getting late.’

He looked at Rasheed. ‘Let’s have tea,’ Bajpai said. ‘We must have tea for old times’ sake, I say.’

Samresh Singh stood up. He loomed over Rasheed, the red clots in his eyes shining like tiny lights of death. He held out his left hand. Rasheed handed him the knife.

Samresh Singh asked, ‘Shakkar?’

Rasheed could not understand. It was a strange way to prepare for someone’s death – offer him a cup of tea, even ask him how much sugar he preferred.

Samresh Singh walked out the drawing room, tucking the revolver into the waistband of his pajamas.

‘He is a cautious man,’ Bajpai explained. ‘Sit there,’ he ordered.

Rasheed took the chair Samresh Singh had vacated.

‘I ordered her killing, I say,’ Bajpai said. He laughed lightly and fell silent, adding, after a minute, ‘We waited for her to report to work on Wednesday morning. Samresh took her out in a van. Where? That’s irrelevant, I say.’

His voice was soft and unhurried. ‘But we did not torture her. It was not required. Sheela told me everything – what she had disclosed to you about her work, how she had refused to identify me, and about the visitor … that idiotic doctor … to your house. She also said you had gone a little crazy. You have given away your furniture. So which country are you migrating to?’

Bajpai paused, but it wasn’t to hear Rasheed’s reply. It seemed his suppressed thoughts were expressing themselves of their own volition.

‘It was just too dangerous to let her live,’ he said. ‘That’s it, I thought; her failure to turn up at your house would scare the committee. Imagine my fury when I was informed that you and Kris were out in the colony and you had told the guards who you were waiting for. Samresh was in favour of killing the two of you. I overruled him. Two journalists shot dead in a middle class colony – it could have created a huge stink. People like Sheela are worth just three damn lines in a City page brief, I say.’

Bajpai sounded pitiably rational.

‘Also Rasheed,’ he said, his voice falling. ‘I know the two of you. That made me soft.’ He shook his head gravely and added, ‘I thought Sheela’s murder would frighten you and Kris. I was wrong. Never thought you, of all people, could become such a nuisance.’

He was talking about the murder dispassionately, in the manner of a surgeon discussing a botched-up operation.

‘Do you remember Vishwas Singh?’ asked Bajpai, smiling sardonically. ‘He is fiction. He doesn’t exist. We created him to make our story sound authentic … and … and … sinister. Samresh Singh had invited you to accompany him to his house. You remember? He said the body of Vishwas was being brought over from the place where he had drowned and whether you’d want to see it and meet his family. You declined. You remember?’

Rasheed did not respond.

‘If you had said yes,’ Bajpai said slowly, his gaze piercing, ‘Samresh would have taken you to a desolate spot beyond Hemant Kunj and killed you. Because you declined, we thought you had accepted Samresh’s story.’

Bajpai suddenly shouted, ‘You lied, Rasheed. You bloody lied to me.’

Rasheed looked at him, aghast.

They sat in silence, neither looking at the other.

In a tone full of reproach, his voice now barely audible, Bajpai continued, ‘It was Samresh who brought Sheela to me. At the Hemant Kunj flat there were, besides me, Samresh Singh and six others, all members of the Organization. The Hemant Kunj territory comes under Samresh; he chose the men to stick adhesive tapes.’

Bajpai had mumbled these lines as if he was talking to himself.

‘Adhesive tapes,’ he sighed. He batted his eyelids rapidly; his smile was mocking. This was the Bajpai Rasheed knew – supercilious and intimidating.

‘Do you know why we use adhesive tapes?’ he asked.

‘It isn’t messy. No going around with tubes of gum. All that you have to do is remove the four plastic slips and stick paper to the walls.’

He paused and tilted his head upward, as if to relieve himself of a neck ache.

‘There was also another reason,’ he continued. ‘The Organization is methodical. It wanted to have the Secret History paper appear every day at the same spot. It is difficult to take off a paper stuck to a wall with glue. It defaces the wall. So the bosses opted for adhesive tapes.’

Bajpai straightened his neck. He looked amused. ‘On Tuesday, the day you didn’t attend the meeting at the Centre,’ he said and smiled mockingly. ‘I told them that the adhesive tapes were actually adhesive bandages. I even disclosed to them the brand of the adhesive bandages. We get Heal-Wound adhesive strips before cotton pads are placed on them. I shouldn’t have talked about it. But I was so bloody nervous, I say. I was thinking on my feet.’

Bajpai’s description had been too vivid for a person not engaged in the Organization’s operation. It was the clue committee members missed. Or was it the reason why Dr Vikram Rathore had personally chosen the word Lord for Bajpai on the virus-infected floppy disc?

