Fiddling and fussing with his German silver, Akhil spied through the French windows of the restaurant, hoping the taxi that had just pulled up by the million-watt portico was Aparajita’s. It wasn’t. Disappointed, he returned to arranging the forks and the knives in curious geometric patterns.
The dinner crowd was beginning to thicken—mostly foreigners with a sprinkling of young and brash Indians asking the manager for tables overlooking the floodlit swimming pool.
Akhil had been to the magnificent Taj Mahal hotel once before. It never failed to unsettle him. Eye-opening opulence protecting itself from blinding poverty. Just outside the hotel entrance, overlooking the waterfront, a row of imported cars. Following close behind, a row of beggars. Which part of human failure was difficult to understand?
Akhil broke away from his thoughts. He saw a cluster of beggars recklessly chasing a Mercedes on their rectangular skateboards, lurching forward with every thrust of their melted hands, unmindful of the twin-barrelled exhaust blow-drying their leprous faces. He jerked his eyes away from that particular slice of life and moved on to the one where ragged kids were unfurling postcard necklaces before a Japanese tourist.
A waiter passed by, clearing his throat, indicating the passing of unpaid-for time.
Akhil slid back into his chair and glanced around the eatery, almost full now—a few black heads bobbing up and down in a sea of pink and blond. Staring down at his origami-ed napkin, Akhil felt achingly alone and unwanted. Soon, though, his morbid thoughts were interrupted by the approaching rustle of silk.
‘So sorry, Aks, got caught up in the traffic—worse than Delhi, I tell you,’ said Api as she dragged a chair out.
‘Not a problem,’ said Akhil. ‘I came in a few minutes ago myself.’
‘This really is ridiculous. You should have a cell phone. Why don’t you?’
Akhil smiled. ‘Never felt the need.’
‘What do you mean “never felt the need”? It’s a necessity now, silly.’
‘Not for me. Besides, the charges are crazy. Fourteen bucks a minute.’
‘Arey, get one if only for the missed-call facility, na. Gosh, you really are an antique piece.’
‘Hah, alright, I will soon. But then, who’d call me?’
Api ignored the loaded remark and placed a packet on the table.
‘Here, something for you,’ she said gathering her sari and sitting down.
‘What is it?’
‘Sorry, didn’t have much time. Picked it from one of the emporiums.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have!’ cried Akhil mockingly as he removed the wrapping. ‘Nice,’ he added, looking at the dagger with an intricate horse-head grip. ‘I don’t know what to say. Could be of some use, I suppose.’
‘The dagger isn’t the gift.’
Akhil looked up and smiled. ‘I’d figured as much. I last used a dagger in…wow. And what do we have here? Is this…’
Api smiled. ‘Nothing much has changed—at least in that part of Delhi, it hasn’t.’
‘Nothing much…’ said Akhil, flattening the wrapping paper out a few times with his palm.
It was a map—but not just an ordinary map.
The hum of being in love makes lovers do silly things. Like drawing a detailed map of places they visited, the restaurants where they held hands, the auto rides they took in the pouring rain, the films they watched in damp theatres with bedbug-infested armrests, the bus rides, the long walks, the Majnu ka Tilas, the Lodhi Gardens, the Ridge, the train stations, the bus stands. The city, its landmarks, its roads, monuments, are redrawn, re-charted, rewritten, with new names, new thrills, new memories. And soon, all that remains of that love is a map.
‘Nothing much…’ said Api.
Their gaze lingered. Akhil reached for his shirt pocket.
‘What has changed is this country...’ he said, scribbling on the map, and went on, ‘...what has changed, Api, are its people, its streets. They need to be renamed.’
Api tilted her head to try and make sense of Akhil’s doodling. ‘Sorry, is that…what are you doing?’
‘When everything has changed, why spare the roads? They should be named after our present heroes, not the past ones. The scamsters, the politicians, the rioters, the corrupt—shouldn’t we remember their names every time we take a road or visit a monument? Or have they disappeared from our collective consciousness already? Or, as I recall how you put it once—the after pages of our history books—and then you turn off the night lamp…’
‘Elephants can remember,’ smiled Api. But her smile was more out of irritation.
‘Lovely novel, that.’
‘Yes, alright, philosopher saab. Now can I get something to drink round here?’
Akhil put the map away. ‘Of course. And where the hell is your husband?’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Api. ‘At the last minute he told me to carry on. Said he’ll come straight here.’
‘How a fellow like AB can be so serious about work is what keeps me awake at night,’ grinned Akhil.
‘He has gone mad lately—wants to get to the top in super-quick time…’
‘Dangerous,’ cut in Akhil.
‘I asked him what he’d do once he was at the top and he said sleep.’
‘Well, he certainly has changed since college,’ said Akhil, ‘Never did a stroke of work back then—but then again, who did?’
‘Hah,’ agreed Api.
Silence followed.
‘Not this time,’ thought Akhil and hurried on resolutely. ‘I never asked you about…’
‘A lot of things,’ broke in Api.
‘Hah, yes,’ said Akhil smiling. ‘I never—you never spoke about your plans for a…’
Api knew what was coming. ‘What, a family?’ she said, as if dismissing the suggestion. ‘With him? Ha ha. No, but seriously, we haven’t found the time.’
‘What, fifteen years isn’t enough time?’ said Akhil, and then quickly added, ‘Sorry—none of my business.’
Api was peeved by this last comment but tried her best to hide it. ‘Well, how can you have kids with a man who comes for his shaadi in a lal-batti,’ she joked, hoping to play the topic off.
It worked.
‘Complete with all sirens blaring?’ asked Akhil.
‘Ya—and then bang, bang,’ said Api, laughing.
‘What? He had constables firing in the air? Seriously, Aps…’
‘No, silly, those were the car doors. Then he climbed out—bare-chested except for the white thread. And a white dhoti, of course.’
‘And I suppose with him all those baskets of mithais and dry fruits…’
‘Not to mention ninety decked-up relatives, seven lal-battis, three buses…’
The bowed head of a waiter came between them. ‘Er, would you like to order now, sir?’
‘Maybe after a few minutes,’ said Akhil looking up. ‘We are expecting someone. Some water perhaps…’
‘Mineral or regular, sir?’
‘What’s the difference? In the price, I mean.’
