Daddy's Girl Page 10

  11

  Meera, on being summoned in the presence of God, was nervous, as was evident in the hair tossing and the rapid–fire, staccato questions she threw to his imperturbable assistant, Koshy.

  Koshy, who was fond of Meera as he thought she was a genuine innocent among the sharks who bloodied the waters of the National Express, smiled at her and said ‘How fast you talk. Doesn’t it give you a headache? Listening to you certainly does. I don’t know why he wants to see you. I just make the calls.’

  Standing on her toes, a contrite Meera said, ‘I know, Koshy. But, honestly, God freaks me out.’

  Koshy smiled but maintained a discreet silence.

  The buzzer was a relief for both of them, as it was not unheard for God to keep a minion waiting and airily rushing off to keep an appointment with the prime minister. And God always made it very clear that it was always the PM who called him. He had once described himself as having the second-most important job in the country.

  Ushered into his presence, within the hushed sanctum that was the office of the editor-in-chief of the National Express—Meera noticed that the wall was filled with legendary cartoons dating back to the Emergency and before. And, as Meera thought wryly, the only clean place in the building.

  Bhagwan looked up, spectacles gleaming. Meera, standing on her toes, wondered whether it was going to be flight or fight while smiling at him toothily. Swivelling on his chair, Bhagwan asked abruptly, ‘How well do you know Amit and Rama Kaushik?’

  Unnerved, Meera did not know what to say, so she tried to make do with a vague, ‘Not so well.’

  The next question caught her off-guard. ‘What are you investigating and what have you found in the Nalwa case?’

  With Bhagwan glinting away at her keenly, Meera was at a loss for words.

  ‘Is this like that story you wanted to do, where you said the Intelligence Bureau was following the cabinet secretary and the home secretary?’ asked Bhagwan with a sneer.

  That was such a sore point with Meera that she forgot her nerves and said sharply, ‘Bhagwan, you know that story was true! I investigated it, had photographic evidence. You know it too! The director of the IB told me he had a terrible job to do, which was such a lame defence.’ What she left unsaid was that he did a terrible job by not printing the story.

  Looking away from her, Bhgawan restlessly fiddled with his cell phone, recognized as a warning signal among all National Express staffers and said, ‘Let it go, Meera. Now what new trouble are you creating?’

  Speaking at her normal breakneck speed, Meera said, ‘There is growing evidence that the Nalwas killed their daughter. It’s said that Mr Nalwa found her in bed with—’

  Interrupting her mid-sentence, Bhagwan exclaimed, ‘What are you saying? Is this what you have been working on for the past ten days? Shit, what a waste of time!’

  ‘Bhagwan, it’s not a waste of time! It’s true. They killed her. I have everything, all the proof! They are trying to get away with murder. At least listen to me, let me write the story, see the proof,’ said Meera passionately.

  Bhagwan looked at her coldly. ‘Meera, you need to grow up. We are a newspaper, an investigative one. We do not publish fiction.’

  The tears, which were always swimming beneath the thin surface, welled up. She stared at Bhagwan furiously in silence.

  He said, ‘I am going to the newsroom. You have five minutes to compose yourself and leave my office, and we will pretend it never happened.’ As he walked out, Meera, who never carried a handkerchief, swiped at her eyes furiously.

  When he returned, she was still standing there, looking composed, albeit a little red around her eyes and nose. Bhagwan let out a huge sigh theatrically. ‘You are still here? Should I just sack you? Don’t you value your job?’

  Looking him straight in the eye, Meera said quietly, ‘I love my job. That’s why I need you to hear me out. The story is accurate. Let me work on it. Write it. Whatever proof you want, I’ll give. Anything. I will get all the documentary evidence, the quotes, the case diaries, the autopsy reports . . .’

  Reluctantly, Bhagwan said, ‘Fine, work on it. But I am making no promises. I want proof. Facts. Checked and cross-checked.’ Then he added pompously, ‘No kite flying or trial balloons about the powers that be trying to cover-up the case without proper justification.’