‘You are not asking me appropriate questions,’ Bajpai said. ‘Ask: why didn’t we buy adhesive tapes from the market? Look at the problems: it means giving each person responsible for sticking the Secret History paper a roll of adhesive tape and scissors. Our men don’t go everywhere. In your sector, one of the guards is provided twenty sheets of Secret History and all that he is required to do is rip off the four translucent slips to paste the papers on walls.’

‘Guards?’ Rasheed asked.

Bajpai laughed and said, ‘The Organization doesn’t have an army. The guard in your Sector XIII is paid handsomely for doing our work.’

He fell silent. His benign expression evanesced into inscrutable impassivity.

‘So yes, Sheela wasn’t, as she told you, the only one who worked on the papers. About three weeks ago, Samresh brought Sheela over. He had his reasons,’ Bajpai said. ‘The demand for Secret History had increased beyond our expectations. At the same time, one of the volunteers had taken ill, another three had been summoned for Organization work. Instead of getting volunteers from outside Hemant Kunj, Samresh thought it was better to employ her. Sheela, after all, was illiterate; she couldn’t be a security risk.’

Suddenly, his hands began to tremble. His face was contorted with rage. Bajpai said, ‘For your sake, the bitch was willing to betray us.’

It was sickening to hear the murderer talk about betrayal.

‘She was a traitor,’ Bajpai screamed. ‘She deserved to die.’

His face was flushed.

‘We killed her,’ he said slowly, emphasizing each word and glaring at Rasheed. ‘Your Sheela died a traitor’s death.’

Bajpai was a horror Rasheed found difficult to look at. He turned his gaze to the peg table.

‘You should have seen your Sheela’s face before the prick of the needle,’ Bajpai taunted. ‘She was sick with fear. But she had dignity. She didn’t fight back. She knew it was futile. She, I must say, gracefully accepted her fate.’

On the peg table were two photo frames and a flower vase. Rasheed thought he could pick up the vase and smash it on Bajpai’s head. He glanced at Bajpai, now slouched in the rocking chair, exhausted.

Better to fight and die, Rasheed thought, than to be shot dead by Samresh Singh.

‘What inspired yooo, Rasheed what …’ Bajpai had started to slur; his speech sounded like a mangled cassette tape. ‘Something changed yoo.’ Like a drunkard slipping in and out of incoherence, he shook his head and sat erect in the chair. ‘My assumptions about you were wrong. You had changed, and I wasn’t aware of it,’ Bajpai said. His mood swings were inexplicable, angry and dour one moment, helpless and sad seconds later.

‘I should have listened to Samresh,’ he continued, ‘but I thought the bullies’ threats, the news about Sheela’s murder, the Secret History paper we stuck on your door, all that – it would frighten you away. Aren’t you scared of dying, Rasheed?’

Rasheed glanced at the vase – it was made of glass, it was more than a foot high.

‘Rasheed,’ he said in a tremulous voice. ‘I am talking to you.’

Rasheed lowered his eyes.

‘Aren’t you scared of death?’

Rasheed kept looking down at the floor.

‘Why are you not talking?’

A surprise strike was his only hope, Rasheed thought.

‘Don’t irritate me,’ Bajpai said. ‘Why didn’t you report Samresh’s story to us?’

Without raising his eyes, Rasheed replied, ‘You couldn’t shake my faith in Uma.’

What was Bajpai waiting for? Rasheed wondered. Tea? It was strange to drink tea in their situation. The moment had come to make a choice: should he initiate a pre-emptive attack, or wait to be killed?

‘When I inquired from Uma about the Egyptian writer, I hadn’t even imagined that all of us would get entangled in this business,’ Bajpai said. The tone of his voice was apologetic. His confession was unwarranted. Yet he was insistent on explaining his decisions.

‘I was writing and, also, collecting material for Secret History,’ he continued. ‘I remembered our conversation about the ban on Rushdie’s book. You had mentioned the Egyptian writer then. But I couldn’t recall his name. I wanted to get some insight into those times. Obviously, I would have been a fool to refer to the Egyptian in Secret History, especially after we became members of the committee. But …’ He broke off, sighing.

The vase? Bajpai was too engrossed in his thoughts to evade an attack. This was the moment to strike. Rasheed peered at him. Bajpai looked broken, in deep sorrow.

‘Pride,’ he muttered, ‘and over-confidence.’

Now, Rasheed told himself. Was he afraid of the consequences? Or was it that he could not kill another human being? The man opposite him deserved to die: he had killed Sheela, and he would kill him too, at a moment of his choice.

‘Before the meeting at The Nest,’ rasped Bajpai, ‘I had it all planned out. I wanted you all to suspect Dr Rathore and Krishnamurthy. The two had been meeting frequently. Ask me how I know that?’