‘Regular is complimentary and mineral is ninety rupees a bottle, sir.’
‘Regular, then.’
The waiter nodded and withdrew.
Akhil resumed the conversation. ‘Haan, where were we? Lal-battis, Ambassadors…’
‘What a tamasha. And at my end, my uncle and his henchmen—sweat-dripping, pot-bellied, white-threaded—playing nadaswaram. Can make you deaf at the best of times.’
‘And what were you doing all this while? Rubbing off all that haldi and chandan, I guess.’
‘Yes, something like that. Anyway, Ajay finally took off his sunglasses…’
‘The bastard came wearing sunglasses? A white thread, a dhoti and sunglasses.’
‘I really thought I was being married off to Rajinikanth.’
‘“Married off” being the operative phrase.’
Their eyes met in the ensuing pause. Akhil turned his head to the side and continued. ‘Sorry…now where is this Rajinikanth of yours, damn it.’
‘Ah. Speak of the devil…’
‘Say devils. He’s brought company.’
Api glanced at the three men standing at the restaurant entrance. ‘I hope he is not asking them to join us…’
Ajay, too, had spotted Akhil and Api. He smiled and waved at them. Then he swung round to address his fleet.
‘Arey suno, Kharbanda. Can you and Sharma stay put here? Feel free to order a coffee or some soup. They give you free breadsticks along with it—unlimited.’
SP Kharbanda was touched. ‘Why, thank you, sir—it’s just too hot and humid outside.’
‘Yes yes—and I appreciate you two staying back. We might have to rush over to the HQ in an hour’s time—wind up the paperwork, you know?’
‘Of course, sir. Please don’t worry on our account. These look like comfortable seats…’
Ajay feigned a look of regret and said, ‘I would have loved to invite you over at the table, but…’
‘Arey sir, you are embarrassing us. Moreover, soup and bread would any day be better than what lies in wait for us at home. No, Sharma?’
‘Very true, sir. My wife has gone to her maika and the bai—she only knows baingan ka…’
‘Achha achaa, ban-cho, DIG saab is not interested in what your bai can…’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Ajay cleared his throat in irritation. ‘Well, anyway. Kharbanda, Sharma, you’ll be fine here?’
‘Absolutely, sir, you go right ahead; we’ll wait here.’
Ajay started to walk away. ‘As you wish. Take care then…’
SP Kharbanda leaned on his toes and called after him. ‘Er, enjoy yourself, sir.’
The two officers flung their baints and caps on the nearby sofa and wiped part of the prodigious sweat from their faces and necks. They folded their handkerchiefs neatly and stuffed them down their pant pockets. Not quite knowing what to do next, they stood contemplating whether the horse in the painting on the wall opposite was a goat. Certain that it was a goat—horses don’t balance their forelegs on tree trunks and munch foliage.
SP Kharbanda turned to DSP Sharma and said, ‘Ban-cho, did you see that, Sharma?’
‘I saw that alright, sir. It is unquestionably a goat.’
‘No, you idiot. I was talking about him,’ said SP Kharbanda pointing at Ajay, still meandering his way through crowded tables.
‘Oh. Yes, sir. I know what you mean.’
‘He’ll be tearing his meat away like babbar-bancho-sher. And for us, soup and breadsticks.’
‘I know, sir. And soup is an appetiser, is it not. I mean, this is like kicking a man in his stomach just when he is dying of hunger.’
SP Kharbanda rubbed his thumb on his forefinger. ‘And all on government expense. See, Sharma? That’s how it works. In ten years, we have to reach that place, that table.’
‘Yes, sir, I get you.’
‘Or it will always be soup and bread-batti for us lot.’
‘Very true, sir.’
‘How many years do you have left in service, Sharma?’
‘Seven, sir, and a few months here and there.’
‘Well, in that case, at least I have to reach that table in ten years’ time.’
‘Eh? Er…yes, sir.’
SP Kharbanda sighed. ‘Anyway, Sharma saab, no use crying now. This is all written in our kundli. Ban-cho, had I shown some courage at the time and told Bauji I’d like to join the Indian Revenue Service…’
‘Lakhs, sir, lakhs. Crores. You’d be driving a Mercedes by now, sir.’
SP Kharbanda turned to DSP Sharma with a deadpan expression. ‘Or, ban-cho, someone would be driving it for me.’
‘Er, that’s what I meant, sir.’
‘You said it, Sharma, you said it. Anyway, cut to the present and stop making all these khayali pulaos. I bet even khayali pulaos cost a packet here.’
‘True, sir.’
‘Well then, what are you waiting for? Call that bundhgala and ask him to get some soup and that ban-cho bread.’
‘Yes, sir, at once,’ said DSP Sharma and waved at a waiter. ‘…Oye Jawaharlal. Haan, yes you.’
Meanwhile, Ajay had managed finally to reach his table. He produced a lazy salute and pulled the chair out. ‘Hi guys.’
Akhil let go. ‘AB, saaley, what’s this, man? Api was about to leave me and walk out.’
As soon as he had said it, Akhil cursed himself for the choice of words.
Api joined in. ‘Yes, dammit. We have been waiting for at least thirty minutes, yaar. What kept you, anyway?’
‘Arey bhai, don’t ask. The bloody case, what else.’
‘So it’s just you, is it—the one person in charge?’
‘Now don’t start here, begum—not in front of Akhil. We don’t want him thinking it’s always me, the reason we get late every time, kyon?’
Api puckered her lips. ‘So now it’s my fault, is it? Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? We come to Mumbai, we stay in Mumbai, we eat in Mumbai, we go from Mumbai.’
Ajay removed his watch and placed it next to the fork carefully, like it was part of the cutlery. He massaged his bleached wrist. ‘Oh come on, Aps—be a sport, yaar. Aks, you say something, man.’
‘Keep me out of it. You are the one who married her.’
‘Achha relax, guys. I’ll make up for it. Let’s all go to Elephanta tomorrow afternoon. How about it?’
‘And back to Delhi…?’
‘Tomorrow night, if all goes well. And now, I am starving. All I have had since morning is a kachauri…Waiter?’
The waiter sprinted forward. ‘Yes, sir?’
Ajay gestured with his hands. ‘Yes, get the menu—and some water.’
‘Sir, mineral or regular?’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Sir, one is complimentary, the other is ninety…’
‘Get three bottles. And what beer?’
