5

From the Uber itself, I forwarded the full text of Shivani’s first two emails to me to each of the TV journalists I’d spoken to (they had all given me their cards). For good measure, I also sent along Karishma Jalan’s threatening, abuse-filled message from two nights ago.

Next I called Inspector Somayya. Arati was going to meet me at home at half-eleven. I’d requested her to come early and I’d order in some lunch, and while we talked she could also carry on with her usual sewing work on the spare machine she kept at my house. I got Somayya on my second try and gave her a full account of my actions this morning. By ‘full account’ of course I mean leaving out the most significant discovery of all.

I asked Somayya to help my cause by issuing a media statement that would repeat her earlier assurance to me — that I was not being seen as involved in the matter of Shivani’s death. Somayya refused outright, saying she couldn’t put that on the record at this stage of the investigation. It would sound like the case was being looked at with preconceived ideas.

‘Well, that actually reassures me on another count, by erasing any doubt I had about what I’ve just done. If you won’t clear my name, and yet will allow Mrs Jalan to spread poison about me, I’m glad I shared the evidence I have.’

Somayya calmly suggested that I ask my lawyer about defamation options. I could sue the Jalans for damages as well as under criminal law. I thanked her for this advice and hung up.

The call had been superbly useful. Somayya had said pretty much what I’d expected, although the defamation possibility genuinely hadn’t occurred to me. But from an ‘experimental’ point of view, I’d gathered exactly what I wanted to know.

Nothing came to me, not a single picture formed of Somayya as we spoke. I couldn’t say about video messaging yet, but my ‘gift’ didn’t work on the phone.

There was a point late in the Uber ride just past Deshapriya Park when I caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror and suddenly, despite the air conditioning, the temperature inside the car was fifty degrees. I felt this incredible blast of hatred towards me which seemed to have no cause. Then I realised I hadn’t once spoken to him (Nasir was his name) since a hurried greeting at the start of the journey. All I had done since my calls to Arati and Somayya was answer queries from various journalists.

‘I quit my job this morning. There’s someone who’s determined to blame me for her daughter’s suicide, which I also found out only last night. I met that girl just once for half an hour, so how can I be blamed for her death? That’s the story of my last twelve hours.’

In quick succession, as he watched me in the mirror while waiting at the Lake Road lights, I saw images come to Nasir of his throat being slit, and then his brains all over the windscreen and driver’s window. In either case, it appeared as though I was the attacker from behind!

He would have been maximum twenty-three. Did a young Muslim, even in Calcutta, always carry within him so much fear of sudden and senseless violence?

Yet, shamefully, at that moment, I felt both guilt and thrill at inspiring such terror.

We were being honked at because Nasir hadn’t been watching the lights. I thought I’d have a bit more ‘fun’. In this next part, I even addressed him as ‘tui’ as though I were an older sister, when in fact my words weren’t especially affectionate.

‘Do you know what I can see? You’re running, there’s a village in the distance, and the soil is red under your feet. At first everything around you is lush and there are rice fields, but soon there’s only rock and red soil, until you reach a river with hardly any water. You look around, there is only one large rock to hide behind, but surely that will be the first place they’ll look.’

I was about to say more, about a double barbed-wire fence I could see, and the colours of the uniform of his pursuers, who looked like soldiers on the India–Bangladesh border, but was stopped by shock and shame. Nasir’s eyes were visible in the rear-view mirror: I’d never triggered such fear in anyone before. What was I thinking? This was no Dhanuka or Jalan; this was someone absolutely innocent who had been annoyed at me only because I’d seemed arrogant. I hadn’t even properly looked at him since getting into his car, and now he was trying through his tears to get across the Southern Avenue crossing.

I had used my new ability to bully someone exactly of the age group that usually wrote to me, someone who was still attempting to do his duty and drive, even though I had made him relive one of his most traumatic memories.

‘Don’t worry at all,’ I said in my kindest voice. ‘I won’t say a word to anyone. You belong here. No one will come after you.’

After I’d reassured him again he eventually stopped crying. By then I’d seen his mother who wore thick glasses, a little girl riding along on his shoulders, a lane in a slum of Dhaka with huts made of woven bamboo walls and lots of drying clothes and big blue recycling bags, a uniformed man fucking Nasir behind that large rock on red soil. At the top of the Lake Gardens flyover he asked who I was.

‘I am a teacher. Nothing else.’

‘How did you know, Didi?’

‘I really don’t know. I just saw those pictures. Perhaps from coming across many people, and many students, in my life.’

Out of the blue a question came to me.

‘Nasir, answer me something. If I were to say to you, name me one person whose removal would improve your life, would there be anyone like that? Is there someone you consider your worst enemy?’

I had thrown him right back into terror. Clearly trying not to offend me with his words or tone, he replied that no one came to mind. I smiled to ease his mood, thinking what a dumb fuck I was. Thankfully we turned into my street, where immediately I had to tell Nasir to keep driving and not stop outside my door (our lane is too narrow to make an easy turn). I had just remembered somewhere else I needed to be. Could he drop me at Dakshinapan shopping centre instead?

He watched me grab for my sunglasses as we approached the two TV vans sandwiching my car. I wondered what rating he was going to give this particular customer afterwards.

Probably five stars, just out of fear.