Bajpai smiled mischievously. ‘Come on, Rasheed, ask me the question.’ He waited and added seriously, ‘You should ask me questions, now and then. I can’t keep going on and on … I feel ridiculous, as if I have gone mad and taken to talking to myself.’

He was teetering on the edge of sanity.

‘The Organization was keeping tabs on all of you,’ he informed. ‘From Tuesday, after Kris disclosed that you had to meet someone who you believed worked on the Secret History papers. Till then, we thought the committee was one big joke, I say.’

Bajpai’s candour was puzzling. Why was he gratuitously offering insight into the functioning of the Organization? Is it because he is certain I am not to survive the conversation? Rasheed wondered. He glanced at the vase. Should he act? It seemed solid enough to kill Bajpai with. But there was also Samresh Singh, in the kitchen. And he had the revolver.

‘I am mixing up stories,’ Bajpai said, shaking his head.

He pursed up his lips and began to speak rapidly, ‘When you walked in at The Nest and mentioned your friend Uma, I knew all about her by then and what she was to you. We had already scared her the night before with our call. We knew what she looked like. We even knew she had come to your flat late morning on Wednesday and stayed through your wait for Sheela.’

Bajpai chuckled and said, ‘Do you remember the salesman, who asked you about the water purifier?’ He laughed, caressing his belly. ‘We sent him there.’

It was impossible to slip through the formidable network of the Organization, thought Rasheed. He could kill Bajpai; but there would be Samresh Singh to countenance. And should he, somehow, manage to overpower Samresh, there would be someone else – here in the house or waiting at the gate.

Bajpai paused, having forgotten the precise point from where he had diverged from his narration. ‘Where was I? Yes, so before we met at The Nest, we knew who Uma was. The taxi that came on Thursday morning to take her to the hills had been booked in HOPE’s name. The register kept at the gate also showed she had first visited you last week – and then went on to stay the night at your place. I never thought you were so good with women,’ Bajpai added with genuine surprise.

‘When I heard your hypothesis,’ Bajpai continued. ‘When you mentioned at The Nest that the doctor and Krishnamurthy were known to Uma, I said to myself, look at the bastard, he distrusts his lover’s friends. I drew my own conclusion: either you barely knew her and consequently didn’t rely on her judgement of them, or you were jealous of her boyfriends. I was sure it was the first.’

Bajpai lowered his head and frowned, using his thumb and index finger to press his temples.

‘Oh,’ he moaned. ‘The most prudent thing was to sit tight, let you and Kris, as Prof. Chatterjee wanted, visit Vijaygarh and find nothing.’ The tone of regret was palpable in his voice. ‘But when I heard your hypothesis, when I realized you suspected your lover’s friends, something happened to me. I wanted to drive you crazy. Perhaps I wanted to avenge myself, for what you had done to us, for abetting Sheela in her betrayal. And I thought to myself, couldn’t I make this little bastard suspect his lover? So I told you it was Uma who had asked me about the Egyptian writer.’

Suddenly, Bajpai’s eyes began to shine and his hand dropped from his temple.

‘You should have seen your face,’ he said. ‘You were shocked. You believed me.’ He laughed and added, ‘You said, moments ago, I could not shake your faith in Uma. My foot, my bloody left toe, I say. You began to suspect Uma even before I planted her in Samresh Singh’s story. No?’

Rasheed understood Bajpai was undermining him morally.

Bajpai tittered and said, ‘I don’t want to hear your answer, you are anyway a liar, a deceiver. But Rasheed, it wasn’t because of you I concocted the story. You were just a minor factor.’

The statement contradicted his earlier explanation of what had prompted him to conceive Samresh Singh’s story. Rasheed chose not to rebut him.

‘The story’s purpose was to distance Prof. Chatterjee from Dr Rathore,’ he declared. ‘A few hours before we assembled at The Nest, the doctor had met Prof. Chatterjee for fifty minutes. I don’t have to tell you how I know this. Rasheed, the basic challenge in any rivalry – in politics, in an organization – is the need to take decisions based upon suspicion: what you think your rival is planning.’

Was Bajpai planning to kill him? Rasheed thought his question, too, was based on suspicion. So was he to wait for Samresh Singh to raise the revolver before …? Grab the vase, at least move to the sofa next to the peg table, a voice murmured in Rasheed’s head.

‘And because your decisions are based on what you only suspect,’ continued Bajpai, ‘information of any kind gives you the edge. For fifty minutes Prof. Chatterjee and the doctor were closeted together. Why?’

He sighed and shook his head.