‘Kingfisher, sir.’
Ajay looked at Akhil. ‘Beer, Aks? I know Aps only drinks my blood.’
‘My husband is acting funny today. Just a nimbu pani for me.’
‘Aks?’
‘Ya, why not. A beer.’
‘Good…Listen, two Kingfishers, one nimbu pani. And can I have the menu now?’
‘Of course, sir…here.’
‘Good. Good.’
Akhil glanced around distractedly and spotted the two officers. ‘By the way, AB, I hope those two there are being well looked after? For food, I mean.’
‘Let the bastards rot in hell. Did you know, since Monday, I have been doing all the investigating, probing, thinking—short of typing the reports, bloody everything.’
Api smirked. ‘Finally, AB justifies his salary.’
‘Yes, and I suppose one day you will, too, my darling, when the morcha you are leading ends up at a lecture hall rather than Jantar Mantar.’
‘Arey stop it, you two—bickering like kids. Reminds me of that autowallah—on Muk-mem day, remember?’
Ajay roared. ‘Who can forget? Were it not for me…’
‘Oh, sure. Cometh the hour, cometh the wardrobe man.’
‘Achha achha, boss, let’s order first…Aps? Aks?’
‘We’ll leave it to you—you are good at ordering.’
‘See, Aks? And it’s like this all the time...Waiter?’
‘…Yes, sir, ready when you are.’
‘Ya, we’ll have one butter chicken lahori—boneless.’
‘Sir.’
‘One bhindi nayantara, one kadai paneer…’
‘Sir.’
‘One dal tadka, raita, some papad …’
‘Sir.’
‘…And, two—no, make that three—butter naans to begin with.’
‘Yes, sir. Your drinks will be with you in a minute.’
‘Good. Achaa listen—can you bring some mixture along with the beers?’
‘Sure, sir, mixture. Thank you, sir.’
Ajay tried balancing an upended knife. ‘Good…haan, so bhai, what’s new? What’s up? How are things at your end, Aks? Sorry about that night, man. Just couldn’t make it, you know?’
‘Yes, Aps told me the next day. You came back to the guest house around eleven.’
‘Arey what to do, man. I have become a prisoner of this bloody system. But leave all that. Tell me, what’s up with you?’
‘Nothing much. This and that—you know how it is with research…’
Api let out a secret. ‘Our Akhil has become a philosopher.’
‘Now is that true? Ha ha ha, found science too tough, is it? These brainstorming events you guys keep organising came to naught, is it? Ha ha…philosophising about what?’
‘Arey, don’t listen to her.’
Api disclosed something more damaging. ‘And he’s married, too.’
‘What. Who? Where? When? Bastard. Saaley. What? How?’
‘Abey leave it, na. She’s talking about my Padmini.’
‘Padmini?’
The waiter approached with his hands full. ‘Your beers, sir.’
‘What? Haan, yes, and there—and nimbu pani for her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good…haan, so back to this Padmini bhabhi…’
‘Car. It’s my great white Fiat, thullay.’
‘A car. Oh, Padmini! I get it.’
‘Tube light.’
‘No, but seriously, Aks, forty is no age to be single.’
‘Forty hoga tera baap. I am thirty-eight.’
‘One and the same. Look at me—married when I was in my prime.’
‘Yes, I know about that. Prime pot belly, prime dhoti, prime sunglasses.’
‘So you told him, then, did you? Dammit, Aps.’
Api giggled. ‘Wasn’t my fault. He wanted the truth.’
‘But seriously, what’s bugging him, Aps?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He can’t stand the system, hates the way things are, is bugged by the traffic, livid with the water and the power situation, troubled by the literacy rate, objects to the scientific set-up, scornful of our netas, disturbed over corruption, enraged with crony capitalism…Nothing much, really.’
Ajay drummed a quick beat with the fork. ‘I told you. I knew it. India is a great country—but only for pucca Indians.’
Akhil smirked. ‘And what am I, bastard—Jaapani?’
‘No no, you don’t get it. Aps, didn’t I tell you then, too?’
Api smiled. ‘Yes, can’t say you didn’t.’
‘What the hell are you two…’
‘You see, Aks, my boy, it is very simple. You are not a pucca Indian anymore. I am sorry to have to tell you that.’
Akhil nodded his head slowly. ‘Oh, is that right?’
‘Yes. And it is so elementary my dear Watsonwa that I am not surprised your miniature brain couldn’t catch it. You see, in order to be happy in our country, you have to be in our country—always. You understand? It is…’
‘Really?’
‘Let me finish. In order to not go mad in chaos, you need to always be in chaos. You get me now? Man, you experience a few years of order and then come back and think you’ll slip back in—into the chaos. Well, it never happens. Here, let me give you an example. Do you adhere to lane driving?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good. And do you feel outraged when a piddly little bastard weaves his Maruti round your, your Padmini—weaves and cuts it around like he is driving a bike, brushing aside all rules and courtesies of good, friendly driving? Do you get mad?’
‘Very.’
‘You see? You get mad because you have experienced order and considerate and mannered driving abroad. And you are a fool if you think you’ll get all smiles and goodwill if you drive like them, those guys in England or wherever. Well, I tell you, man, you are annoying your fellow drivers here by sticking to your lane.’
‘You are annoying me right now.’
‘You are adhering to, clinging on to some order, when all around you there is chaos. We Indians wouldn’t want to extend our right hand and flick that indicator on—too much effort. It’s not worth it. And when everyone on the road won’t flick the indicator, it is understood that no matter what, that indicator wouldn’t be flicked on. It’s telepathy—you understand. You, my friend, by flashing the indicator, you are the odd one out. You are the disturbance. And that’s when trouble starts.’
Api found herself agreeing. ‘I can see his point, Aks.’
Akhil broke in. ‘I can see he is talking bullshit.’
‘But think, man. If 99% of your fellow drivers here don’t follow lane driving, then what the bloody hell are you doing holding on to your order haan? Try it. Do as I say. Try weaving all around the place. For one, you’ll see the other folks as your brothers—they’ll understand you. They’ll be happy. There is camaraderie among the violators, you know.’
‘Well, I can’t believe a DIG is advising me to break rules.’
‘And that’s another one for you to think about. I never break any rules—my driver does.’