  ‘But Dev said you wanted me to work on it!’ exclaimed Meera.

  ‘Work means put in the effort and get the facts. Now, will you leave my office or do I have to ask Koshy to remove you?’ asked Bhagwan, swivelling his chair away from her.

  ‘Thanks, Bhagwan!’ she blurted out excitedly.

  Meera was dismissed but she was walking on air. She had won!

  Wanting to savour the feeling for as long as possible, without the rude intrusion of the pond life of the National Express, Meera picked up her laptop and quietly left the Express building.

  Driving along home to Chanakyapuri, she had one of her usual mercurial mood swings and thought, Why is my life always like a jigsaw puzzle with parts missing?

  Her father opened the door. She quickly got into her shorts and sprawled on the bed. He asked her, ‘Did you really come home at 6 a.m. the other night? I had left the door open but Dadi saw you, and I had to tell her you had gone for a morning walk.’

  ‘Actually, I did. Thanks, Papa. I was dreading ringing the bell and facing Ma. I had gone to a party at the Khanna’s Chhatarpur farmhouse.’

  ‘With that boy, Jai?’

  ‘Yup, but he is not going to be around for much longer. He is dumb and boring,’ yawned Meera, trying miserably to cover up the deep gorge of pain she felt on being hurt by Jai.

  ‘And you are hot-tempered and judgemental,’ retorted her father.

  ‘I agree. Let’s not talk about idiots, including me. I think I may be on to a career-making story in the Nalwa case,’ said Meera excitedly.

  ‘You know, there is more to life than stories, Gudda,’ he said.

  ‘Nope, not for me, not right now. I had a huge fight with Bhagwan today. But I think, despite his dumb, huge ego, even he can’t stop this.’

  Meera’s father started laughing. ‘Dumb, huge ego? Sounds very familiar . . .’

  ‘Papa, quit mocking me,’ dimpled Meera. ‘You should have seen the obscene, near-profane display of wealth at the party. And they had even invited Mr Nalwa!’

  Looking at her intently, her father said, ‘Meera, you have to be less adventurous here. What I have heard is that Rama Kaushik is interested in the case. I am not quite sure of what the connection is yet, but please tread carefully.’

  Meera looked at him. The implication of what he said was dawning on her. ‘Papa, it won’t affect you will it? In the ministry?’ she asked anxiously, all her fizz from earlier seeming to evaporate.

  ‘Honestly, I do not know. You never know with the government, it’s full of schemers. It’s all a grey zone,’ he said seriously, his eyes and forehead screwed up with worry lines that were achingly familiar to Meera. She could trace the worry lines on her father’s forehead in her sleep.

  His anxiety tugged at her heart. But Meera also knew that that she really could not see beyond the story. And she knew with a curiously visceral feeling of foreboding that, for her, this would always be the case.

  ‘Now don’t say a word to Ma. You know she will fret. And you were home at around 12 a.m., remember that,’ said Papa.

  Hugging him hard, she thought about how she just wanted to make him proud—as proud as she was of him. All her life he had been her centre, the only person whom she wanted to become. She had inherited even his skills and reactions in her DNA. Sometimes, lying in bed next to him, she would compare her feet with his and marvel at how identical they were, down to the toes, and feel a hot rush of love. If the mercurial, hypercritical Meera loved somebody without reservation in the world, it was her father and her Dadi who had practically brought her up.

  Being ultra-thin-skinned and sensitive, she remembered his daily call
s from office to check whether she had lunch or not, his pain, fortitude—managing home and office—and never letting the balance falter. There were times as a child when she was sick and at home from school, and only wanted Papa not Ma to take leave from work and take care of her. Then she remembered the first beer he had let her drink and how he taught her to reverse the car. The carousel of memories always made her cry, causing a funny little tug of awareness of her heart. She could map her life and heart from the expressions on his face.

  And now was her investigation into the Nalwa case going to jeopardize his position in the government?