‘Their meeting was about the Secret History papers, I surmised.’ Bajpai said. ‘What else could they have met for? Do you remember how, at the restaurant, Chatterjee kept arguing against all evidence implicating the doctor and Krishnamurthy? Do you remember how he insisted that you and Kris should visit Vijaygarh? And then his remark in the elevator. He said, “Now, suppose if others think one of us is guilty. What steps do you think they would be taking to nab the murderer, the author?”’

Bajpai cleared his throat. A faint smile flickered on his face. ‘It’s true, I wanted to drive you crazy, take my revenge by destroying your relationship with Uma. But really, that was incidental to the plot. The purpose of Samresh’s story was to provide Prof. Chatterjee something more substantial than a hypothesis for suspecting the doctor.’

He leaned back in his chair. His gaze reflected his fury. ‘You did me in, Rasheed,’ he said slowly and accusingly. ‘You did me in, I say.’

His voice began to rise, making him sound hysterical. ‘You were supposed to carry our story to Chatterjee. You didn’t. I couldn’t have carried my own story to him. He wouldn’t have believed me. You deceived me.’

His animosity ran deep. Bajpai was going to kill him. What was he waiting for? Why did he want to drink tea?

‘You betrayed me,’ Bajpai continued, ‘the way that bitch did. Don’t look shocked, I say. Why did you do that?’

The tea? It was poisoned, Rasheed concluded. It would kill or knock him unconscious and they would cut him into pieces and pack him in the boot of the car parked in the driveway.

The vase was Rasheed’s only hope. He heard Samresh Singh’s footsteps in the corridor.

Bajpai suddenly sprang forward in his chair.

‘You held back Samresh’s story to save Uma. Now, suppose she was guilty, suppose she was involved in the crime, what then?’

Bajpai looked up and muttered, ‘Tea.’ He sank back in the rocking chair.

Samresh Singh brought the tray – on it, were two white cups and a yellow mug. The colour was the distinguishing mark, the yellow mug had to be spiked. Under no circumstance was he to drink from it, Rasheed told himself.

Bajpai removed the two photo frames from the peg table to his lap. There was space now; he lifted the two white cups, one by one, and placed them on the peg table.

Samresh Singh placed the mug on the floor, near Rasheed’s feet. Rasheed decided he would spill the tea in a feigned accident. The moment of confrontation had arrived.

Samresh Singh sank into the sofa, next to the peg table. He looked calm.

Let Samresh Singh start sipping the tea, Rasheed thought, then he would, in a flash, grab the vase and attack. One solid blow to Samresh Singh would deny him the time to reach for the revolver tucked in the waistband of his pajama. He was sure he could tackle Bajpai in a one-on-one.

‘My children,’ moaned Bajpai. ‘My unfortunate children.’

In each hand he held a photo frame, tenderly shifting his gaze from one to the other. He closed his eyes and swayed in the rocking chair.

Samresh Singh’s mouth twitched anxiously. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘Sir.’

Was he justified in killing them? He was, Rasheed told himself, the men opposite him did not deserve mercy. The mug of poison was yet another manifestation of their diabolical souls.

Clutching the frames to his chest, Bajpai mumbled, ‘My poor children, who decreed their fate?’ Using his sleeves to wipe his eyes brimming with tears, he continued, ‘Suffering – the essence of life is suffering.’

He turned the frames towards Rasheed and continued, ‘Normal in a photo, handicapped otherwise. See them. Aren’t they
beautiful?’

Each frame profiled a face, cropped very close.

‘Can you, from their faces, tell about their feeble minds and bodies? Innocent souls ravaged by fate. Did they deserve it?’

There was pathos in his voice. Bajpai suddenly looked vulnerable, even humane. To think he had killed Sheela and conceived the Secret History papers; to think he was lamenting the fate of his children yet offering him the poisoned tea.

Was the yellow mug spiked? Could he be certain they wanted to kill him?

Rasheed glanced at Samresh Singh. He was twirling his moustache thoughtfully, watching Bajpai. It did not matter what their intentions were. Bajpai had confessed to his crimes; for these alone, he deserved to die.

‘The sickness of our souls,’ Bajpai said. ‘The sickness that comes with our suffering, it has no cure. It afflicts our heart and torments us through night and day. Can you imagine the plight of the father who has to watch his children become little more than two quivering masses of flesh that their own minds can’t control? It turns your soul sick, gives you the mystical fever. From such intense suffering are born visions and quests that ordinary men can’t understand.’

Bajpai’s eyes shone brilliantly. ‘Suffering sickens your soul,’ he said, ‘you burn inside and then you start puking, all what you have ingested from childhood – those silly ideas you never questioned earlier. You suddenly start feeling light. It is then you have the vision. It frightens you. You tremble, you want to turn away; you try to fight it. But the vision haunts you till you embrace it.’