Akhil clapped his hands. ‘Oh. Fantastic, milord. Saaley.’
‘And that’s the secret of survival; correction, anyone can survive—the idea is to survive and be happy. Just allow yourself to be taken in by chaos. And look the other way when rules are being broken.’
‘Someone please record this.’
‘And a third bit of advice. You hate cows on the roads, you…’
‘No, I love cows on the roads. I really do. They remind me that it is us who have taken their space.’
‘Mad. Anyway, if you hate the roads, hate potholes and all that shit, you get a good car with a great suspension. No point cursing the system, getting all riled up with anger and hatred for the municipality, for the bloody contractor who made the road. I mean, that ass isn’t worth you spending your few seconds thinking about him. Just get a great car and glide over the potholes, skim over them. Life’s a dream in the back seat. So throw away your damn khatara and get a car that can handle our roads. Then hire a driver who will violate all the traffic rules. You just close your eyes in the back and think of things you ought to be thinking about.’
Akhil nodded his head mockingly. ‘And of course, when you stop at a traffic light, look away from those decapitated, nose-less, ear-less, lip-less…’
‘No need to be sarcastic. Get your car windows tinted—a dark tint—and ask your driver to pump up the volume.’
‘Wah. DIG saab, wah. Congratulations, Ms Aparajita for being—what was it—wedded off to such a man.’
Ajay disregarded the comment and carried on. ‘Arey, you laugh at me now, and that’s alright. But let me tell you. You can cast and mould and shape millions in this country like you—a million brooders. There’s plenty to stew over and curse in India, man. But you got to think: what is my karam? Do I have a job? How do I do it to the best of my ability? Bugger the bastard who can’t or doesn’t know how to. Why the hell should I spend my precious time thinking about that man’s ineptitude and incompetence, haan?’
‘Absolutely, DIG saab.’
‘But think, man. Are you getting paid to do research or has the government employed you to look at those beggars at traffic lights? And anyway, what have you ever done for them other than throw them your loose change, haan? Believe me, Aks, you’ll sleep much better at night. You’ll be able to concentrate on what you are paid for. Leave the problems of beggars, traffic, water, electricity to the bastards who are paid to look after those things.’
‘And what a marvellous job they have done.’
‘Yes, they haven’t done much, maybe nothing—I am the first to acknowledge it. But then, bastard, if you do their job, who will do yours? No water? Get a water tanker to come to your house every day for hundred bucks. No power? Get an inverter for God’s sake. You see? Solve your problems and that is how you will have time to think about the things that you are paid to do. Aks, Aks, Aks. Believe me—you can’t change the system. It is better that the system changes you. It is for your own good.’
‘Yes, I can see you made the same points in your UPSC interview all those years ago.’
‘No, you are right. I didn’t. I told them the system needed changing. And you know what? I told them exactly what they wanted to hear. But in my own small way, I try and do my job…’
‘And by gosh, you do. Aps was all wrong—you are the bloody philosopher.’
‘But this isn’t philosophy my friend. This is common sense. Any fool can feel gutted looking at the misery, the filth, the beggars. It takes genuine effort to overlook it all and focus on your job.’
‘Now don’t you get me started, man.’
‘No no, I want to get you started. In fact, I know why you returned to India, after all.’
Akhil tilted his head and leaned forward. ‘Oh, you do?’
‘Yes, and I’ll tell you. You see, I was in Munich last year—this delegation for fact-finding something, something. Twenty of us.’
Akhil chuckled. ‘Let me guess—it must have been in the summer.’
‘Yes, June—but why does it…well, anyway. Munich. I was gobsmacked by the cleanliness, the brightly painted buildings, the spotless pavements, gliding buses, people moving about quietly. The whole damn thing shook me to my core. It unsettled me. Quite like the way you get unsettled when some ass weaves around on the roads here. Yes, I couldn’t quite place it then but it dawned on me later. I am from a different country.’
‘A different planet more like.’
‘No use pretending I am not. I belong to chaos. I feed on it. Chaos runs in my veins. And there I was, dropped bang in the middle of order, complete order—everything perfect. I felt misplaced, a refugee, a pariah. I was in shock for the first two days, then shock turned into something much worse—I was petrified.’
‘Of what? The guilt of having wasted taxpayers’ money on a jamboree?’
‘Petrified of my movements. All of them. I couldn’t walk properly. I couldn’t talk naturally. I was petrified I would make a mistake, that I might involuntarily indulge in a bit of chaos, give in to my natural instinct. And there, you see. That’s when I realised I cannot belong anywhere else but India. You won’t believe it but I spent the last couple of days locked up in my hotel room with a kambal over my head. And so, my friend, you ask: Dear AB, why did you behave the way you did?’
Akhil grinned. ‘Dear AB, why did you behave the way you did?’
‘The whole thing comes down to this: that I may not spit on the roads here, I may not unzip and pee by the wall, I may not take or give bribes, I may not practise lane driving, I may not do any of these voluntarily. But—and here it is, are you listening—but if I did, if I did do any of these things, then, my friend, in my India, I can get away with it—scot-free.’
Akhil thumped the table. ‘Wah! DIG saab, wah. Satya vachan.’
Ajay continued. ‘And what a reassurance that is. Of not violating the laws but being reassured in the knowledge that were you to break them, nothing would happen. You see that? I tell you, man, there’s nothing like it. Not a feeling in the world comes close to it. Remember, I didn’t say this feeling prompts me to break the law; it just comforts me. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘And that, my friend, is the exact reason why I think you came back, too.’
‘What rot.’
‘Go on, admit it. I have given it a hell of a thought.’
‘And sadly, I have given you a hell of a lot of talking time.’
The waiter approached with the food trolley.
Ajay looked up. ‘Time out, guys.’
Akhil punched his palm in pretend dejection. ‘Dammit. Just when I was about to learn more.’
‘You will, you will…Yes, the chicken there, yes. Aks?’
‘Yes, sir, may I serve you?’ the waiter asked.
Akhil raised his hand. ‘No, it’s alright, thanks. I’ll take care of it.’
‘No no, Aks, let him. It is his job.’
‘Well, DIG saab, I’d like to do his job for now if that’s fine by you.’
Ajay threw his shoulders back. ‘You see. That’s the problem with you non-pucca Indians. I mean, the guy is happy doing his job. It was his job.’
