7

Jatin has the cheek to announce — after rubbing in with his grins and giggles what we were supposedly up to — that I’ll only get ‘one more rehearsal’. We’ll be doing my big scene, in which I speak to the recently rescued seventeen-year-old in front of her parents, and she is still too shaken to talk, still unconvinced that her domineering twenty-nine-year-old husband won’t have received a call from a neighbour and found his way to this hotel. And lo and behold, the mind-reader does her thing — i.e. delivers her lines — and, simply from looking at the girl, draws out the horrifying recollections of coercion and servitude the victim cannot voice herself but to which, face buried in her mother’s chest, she nods her confirmation. Yes, she had had a crush on the man, because he’d been following her on his bike for four days on the way to and from school, but when he asked for a meeting at the old bridge outside their village she had no idea he would turn up with two friends (also Muslims). No, not for a moment had she wanted to give up her faith to be married, or even run away from home. Thankfully, the friends hadn’t done anything more than drive the car in which she was abducted. But as soon as they arrived in Saharanpur town, the first meal this lifelong vegetarian and temple-going Hindu had been served was beef, which was forced into her mouth after she realised what it was, and as she threw it up she was told she’d lost her faith anyway, and also that if she didn’t agree to the marriage her would-be husband couldn’t protect her from his friends who wanted something in return for all their help …

This is how Jatin’s checklist of hot-button issues is fleshed out by his pathetic script, and yet I read out — no, I do more, I perform — every line that horrified me when he handed us copies at breakfast. He proudly said, with a wink to me that everyone would have noticed, that he’d worked on it until four.

For the rest of the day I play my part in this entirely fictitious story, feeling as cornered as the invented girl I’m reading about, recalling nothing so much as Nazi-era films about ‘evil Jews’. Except Jatin has told me everything and I’ve still chosen to stay, despite witnessing two days ago eleven courageous women take up Ashish’s offer to leave. Even now I can pass on my role to Divya, walk away and pack my things, and prepare for whatever is sent my way in a post-Shakti life.

Didn’t I point out to myself the other day that I’d learnt something crucial on the very first night of possessing my power? I don’t fear death, I know now, after being taken to the brink of it in my own bed by that other woman obeying her orders. It isn’t the reason I’m sticking around. It’s for the promise of learning more about my gift and the motives of its givers.

In that case, why am I still here, when my givers stand exposed in their sowing of hate, from which, presumably, they dream of reaping elections?

After a sleepless night (during which I deliberately resist escaping into memories-on-demand: I cannot enslave myself to this habit), my performance the following day is impeccable. Before breakfast I watch some YouTube clips of me addressing those news crews outside FMHS to remember who I need to be: the invincible bitch who stunned Dhanuka. At the end of shooting my hotel-room scene, I get a round of applause from the pros. By the way, I’m wearing the gold chiffon sari I saw earlier in Jatin’s head.

I’ve told myself (sold myself, cajoled myself) I need more time. I could go public now about the little I know, and perhaps prevent a few skirmishes, or I could gather more evidence before blowing the lid. There are several times during any mission when an undercover spy is sickened by what she is witnessing, or even has to go along with. That is what I now am: someone holding on because I have the perfect superpower for a spy. It took me a day and a night to catch up with my own gut reactions, but this is my redefined purpose.

No longer am I selling myself the notion of developing the gift to help others; our masters couldn’t care less about that, nor was it ever the purpose of this series. Jatin confirmed off his own bat that we wouldn’t do a single true story: the show is a Trojan horse to unleash chaos and hate. And, beginning with last night, I’m cutting out my new habit of wallowing in nostalgia as fake as these stories — crack they’ve been feeding me in ever greater doses until I won’t care about the devastating price so many will pay.

I’m no superhero: that immaturity is (hopefully) behind me. But I’m no repugnant weakling who will do anything to inhabit a lie. Instead, I’m now a spy working to understand, and undermine, this extraordinary project from within. Perhaps there were others with the same intention in Gurgaon (Inspector Somayya?). Revealing my hand too soon would endanger them as well.

On the morning of my first-ever shoot, this is my brand-new, hard-earned rationalisation.

With these redefined aims, I get to work on my second morning in Saharanpur even before my perfect shoot. At breakfast with the actors who’re playing the girl’s parents — while she and her ‘brother’ are away with Jatin and the crew shooting her early-morning rescue — my power is on right through the conversation as I try to learn as much as possible before Divya turns up.

‘Tell me, do either of you have concerns that this episode might trigger communal violence? That it’s obviously designed to anger Hindus?’ I add, as if to exonerate myself, ‘I didn’t know the storyline until yesterday morning. I thought it would be a show highlighting real people. But I can’t stop worrying about this.’

‘What was your audition like?’ Rajni asks.

I answer carefully that I wasn’t picked for having an acting background. Rather, I’m a sort of counsellor, and saw this as a chance to reach audiences beyond my Calcutta-based newspaper column.

‘But you are a mind-reader, right? That’s what you do?’

‘Are you doing it right now?’ Satish grins while pouring himself some tea, hitting rather too close to the truth for my comfort. I realise something Jatin hasn’t told me is who else knows how much, apart from Divya.

‘Um, uh, it’s … I’d say it’s a glamorisation of what I really do, which is just observing people while looking for clues. So, to answer your question, no, outside the outlandish script for this show, I can’t mind-read.’

‘But what a twenty-four-carat career move to say yes to this part! Your counselling business will take off, or you can carry on as an actor.’

That’s Rajni. This is what I’m worried about, I reply. People will expect from me what they see in the story. Yet another reason why the script is problematic: it’s dangerously false on so many levels.