He stopped to look at the photographs again. His face was suffused with emotion. His grief seemed unbearable. Could Bajpai poison him to death? Could he in cold blood plan a murder ruthlessly? He could, couldn’t he? The man who had authored Secret History was capable of anything.

Samresh Singh took a sip. He then placed the tray under the sofa. He held the cup in one hand. The other rested upon his waistband. It was as if he had anticipated the challenge Rasheed was about to mount.

‘Do you remember, I had once asked you to write about your experience with death?’ asked Bajpai. His voice sounded like glass shattering.

‘When I was diagnosed with cancer,’ Rasheed responded. It was important to engage Bajpai and lull Samresh Singh into complacency.

‘No, after you recovered.’

‘I remember,’ agreed Rasheed.

‘You turned down the offer,’ Bajpai said. ‘Didn’t your suffering change you? Didn’t you have visions?’ He paused and asked, ‘Is your zeal, of which we became victim, the consequence of your experiences?’

Rasheed did not know how to answer. Bajpai’s tone had been sarcastic. His moment of weakness seemed to have passed; he was rediscovering the ruthless, pitiless self Rasheed had glimpsed before.

‘The madness,’ continued Bajpai, ‘you displayed all through this week, where did it come from?’

Rasheed was nonplussed. This wasn’t the sadism of the killer taking delight in the agony of his victim. Bajpai appeared genuinely puzzled. But he did not insist on an answer, returning to stare at the photos. They were a reminder of what he had endured and what had transformed him. Bajpai was lost in his world of torrid fire and molten iron; he was still suffering.

The silence of the room suddenly crackled with Samresh Singh’s voice, ‘Chai.’ He gestured for Rasheed to drink.

But, because he was waiting for the opportunity to strike, and because he did not want to drink from the yellow mug, he decided to prolong the conversation. ‘Where are your children?’

‘Ah! My children,’ Bajpai said, pressing his temple. ‘My children,’ he sighed.

‘They are of the age when dreams promise never to falter.’ Bajpai shook his head gravely. ‘I sent them away to my ancestral town, my wife too. Ours is a big family; my brothers and their families live together. Among them, mine has hope. The vision, Rasheed, the vision followed their departure. But it took me years to accept it.’

Samresh Singh cleared his throat. He was restless.

‘For years, the vision gnawed at me. Don’t mix it up with the stories you have heard. True, I did come apart for a while, took to drinking. But the vision did not precede the recovery; it followed it. On my will, I vaulted out of depression.’ He lapsed into silence. Bajpai looked feverish; his hands trembled. He continued, ‘My eldest brother nursed me back to health, to live a normal life. To him, I am deeply obliged. It’s he who brought me to the Organization.’

Samresh Singh shot a glance at Bajpai. He looked alarmed. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, lifting the cup and offering it to Bajpai.

Bajpai took the cup. His hand was unsteady; he took two quick sips and kept the cup back on the peg table.

‘It’s an art to keep astonishing yourself and others. The marvel of human will is intoxicating,’ Bajpai rasped. ‘It was much after my recovery I had the vision.’

He suddenly lifted the photo-frames and waved them at Rasheed, springing forward in his chair. ‘Can you see them?’ He asked. ‘Can you feel their pain?’ There was fury in his eyes; his voice was bitter.

‘To my wife were born infirm children. Do you call it justice?’

It was impossible to look at him. His face was contorted in pain.

‘To be chosen to beget abnormal children. Isn’t it unjust?’

He held aloft the photo-frames and continued, ‘To be condemned to suffer for no fault of theirs or mine. Isn’t it irrational?’

Rasheed did not want to look at him.

‘It is the play of cosmic dice. Chance, randomness, a quirk of creation.’

He paused and shouted, ‘Look at me and answer: Did I deserve my fate?’ He gritted his teeth and said, ‘Look at me.’

Obviously, Ashok Kumar Bajpai did not deserve his misfortune, just as nobody in the world did.

‘No,’ Rasheed replied.

Bajpai slumped in the chair. He dropped the frames in his lap.

‘The vision,’ he whispered.

There was silence in the room. Samresh Singh kept his empty cup on the table.

‘There’s madness in creation,’ Bajpai said. His voice was devoid of energy. ‘Insane are those who believe in immanent justice. They have created terrible myths about suffering – its value to human spirit, its power to burnish souls, you can go on and on. But no myth is bigger than the one about the Divine Will; about how everything in this world is an expression of it. On the night I had the vision, what did I see? I saw the sheer irrationality of life, face to face we stood. I said to it, you shall now see me surpass your quirkiness, your madness. Yes, I said that to Life, Rasheed.’

Bajpai laughed and shook his head.