‘And what’s wrong if I came along and wanted to do his job?’
‘But why? Why deprive him of his pride?’
‘His pride?’
‘Yes, his pride,’ said Ajay and turning to the waiter, asked, ‘What is your caste, waiter?’
Before the waiter could register the question, Api, who was enjoying the table talk immensely, now asked for some calm. ‘Relax, people. Just pass the kadai paneer, please, AB.’
‘No no, this is interesting, Aps. His pride, AB? You think that by offering to serve myself I have hurt his pride?’
Ajay pointed brusquely at the waiter. ‘Sure you have. He gets paid to do that. Those two buggers sitting there—munching all those breadsticks—they get paid to wait for their boss.’
Akhil took a sip of his beer. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘The guy in the sweltering humidity outside, polishing the lal-batti of our Ambassador. He gets paid to do that. We are all paid to do our job. And we should stick to doing our job—just our jobs.’
‘Ah. The division of labour. Tell me, do you guys follow the police manual or Manusmriti? Advocating the caste system, are you?’
‘No, not quite; I was just…’
Akhil was beginning to get a little irritated. ‘Just what? There are people who get up every morning and walk the sewer lines. Some tie a cloth around their mouth and drop down a manhole—what’s the word—desilting. It is their pride, is it?’
‘Yes.’
Akhil had had enough. ‘You bastard…’
Api came in quickly. ‘Hey, Aks, cool it. AB, stop all this. Please. People are staring at us.’
There followed an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, and for the first time, the harmonies of Take Five being played live in the background reached their ears.
Ajay touched his mouth with the napkin. ‘Hey, Aks, sorry yaar, I didn’t mean to…’
Akhil was mollified but solemn. ‘Just one last thing—to set the record straight. Why I came back…’
Akhil and Api inched forward sincerely.
‘In all my days and years at Cambridge, I never once felt it was my country, that it was where I belonged. I met many lovely people, made many good friends. But you know, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t escape the draw—that invisible draw, of my own country…
‘Of course, there were other reasons for coming back, too: to work on Indian diseases—malaria, tuberculosis, dengue, leishmaniasis; to try and do something for my people, my diseases. But the one single reason was always that one, the one which, I suppose, you can say is a universal reason—that feeling of wanting to be with your own, to not stand out. And in an alien land, when you are all alone and it gets dark outside at three in the afternoon and you know there’s only baked beans on toast for dinner, it is this feeling that draws on you.
‘…That is why I came back.’
Ajay placed his hand on Akhil’s arm.
‘Now—some butter naan, please.’
Api ran her finger round the glass rim, firming up to speak. ‘But where is all this worrying leading to, Akhil?’
Ajay concurred. ‘Yes, she’s right, you know. You can’t go on like this, with an attitude that things are so wrong out here at every step, that everything is on its last leg—the buildings, the people, culture, system. You’ll go mad.’
‘I have gone mad.’
‘Instead of ignoring irrelevant things, you’ll start thinking about only them,’ Api added.
‘Yes, you know, you are right there, Aps.’
Api replaced the napkin, then patted it absentmindedly. ‘Isn’t that being unfair to your students, to your research? For you to look out of your car window every time you stop at a traffic light, and then for hours on end you can’t stop thinking about how that one-legged kid was hopping from car to car, from one rolled up window to another, hopping like mad before the light turned green? And then you can’t think about anything else for most of your day. You can’t go on like this.’
Akhil became animated. ‘Yes, yes, I can’t, Api. I know that, but what can I do? All my country’s failings touch me. They go through me. I feel them.’
‘And in doing so you may have ignored your own failings, don’t you think? The time that you spent thinking about that beggar, or million others like him, that time you might have spent, I don’t know, solving a scientific problem, curing diseases. No? Are you being fair to the people you are answerable to? Are you being fair to yourself, your scientific ideals? Are you? And then, next morning, you take the local train and see thousands of people squatting by the trackside—and there goes your whole day again.’
Akhil gazed at his reflection in the spoon. ‘No, not for that particular reason—but I can see your larger point.’
‘Not for that? Why? You like it when people shit all around you? Sir Vidia would be delighted.’
‘Who? No, what I mean is, in a way, I accept it. I am not perturbed by it. But anyway, that’s beside the…’
‘No, no, not at all. Now I do want to know.’
‘You’ll laugh.’
‘It’s been ages.’
‘Eh?’
‘Go on.’
Akhil dragged his chair forward. ‘Look. Your DNA is 99% identical to a chimpanzee’s. We…’
Ajay couldn’t resist the opportunity. ‘I have always suspected that of Api.’
‘AB, shush. Sorry Aks, go on.’
‘We might have gone on to eat with a fork and a knife, written books, invented computers, but what has made us do all of that is that tiny little 1%. In our heart of hearts, we are still 99% animal. Then why do we turn away when we see someone squatting and performing a natural, animal act? The thousands of pairs of asses have got it right. They do their thing right in front of a moving train, as though it wasn’t there. They see us as fellow animals but we insist on seeing them as something else.’
Api sipped some nimbupani. ‘Deep.’
‘And Hitler didn’t squat on a railway line. No, he just turned out in the best suits and ate the best meals, with forks on the left and forks on the right of his plate, while the body fat of six million kept the fire in his living-room burning. So don’t tell me what is civilised and what is not.
‘What perturbs me most isn’t the uncontrollable poverty of our people, their nakedness, their obtrusive shitting—I can handle that to some degree. What gets me is the falling apart of the most unshakable scientific axiom: survival of the fittest. I know, of course, that I am contracting the evolutionary timeline, and moreover, it isn’t social Darwinism, which is nothing but a mangled misreading of the Darwinian evolution itself, that I have in mind. But hear me out for the sake of argument.’
‘Go on.’
‘Here, the fittest are not the fittest in the true sense of the word. They have somehow bypassed the course of evolution. Found a loophole. The most unfit here have escaped nature’s fury, its test.
‘A neta siphons the money meant to provide toilets for those now sitting in unending lines. He slices his share from what was meant for housing, water, electricity, schools, hospitals. He gets fat, his people die. He gets fatter, the doctors advise rest. He gets fatter still, the doctors do a gastric surgery. He gets a heart attack, the doctors do a bypass. He continues to drink, his kidneys fail. His people gift him a kidney. He lives. He lives a long life. He is weak, but he survives. Look at the irony. The very person who believes in social Darwinism, who is apathetic to the misery of millions, to their suffering—rather, he is the one who inflicts the suffering—and he is the one who survives.’