‘Yaar, we said yes only to be together,’ Satish grins, while picturing his cock being sucked before a dressing-table mirror. ‘Same as you, Jatin gave us our lines just yesterday morning.’

‘And now, how do you feel about playing a part in something so incendiary, which isn’t even based on a genuine incident?’

‘To be honest,’ Rajni says, putting down her tea, ‘it isn’t the greatest script, but how big are our roles? I mean, Satish and I are literally here today, gone tomorrow. We’re playing the parents in this one episode, and, as Satish has made rather clear, even if you can’t actually mind-read us, we had our own reasons for agreeing as well. But, to be honest, I’m surprised to hear you speaking against the story. This is your baby. It revolves around you, and if it takes off you’re going to become a star. Not just a star counsellor, a star! If I were you, that’s the bigger picture I’d focus on.’

Her words are supportive enough, but the image in her mind betrays the next question she wants to ask: Who are you fucking, darling, besides Jatin, that is? Yet, I’m anxious to defend myself from a more serious charge.

‘That’s just it. I signed up to an entirely different show, one that would bring my column to life, portray encounters with real people. I’m not at all sure what they’re intending with this. I mean, that talk of being force-fed beef: that’ll anger some people more than if the girl was raped. And in this climate of lynching and cow protection …’ I suddenly see Divya in both their heads. She’s entered the terrace restaurant behind me.

‘Arré Divya, good morning. Pull up a chair. You’ve come at the right time. Jaya here is having second thoughts about her role. Have you been learning your lines?’

Rajni, can I briefly interrupt to mention how much Satish would like all three of us to pleasure him? I wish you could see the scene as I do right now as Divya joins us. Oh, I almost forgot, she can see it as well, in Satish’s head and mine, like a hall of mirrors. Wow, she’s going to think I want it too. There you go, Divya’s on to us both.

This is going to be a fun report, the one she’s putting together about me for Ravi Tarun, or whoever: ‘Politics dodgy, but very flexible ethics. And by the way, the bitch is horny!’

And, btw, Rajni sweetheart, let me give you some advice. Enjoy this ‘escape’ with Satish, but don’t make the same mistake as his wife.

Although, in all fairness, thank you, Satish, for providing me my cover. For the remaining five minutes before I beg off to practise my lines, all Divya will get from me is this incredible bisexual orgy, in which the three of us are gagging for Satish’s cock. Yeah, I know that’s a bit unbelievable, so let’s copy and paste Jatin in there as well. I also consider Ravi Tarun briefly, just to spice up Divya’s report, but decide it would be yucky to give him that satisfaction.

And Divya is why my performance as the mind-reader during the next several hours is incredible and also bizarre! I ace my acting debut, but that’s only the start of it. I do it all while carrying the knowledge of this spy on my heels, with the very same Shakti as me! I do it while continually fighting to keep her from guessing my intentions. As often as I remember, right through the day, I fill my mind with red herrings for Divya (mostly, I must add, and for my own entertainment, to do with sex).

I undertake these enormous efforts to shoot a programme that commits no less than a blood-libel, all the while telling myself I’m building up to be a whistle-blower. It’s probably not the whole truth — you don’t need my Shakti to see that — but I vow at least to do this much.

Yet the scale of what I’m part of, and how rapidly I was drawn in, terrifies me.

Ten days ago, I went to bed in Calcutta about to lose my reputation and my job. A day later, I gleefully kicked aside my job, certain I was going to be a superhero. The following morning, I came crashing back to earth when Arati died. From then on, I could not claim ignorance about the deal we had both struck, what our masters might ask in return.

Last Friday, we were afforded a further glimpse of what is being planned on a national scale. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, are being given the green light to fulfil all and any of their longings! What does that even entail? How much will the authorities be instructed to ignore when crimes are committed by the ‘gifted’? In every news story I’ve read since Gurgaon, I look for signs that the madness is underway, that someone is using their Shakti to wreak havoc.

And then, this script. Not to be vain, but could any other planned havoc be greater than this? This piece of vileness will be on YouTube, and edited into even more provocative social-media clips. And, unbelievably, a history teacher and young people’s advocate from Calcutta will be the ‘mind-reader’ on whose findings the entire slander will stand. I’m about to appear under my own name, implicitly testifying that every part of the story is genuine! What defence can I claim afterwards?

Even if I’m in this to gather evidence — because otherwise there might be no first-hand account of the fabrication, its breath-taking mendacity — it is still the most enormous gamble. Until the episode is uploaded, my participation will not have caused any bloodshed. Thereabouts is the point at which I must pull the plug. Taking the spying any further would be unconscionable. Even now, before anything has happened, it’s insane to imagine that there are hundreds of innocent people, mostly Muslim, going about their lives who are about to be engulfed in an utterly avoidable violence. It’s a massacre I can foretell, and I hold the power to rewrite the next page.

I’m thinking all this in the shower before dinner so that I can return presently to hiding my mind from Divya. What a masterstroke to make her my observer: I’d swallowed completely her story about being a Jaipur-based mother and part-time actor. Divya’s been feeding me bullshit ever since we met. Everything I’ve seen inside her has been consistent with her back-story, which, I’m sure, is absolutely authentic.

As I towel myself and dress, I wonder how she’s reported my first reaction to the script yesterday morning, before Jatin tipped me off about her. My horror while reading out my lines; the voices inside screaming to pull out; the anxieties about what some of our peers must already be doing with their gifts.

Ah well, I’ll know soon enough. What sets me free is that I’m comfortable with every option. Either I’ll be a spy, or not. If I’m found out, I’ll flee, or fight back until I die.

In all cases, no one except a faraway sister will care.