‘I chose to pit my will against what they call the Divine Will. I had to begin somewhere, initiate the process in some manner. I found my beginning the moment I asked: who are the people who have abiding faith in creation? Obviously, the idiots who believe in the Creator. They consider him omniscient and omnipotent. He is the Idea I detest. He is the Idea I want to counter.

‘Rasheed, much of what I write I don’t believe in. The text is incidental to my intention. Do you understand what I am talking about? My brother took me to the Organization. They loved my blueprint. It suited their plan. I don’t share the Organization’s dreams, not all of them, definitely. You know me well. You believe that, don’t you?’

Samresh Singh looked at Bajpai disapprovingly.

‘The Organization loved the blueprint because it was directed against Islam, against you Muslims. But a story never ends midway. There would have been others too, later. I needed a starting point, the initial target – attacks on others were to follow later.

‘I chose to target Islam not because I hate Muslims. You can’t accuse me of hatred. I chose Islam because it is still so young and has such control over the minds of its followers. It was also because I required the Organization to implement my plan. All religions are irrational. But it is also true, I feel, Islam symbolizes utmost irrationality. My aim was to engineer such chaos, such bloodshed, such insanity that Muslims would, in their helplessness, exclaim, there is no God but Power.’

Bajpai was exhausted. He was breathing rapidly.

‘Sir,’ said Samresh Singh, holding up the cup of tea once more.

‘Wait,’ Bajpai remarked. ‘We will have tea later.’

He continued, ‘Rasheed, do you understand the symbolism of my act? Target a place of worship, desecrate and destroy it, and the sacred Idea stands undermined.’

He glanced at Samresh Singh and then at Rasheed, ‘I expect Muslims to organize themselves to defend the idea they subscribe to. But what’s the future of these defenders? Defeat, annihilation, acceptance of the supremacy of power. This acceptance entails turning away from their God, perhaps not completely, true. But a weakening of the idea is inevitable, as is their straying away from the straight path. Then will follow rationality, a modern outlook, progress. Look how the two world wars decreased the number of devout Christians, look how …’ Bajpai began to laugh, unable to complete the sentence.

He stopped and glanced apologetically at Rasheed and said, ‘I don’t share the Organization’s hatred for Muslims. I don’t have to convince you about it. You know I am fond of you. And anyway, you don’t care about religion. To undermine the idea, I had to burrow deep into the past. You can deprive an Idea of its future only through a systematic destruction of its past. You have to believe me, Rasheed: there was nothing personal against Muslims in all this.’

Bajpai feel silent. He took a sip of tea and said, ‘Rasheed, please have your tea.’

Rasheed ran his hand through his hair; what was he to do now? Should he make the last desperate attempt to save himself? He looked at the vase and the yellow mug and shook his head.

‘Tea, Rasheed. It has already turned tepid,’ Bajpai said.

‘I don’t feel well,’ Rasheed replied.

In Samresh Singh’s hand was the revolver. He was on his feet.

Bajpai continued, ‘Drink the tea. It is laced with a sedative. You will fall asleep.’

Samresh Singh was standing next to Rasheed. He pointed the revolver to his head.

‘Drink the tea or he kills you,’ Bajpai said. ‘Uma is waiting for you. I called up your place. She told me about the tapes she has and the virus in the doctor’s disc.’

He laughed helplessly and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dr Rathore is with her. Kris and Chatterjee are also on their way there. I warned her not do anything stupid, like calling the police. They are not to step out of the flat until they hear from me. I promised her I wouldn’t harm you.’

Samresh Singh picked up the mug and held it before Rasheed.

‘Don’t rush him. He will drink it on his own,’ Bajpai said.

Samresh Singh withdrew his hand. But he didn’t keep the mug down.

‘Look, Rasheed,’ Bajpai continued. ‘By killing you, I can’t obliterate the evidence against me. HOPE has the tapes. Just think over it. Also, Rasheed, those tapes can’t be used to take me to court. So don’t make it ugly.’

Samresh Singh glared at Rasheed, impatient.

‘We need time to disappear,’ Bajpai explained. ‘I can’t trust you now. I know you will get to the phone as soon as we leave and inform others. Maybe I could take the phone away and tie you up before we leave. But you could sit here and scream for help. I don’t want complications. Not now, I say.’

Rasheed looked up at Samresh Singh.

‘Drink the tea. I told Uma that as soon as you arrive at my place, and I must say it was quite thoughtless of you to do that, I will drive you out of the city at gunpoint and tell her, in two hours, where to find you. Obviously, I am not going to do any such thing. You will sit here and fall asleep and they will be told to come here to find you. She promised on behalf of the others that no revelation about me will be made.’

He paused to empty his cup in a gulp.