‘But, Akhil, this is hopeless. You can’t possibly do anything single-handedly. What can you do except watch?’
‘What do we end up holding in our hands at the end of the day? Dust and shit. Nothing to take home. That man squatting, and me standing watching—we have become one and the same, one and the same. You, him, me, everyone—we shut our eyes. A small difference in lid pressure allows us to differentiate between what is worthless and what is worthy. For if we had just closed them gently and not shut them hard, in the soft darkness we’d have put ourselves in the shoes of those shitting millions. We’d have understood how impossibly difficult their lives are, and we’d have thought: what if that man, that woman there, was my son, my sister, my mother? But no, we shut our eyes, instead. Tight.’
Akhil crumpled the tablecloth so hard the veins on the back of his hand stood out. ‘So damn tight that wrinkles gather on our eyelids. We get the darkness but not the thoughts—they fail to appear. But we intended that. And then we look away. We refuse to believe that empathy and compassion are as much evolutionary endowments as is the Darwinian principle of adaptation. In fact, empathy is a trait that has allowed us to survive great ordeals that have come our way during the course of human evolution. But we refuse to acknowledge this. Because we have turned Darwinism into Social Darwinism. Because we believe too much in the selfish gene and too little in the unselfish gene.’
Api and Ajay were silent, their forks suspended in midair.
Akhil threw himself back. ‘You’re probably thinking what I mad bastard I am.’
‘No no…But this is scary.’
‘She’s right, Aks. Bloody hell, man—you need to take a break.’
‘Arey, it’s alright, man.’
Ajay squeezed Akhil’s hand. ‘But you can’t keep on like this—you’ll be a nervous wreck.’
‘AB’s right, Aks. Why don’t you quit science and maybe join Oxfam or CRY? Handle your dilemmas. Physically feel the pain.’
‘I haven’t been sitting idle. I am doing my bit. Every little helps, you know. Every little helps.’
‘That’s a nice way of saying it: every little helps. But what is this “little”. Both of us would like to know. Maybe we could chip in any way we could.’
‘Thanks but no thanks. It is my problem, my disease.’
The subsequent pause in the conversation lasted a long while. The three were taking their time to reflect on what had been discussed.
Ajay jerked into speech. ‘Boy, I tell you, all this talk has sapped my dal and chicken away. This is no way for friends to meet after fifteen years. No way.’
Api couldn’t agree more. ‘We’ll find something nice to talk about on the boat to Elephanta tomorrow—something nice, like finding a wife for our Aks.’
‘Oh no, not again.’
Ajay tugged at Akhil’s sleeve. ‘Akhil, my man. I don’t know if Aps has told you but I have this cousin in Washington.’
‘Stop it.’
‘World Bank and all, yaar.’
‘Arey just stop this rubbish.’
‘No seriously, Aks. AB is right. Only problem is she’s a Bong.’
Ajay glared at Api. ‘Why, dammit? What’s wrong with being a Bong. I am a Bong.’
Api was waiting for it. ‘That explains it.’
The table resounded with much-needed laughter. Akhil patted Ajay’s hand. ‘No, look, I am not ready yaar.’
‘You are bloody forty.’
‘Thirty-eight, you bastard. Thirty-eight.’
‘One and the same. So it is decided then—Elephanta tomorrow. Say we meet up at Gateway around one. And then we’ll talk of Akhil and Ipsita.’
‘Ipsita?’
‘Yes, Ipsita. You know what Ipsita means, don’t you? The desired.’
‘It is you guys who are mad—both of you.’
‘Ipsita, Ipsita, Ipsita, Ipsita.’
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it. And pay the bill—it’s late. Who is paying for all this anyway? Oh wait, don’t tell me…’
Ajay chuckled. ‘Perks. These are called perks. And I deserve them.’
Akhil reached for his drink. ‘Dare I ask why?’
‘For solving the case in two days.’
‘Is that right? And who killed Saane?’
‘It’s all hush-hush now. CBI wants to announce it first, but I’ll tell you. A bastard by the name of Kitla. At the behest of the opposition. Expect president’s rule in a week’s time. And all because of your dear friend AB.’
‘That big a story, haan? So how did you—where did you find the body?’
‘Arey, these SP, DSPs don’t know how to handle all this, man. Saane was shot in the head.’
Akhil raised his eyebrows. ‘Was he, now? God. And all your evidence. Pucca?’
‘Of course. We caught the guy who did this. Actually, the bastard got popped off in an encounter. Still, we managed to get his sleeper and one thing led to another.’
‘Wow. And where did all this happen? Saane’s house?’
‘No no, a golf course. The bastard was stabbed and thrown…’
Abruptly, Api caught Ajay’s arm. ‘A bit like Murder on the Links, no?’
‘What did you say, Aps?’
‘I said, it sounds like Murder on the Links—the Christie novel.’
‘What Christie novel?’
‘Arey DIG saab, the whole Saane affair that you described. I said it sounds every bit like Murder on the Links. Now, shall we? Or those two chums of yours will start turning to stone.’
Ajay was lost in thought. ‘Yes, I see…Murder on the Links…You know, I had been wondering about the strangeness of this case. Why do it in the open? Why leave clues? Seemed to me as if the whole thing was a dare…Sorry, where was I? Yes, sorry…no, nothing.’
‘So I’ll see you guys tomorrow at one, then.’
Ajay paid the bill and grabbed a fistful of saunf from the platter. ‘Yes, of course. Listen, can we drop you somewhere?’
‘Leave me and my Padmini alone. You go take your lal-battis.’
Ajay and Api got up from their seats. Ajay was helped by the waiter who had stolen a quick glance at the generous tip. His taxes were coming back to him.
From a distance, SP Kharbanda and DSP Sharma saw the table break up. As a reflex, they threw away the breadsticks they were munching and shot up from the sofa.
Back at the table, Ajay gave a high-five to Akhil. ‘Hah, chal then, Aks, this was great, man.’
‘Ya ya, now get lost you two.’
‘Will call you tomorrow. You have a–?’
Api answered Ajay’s unfinished question. ‘No, he doesn’t. Our professor saab here says who in their right mind would want to call him?’
‘Jackass. Well, I’ll call your lab number, then. Surely you have a student doubling up as a secretary.’
Akhil grinned. ‘That’s the first passable joke you have cracked all evening.’
Ajay grimaced while Api laughed and twiddled her fingers. ‘Bye, Aks, see you tomorrow.’
‘Take care, Aps.’
As they left the table, the waiter, while clearing the dishes, noticed the map lying on a chair next to the one where Akhil was seated. He scrutinised it with a keen eye, then pocketed it.
Meanwhile, Akhil approached the officers on his way out. He nodded his head in greeting, smiled, and moved on, which was convenient for the two men, as the real object of their affection was now next in line.
SP Kharbanda touched his cap and cleared his throat. ‘Er, hello again, sir, madam.’
‘Yes, hello, Kharbanda, and er…?’
DSP Sharma just about hid his disappointment. ‘Sharma, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. You had a good dinner, I hope, Kharbanda saab?’
SP Kharbanda was speechless for a moment. ‘Er, yes sir, very good. All hunger, gone, sir…gone.’
‘Well, that’s good. Listen, it’s a bit late now to go to the HQ. If you could just drop us at the guest house…’
‘Of course, sir. This way, sir, please.’
Api placed her hand on Ajay’s shoulder. ‘AB, you carry on. I’ll join you in a minute…Kharbanda saab, any idea where the ladies’ room is?’
‘Er…no, madam, sorry. But let me find out. Arey, Sharma. You heard.’
DSP Sharma was about to run the errand when Api intervened. ‘Arey no no. No problem. I’ll ask that woman at the reception. You guys go ahead. AB, I’ll see you outside.’
‘Alright then. Kharbanda? Which way, bhai?’
You need to pick these little gems up from these bastards, Kharbanda, keep picking them up. Now look at this harami: he knows the way, of course he does—the ban-cho just walked in an hour ago—but still he asks me: ‘Which way, bhai?’ Beautiful. This is power Kharbanda, real power, and it is displayed thus, subtly.
Kharbanda returned from his yeast-induced hallucination and responded. ‘Ji, sir, please, this way.’
‘Hmm. Arey, listen, Kharbanda, I need something from you. I have had a thought—might be nothing, but still…’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Er…Sharma, can you please…’
DSP Sharma was sick to the stomach. ‘Oh, ji, sir. I’ll wait for you by the car.’
Ajay waited till he had seen the back of DSP Sharma. ‘Haan, Kharbanda, listen. This is strictly between you and me.’
‘Of course, sir. As I said—over my dead body.’
‘Yes yes, listen, it is this: I want you to give me a list of all high-profile unsolved murders in Mumbai in the past ten years. You understand?’
SP Kharbanda scratched the back of his hand. ‘Er, unsolved, sir? But there have never been any unsolved murders…’
Ajay could barely hide his anger. ‘I am not your sadak-chhaap—I know how you solve unsolved murders.’
‘Er…’
‘Don’t bloody “er” me, Kharbanda, this is too important. You want to be a DIG or not? Or better, join the ranks of the CBI? Up to you.’
The dangling carrots tolled like temple bells for SP Kharbanda. ‘Of course, sir—over my dead body. Er, I meant…’
‘Shut up. And listen. I said unsolved because I have a hunch the murderer hasn’t been caught yet, and I feel that somehow—and it is my gut feeling—this Saane business is connected to one, or maybe even more of those unsolved murders. Because there are—there have to be unsolved murders. That list, by tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir, I do get you now. But sir, please, not by tomorrow. I’ll get my ass on it twenty-five hours a day, but this thing cannot be done by tomorrow. You have seen the HQ, sir; there are files that are shut and tied off today and the ban-chos don’t know where they are tomorrow. And this business—all those files and names of years ago. Please at least give me three-four days.’
Ajay put his foot down, and not just to crush the three-four maxim. ‘No, Kharbanda, dammit. I said tomorrow, and I want them, by tomorrow. At the most, you can have till tomorrow afternoon. This is big, too big. Even a day’s delay means you can say goodbye to all your dreams. So, now that you have understood me, may I ask if you have a number—off the top of your head?’
SP Kharbanda glanced around. ‘Er, sir, please. This is just between you and me. Officially, there are no unsolved murders—my job is gone if this gets out. I hope you understand, sir.’
‘Stop making me understand. Just answer the bloody question.’
‘Sir, don’t mind, in the last ten years, at least 170.’
Ajay opened his mouth and then found he couldn’t close it. ‘170. 170. Man, you guys, you are gods. No one can touch you…170 ?’
SP Kharbanda didn’t know whether he was being praised or ridiculed.
‘But that’s too many for me, Kharbanda. I want a small list, only high profile. Like—yes, exactly like—Saane’s. Now you know and I know that this Saane thing is unsolved. But the public will know only of Dev and Kitla, right? So now, how many, like Saane? And I dare you to say three-four. I dare you.’
‘Sir, off the top of my head, not more than ten.’
Ajay rubbed his hands. ‘Great. We can handle that. Great. Now listen carefully, Kharbanda. I am giving you a free pass to becoming a DIG—by next year, I promise. Now you listen…’
‘I am straining my ears, sir. I can even hear the goor-goor in your stomach.’
‘Good. Collect as much information about those ten—leave everything else. Ask Sharma to do the Saane paperwork—it’s “solved” anyway. This is big, Kharbanda—too big. If my hunch is right…Now listen—most important–’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You need to get all of Agatha Christie’s novels—and I mean all, and…’
SP Kharbanda sounded worried. ‘All, sir? There must be hundreds—er, my daughter’s read a few…’
‘I don’t care if there are thousands. Add them to the HQ library afterwards for all I care.’
‘Er, yes, sir.’
‘Maybe you guys would benefit a little from the wisdom of Hercule Poirot.’
‘Err…’
‘Anyway, where was I? Haan, get all of her novels and take down whatever is written on the back flap—you need not read the whole damn novel.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir, that’s a big relief.’
‘I thought as much. Anyway, take it down and make a neat table of two columns. You know what is to be filled in those columns?’
‘I think so, sir. In the left column the name of the novel and in the right column, er, whatever is written on the back flap.’