‘She is sweet, innocent, I say. I never asked for her undertaking not to reveal anything about us, about Secret History. It is too fantastic a story for anyone to believe.’

But Rasheed did not move. It seemed he had slipped into a nightmare.

‘Drink the tea or he shoots you,’ Bajpai spoke sternly.

Rasheed took the mug. He drank it and hoped it wasn’t poison.

‘Good,’ Bajpai said. ‘Just lie back and relax. Or talk. I thought you would have questions for me.’

But Rasheed did not say anything. He wanted the madness
to end.

They waited in silence.

A little later, Rasheed felt a jolt. A tremor seemed to have shaken the house.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Bajpai said. His voice was tender. ‘It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t want a dead body in my house. That would implicate me, my friend.’

Rasheed watched him, his eyelids heavy.

‘We will disappear from the city. The Organization will hide us. Who knows, it might penalize us for our inexcusable mistakes. You know, kill us. We compromised it.’

His voice was barely audible. The drug was taking effect. Rasheed could feel his body turn numb.

‘Talk, Rasheed. It will be easier for you. I have sent my resignation. Like you, ungrateful bastard, I too have quit, and I am not serving the mandatory thirty days.’

Rasheed was struggling to keep his eyes open. The space around him was shrinking and the objects in the room were getting blurred. He heard a door shut. He forced his eyes open. There was no one around. He heard the sound of a vehicle starting.

Rasheed tried to get up from the chair. He should ask Uma to leave the flat immediately. All those who knew about the evidence against Bajpai were assembled together. It would make sense for the Organization to kill them, wouldn’t it?

But he couldn’t force himself to his feet. He was sinking. They had escaped, and he couldn’t think coherently.

Good, he did not try to kill them. What was the point? He could have killed only two manifestations of the antithesis of life. There were six others who worked for them. There would be thousands in the Organization. How many do you kill?

To obliterate the Organization, to vanquish the antithesis of life, was it allowed to slaughter a few thousands? He wouldn’t have committed a wrong in killing them, would he? They had murdered Sheela; Bajpai was the author of Secret History, which deprived many of their dignity and made them feel less than human.

Poor Bajpai, his suffering had changed him irredeemably. But the suffering a human being imposes on others begets the burning desire to make the tormentor experience the terror he perpetrates, Rasheed thought, desperately fighting the dimming of his consciousness. He could now understand how the circle of death was created, and the manner in which it trapped people.

You could escape this circle only if you were Wasim Khan or Prof. Chatterjee or Uma. Perhaps even Dr Vikram Rathore.

Rasheed Halim was about to fall unconscious.

‘Am I dying?’ he wondered.

Darkness was enveloping him. Rasheed tried to think of Uma. He wanted to live for the next six months, even beyond that.

Rasheed Halim did not want to die.

On the day following the encounter between Rasheed Halim and Ashok Kumar Bajpai, the edition of Secret History did not appear in Sector XIII of Hemant Kunj, nor in other colonies of Delhi. Those who walked or jogged early morning, drifted, out of habit, to the spots where they had seen and read, over the last four weeks, the outpouring of a man who had assumed the title of the author of true history. Before them were either bare walls or the 29 November edition of Secret History. They felt the emptiness similar to what is experienced on missing out on reading the newspaper in the morning, a regimen adhered to for years.

The residents of Hemant Kunj assumed, as did those elsewhere in the city, that it was their colony alone in which the Secret History edition did not appear. They thought those responsible for sticking the Secret History papers to walls had perchance forgotten to visit their colony, or they had run out of copies, or perhaps the 30 November edition did not arrive on time from the distributors. But Secret History did not appear on 1 December either, prompting the people to contemplate the possibility of the author discontinuing his writing. This was also because they realized their colony wasn’t the exception, for their friends and relatives too had reported not having seen or read Secret History in their residential areas.

On the third day, they became certain the author was to never return to them with his version of history, and took to speculating on what could have prompted him to cease publication. Was the cost of publishing and sticking Secret History all over the city too prohibitive for the author to bear? Or was it that those underwriting his expenses backed out, realizing the incremental gains from it did not justify the cost incurred on it, as they could not, obviously, impose a fee on people for reading stories from the past stuck to walls?

One school of thought speculated that the publication of Secret History series had been terminated because it had served its purpose. Look at the hundreds of Hindus trickling into Ayodhya, from different parts of India, to fight the battle of 6 December, they exclaimed. Perhaps the author, they suggested, had shifted to Ayodhya to witness the culmination of his mission – the demolition of the Babri Masjid – and couldn’t find the time to publish Secret History daily.

These theories had their critics, who cited the imminent battle between Hindus and Muslims as a vindication of the idea of history the author believed in and wrote about. It was just the kind of moment he revelled in, they said, pointing to the tendency in him to celebrate his triumph and mock those who were his opponents. To the skeptical, they recalled the edition of Secret History on the soccer match that the Hindu and Muslim boys of a junior school played more than a week ago. The tone of triumphalism in his writing was unmistakable, they noted, as was his derision of those whom he called storytellers. Besides, had he taken a conscious decision to discontinue writing, wouldn’t he have written farewell lines in the last issue of Secret History? They said the 29 November edition did not read like the final installment. This suggested even the author was oblivious to it being his last. Don’t rule out, they said, the sudden death of the author. Perhaps he was old and ailing and died of a massive heart attack; or perhaps he succumbed to the cancer he might have been suffering from. Cancer? They reminded each other of the comparison he had made between the government’s methods of tackling communal riots and the treatment of cancer. Only a cancer patient could have drawn such a parallel, only such a person could have known the intricacies of the disease and the details of modern research on it.

A few who re-read their collection of Secret History saw, in new light, a passage in the edition issued eleven days before 6 December. Listen to these lines, they said, reading aloud, ‘Well, on Monday the storytellers did meet at the Centre for Gandhian Studies. Among them we too were present. To the authorities they have decided to petition against the publication of Secret History. They have also formed a committee to identify the author of Secret History. Who can tell what their plan is? They could suppress or silence us. Who can tell what their intention is? They could vilify or even jail us.’

For them, this passage offered a tenable explanation for the author’s sudden silence. It was possible, they argued, the committee formed at the Centre for Gandhian Studies succeeded in identifying the author, not necessarily directly, but by mounting pressure on the city police to investigate the people who wrote and distributed the Secret History papers in residential colonies. Perhaps the police laid a trap for those who pasted the Secret History papers, nabbed and applied the third degree on them to extract information on the sponsors of the history project, ultimately reaching the author. Perhaps he was already in police custody, they said.

But this line of speculation was countered through yet another question: wouldn’t the city police have trumpeted their success in nabbing the person who wrote to incite people to hate and kill? No newspaper had reported the arrest of the author of Secret History, not even the Mirror, which enjoyed a reputation of being the first to get the latest scoop.

Speculation about the fate of the author quickly ended, as the trickle of Hindus into Ayodhya soon turned into an inexorable gush. Theirs was the fury triggered by their remembrance of the past, crafted to hurt and torment them in the present. And this fury turned into a gigantic tide of wrath. The Babri Masjid was demolished on 6 December. Riots broke out, several towns were placed under curfew, and the government in Delhi encountered a crisis of enormous proportions.

As always, as has been true of almost all cataclysmic events in India, the Organization was said to have also engineered the demolition of the Babri Masjid. To establish the veracity of this claim, it was imperative, logically speaking, to furnish proof to court, to which the criminal case of the demolition of the Babri Masjid was committed, that there had existed a prior conspiracy to tear it down. Until then, talk of the Organization’s role on 6 December couldn’t but be dismissed as gossip.

You smile because you have read this book. You are aware of the secrets of the year 1992. You know Ashok Kumar Bajpai was the author of Secret History, and he belonged to the Organization. You know about the role of Samresh Singh in distributing Secret History, and he too belonged to the Organization.

Yet you are dissatisfied, for there are aspects of the story you suspect I have deliberately suppressed. You want to know whether the Organization penalized Bajpai for compromising it or merely banished him to a remote part of India. You want to be told whether Rasheed Halim died or awoke, hours after he drank that cup of tea, to find Uma next to him, smiling as only she could.

I can’t satisfy your curiosity, at least not yet. My reason is selfish: I want you to answer a question of mine and, in return, as a token of my appreciation, I will share with you my secrets through an email to you. Email, internet, aren’t these fascinating inventions? You are perplexed, are you, at this observation of mine?

Wait, think: had the internet been there in India in 1992, Rasheed Halim wouldn’t have been dependent on Dr Vikram Rathore to fathom the nature of the cancer he suffered from. He would have googled multiple myeloma, just as you too have to check on the veracity of the illnesses and episodes from India’s past described in this book. Yes, I have exaggerated and fictionalized medical and historical details. Yet, even in this age of the internet, it is impossible to sift fact from fiction, truth from falsehood.

Had the internet been there in 1992, Secret History wouldn’t have appeared on the walls of Delhi. Ashok Kumar Bajpai, most likely, would have created a website and uploaded his daily post for netizens to read.

My digression reminds you to ask again: what happened to Rasheed and Bajpai?

Hush, no questions please, hear mine first.

Did you, at any time, suspect that Uma could have been involved in the writing and distribution of Secret History? Answer it honestly, without equivocation. Mail your response to ashrafajaz3@gmail.com.