‘Good. You surprise me at times.’
Phitay-moo, ban-cho. Now was this praise or ridicule? wondered SP Kharbanda.
‘Er…thank you, sir.’
‘And let’s meet by twelve noon tomorrow—your office at the HQ.’
‘Yes, sir, everything will be ready.’
‘And listen. Cancel our plane tickets. I cannot go back for at least a week, ten days.’
‘Sure, sir.’
‘I have to find a way to tell Aparajita this.’
SP Kharbanda nodded his head cheerfully. ‘No problem, sir. I am sure madam will understand.’
‘Arey, you don’t understand women, Kharbanda. I’ll go to the gallows for this.’
‘Hah, yes, sir.’
‘And, Kharbanda, you will do the digging—not a whisper to anyone. You got that?’
‘Clearly, sir—only me and you.’
‘Fantastic, Kharbanda, fantastic.’
I’d ban-cho bet my striped kachha this was praise, thought SP Kharbanda, clearing the way for Ajay.
Have you ever seen a horse with Pampers? Or a goat with Huggies? Same principle—they don’t seem too keen to lug their droppings along with them. Humans, the so-called superior species, are the only species in the animal kingdom that carry their dung on their backs for hours. All the others ease themselves, here, there, everywhere. Like, 80 per cent of India. Which divide is more difficult to accept and understand? Open defecation is an issue because of the absence of facilities to perform them in appropriate places. Otherwise, we leave our droppings everywhere, hoping no one will find them. Like a lot else. Getting found out is worse than doing it—than doing anything. And we do everything khul ke. Deification, defecation—same-same.
Even animals don’t behave like this. They don’t write on walls. Engrave their names on national monuments. Muthu loves Sharda, or Bitto loves Gunnu, with a heart cleaved in two with an arrow. Such recognisable signs of longing.
There is no street named after a chimpanzee. In the animal kingdom, of which human beings are supposedly the bosses, animals share. Do we? After the tiger has chased the antelope and devoured the royal share, other animals partake of the meal. Right down to the last insect, the kill is shared till there is no trace of it left. The scene of the slaughter is clean, with no space for any diseases to take root. If animals are greedy, they don’t show it. Animals don’t kill for pleasure or torture each other and later watch it on closed circuit television. They kill when threatened from the outside. Their scores are settled with claws, not guns and cannons. And they don’t take selfies with the other monkeys.
In the evolutionary process, we have been animals and monkeys for too long. The human has many more eons to go. Ask anyone who has seen war of the populations decimated, of moving from spot to spot in search of security. The old, the infirm, the baby, they are left behind—human beings don’t move in herds. See how quickly we break rules to get ahead, not as a collective but as an individual? Annihilation crosses our mind the moment we are confronted with differences, with other odours and food, rituals and prayers. Massacres are something we are used to. Torture, extortion, defecation, defamation are all activities that attract us.
Hoarding—do animals hoard? They store food for long winter months. We are civilised—that’s why we rush to capture, to deprive, to degrade and then to discuss in endless seminars about who is the better killer and who is depleting the world’s resources faster than others. We even discuss which form of torture is acceptable and which is not; entire tomes are devoted to what the world’s elders deem right. Then comes a new type of war—cyber war, chemical war, another Kurukshetra, another dharmakshetra that changes all the rules. All hell breaks loose as the aggressor is a known entity—one of us who has real ambitions as opposed to something ordinary. We are thrown. We are thrown at the slightest push.
Simple things like, standing patiently in a queue is beyond us. So we criticise others who are orderly, quiet and respectful. That’s foreign to us. But the moment we cross the immigration counter in a foreign airport, we become foreign to ourselves. We are polite, courteous; the bathrooms are cleaner. We even go to the extent of saying please and thank you. A crow in India is no different from a crow in Italy. Pigeons shit all over the place, wherever they are.
And we talk.
Oh, that little girl putting herself through impossible hoops at the traffic light should be sent to the Olympics. She could beat Nadia Comaneci any day, hands down. And the children of our fisherfolk, we should pack them off, too—so many Mark Spitzes and Michael Phelpses in the country. Rope trick, hat trick, snake trick, water trick, air trick, trick trick, we can do it all. It just needs the right attitude. But who has the time? So many problems, so many people. So many people and so few Olympic medals. So many uncles and aunties in selection committees and so many foreign lands to visit.
And we talk.
We talk of humility all the time because we are not humble as a people. Service is not servility. We struggle with that difference. Humility to find talent and nurture it, wherever it exists, and whichever strata of society it comes from, escapes us. If it was truly survival of the fittest, the beggars outside luxurious hotels would have long joined the elite for a meal. We have managed to bend, break, upturn and distort every law of nature to ensure that a few in a country of a billion survive as the fittest while the rest can wallow in hunger, disease and death.
And we talk.
The only time they meet us is at the crossroads. Streets named after one family and their friends. Avenues, museums, airports, sports stadia, savings deposits—all fit into three names. Even Switzerland, a country of a few million, has more names than an India of a billion, where history has been written by the vacant and the vanquished, where lies are plagiarised, where freedom is denied, where food is allowed to rot, and from where we call for peace, justice and harmony in Albania. We do this when we cannot walk across the street and share a meal or a song or a game with others.
And we talk.
We prefer the comfort of our gated communities, our answer to the karmic divide. No water, get a tanker; no electricity, get a generator. Food, medicines, healthcare—bring everything in and lock the gates. Let those who serve us stay outside and break all the rules as long as we can continue to live in our illegal constructions and irrelevant conversations that last for entire generations. On this side, even animals know they cannot pee against the wall. It is from here that we judge the rest of the world for being cold and uncaring—a world where old people are sent to old-age homes instead of living in the warmth of an extended family. Indians never leave their parents and relatives alone. How many times have you heard it said that it is better to be old in India because everybody takes care of each other? Do we? That body lying on the street, those beggars outside religious places are also parents, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles. Their mangled figures are also bodies, as innocent as ours. Their dreams are also real, as real as ours. But their anger can never be the same as ours. That’s where we have fixed the survival step. Naturally. That’s what makes our nation a nation of fixers.
And we talk.
We have nervous conversations about a nervous people in a nervous nation. What are we but a handful of dust? We don’t have to be, but we are and that’s what kills.