  Meera suddenly lost her appetite and experienced a familiar sense of loss. The sentence that had been ringing through her head while driving—‘My life is a jigsaw puzzle with several parts missing’—was going round and round her head again.

  She was already supposed to go and see Rama Kaushik, and would have to convince him that she was not planning to budge an inch with regard to her investigation into the Nalwa murder and she would tolerate no ‘funny business’ involving her family. But Rama Kaushik, who was utterly cold-blooded and thought only about his own rise, would have to be convinced that by appearing to do the right thing, it would make him look good and buttress his credentials to be in the North Block again—his dream.

  Thinking, as she lay in bed after listlessly picking on her food, Meera couldn’t find any peace. Introspection did not come easily to the hot-headed journalist but, for once, she thought about the consequence of her actions.

  Could Mr Nalwa have made sure that his cabinet contact stopped the story via his willing acolyte, Bhagwan? What was Mr Nalwa’s hold on all these powerful people, who seemed to have banded together to save the couple? Meera discounted the cheap bazaar Delhi gossip about the so-called all-powerful link, because why on earth would they care or be involved if the Nalwas had a hand in what happened to their child? The Nalwas did have a clear link to the political powers as she had guessed but, she wondered, maybe it was because he was just their family lawyer on retainer.

  Meera’s mind was a whirl and sleep, her permanent vanquisher, had now vanished as her overworked brain fired synapses.

  Grappling with the lack of sleep and irritation, Meera texted Singh to see if he was awake. She sent him a message but the phone remained obstinately silent and Meera felt an obscure sense of hurt. Why were all these people so content and unaffected by all the trouble that they caused around them? Singh seemed to keep agonizing over the case and yet did nothing. Rama Kaushik clearly had his own agenda. Shoe Polish just wanted to be the commissioner of police at any cost. Bhagwan, whose uncouth bullying reflected his fragile ego. And the Nalwas, the most complex part of the equation, whose life now was immeasurably worse than their daughter’s death.

  She also wondered about this obsession she had developed with getting page one fliers at any cost. The fliers never lasted longer than a day. Did she need another junkie fix? Was she just dressing it up as something bigger than that? Meera was honest and exacting with herself, and realized she actually didn’t like what she was becoming.

  That admission, weirdly enough, finally brought the sleep that she had long been craving.

  Glugging down her cold coffee in the morning, she remembered that she had to go and see Rama Kaushik that day. The thought did nothing to improve her mood.

  Rama Kaushik’s house boasted of having a single guard who would not stop or ask anyone whether they were expected. Rama Kaushik refused to run around in the cherry-topped, hoary, old Ambassador car, which was the ultimate status symbol among Delhi’s power set. He only used it to go to office and return, and disdained its use in, what he described in his own legalese, as his ‘private capacity’. His ‘friends’ provided him ‘sexy cars’ for his ‘sexy’ activities. His favourite story was about how he had once pulled up the most lordly maharaja in his party (political party here) about his genuflecting aides and claimed that he told the maharaja to allow them to address him by his name.

  Since the maharaja was no longer around to dispute the story, Rama Kaushik’s admirers thought this made him so ‘modern and egalitarian’.

  12

  Driving straight into the long, winding driveway of the Luytens’ bungalow, set opposite a beautiful tomb, after being waved through by the guard, Meera thought Rama Kaushik’s house was as compartmentalized and sure as the man himself. If you were expected, the guard was not supposed to ask you a single question; otherwise, you would not be allowed entry. Meera considered it was typical of Rama Kaushik’s brilliance and, unlike the other power junkies, he had ensured that security was minimal, non-invasive and did not cost a bomb. He had expressed his contempt for the ostentatious security beloved by all political leaders.

  When Meera reached, the minister, who was possibly more obsessed with punctuality than she was, was pacing up and down the large, beautifully maintained lawn. The grass seemed like it had been mowed to match his exacting standards.

  ‘I am five minutes early,’ she pointed out.

  Giving her a rare smile, Rama Kaushik said, ‘Only two. Come in, come in. What trouble have you been creating? It’s now time that you turned into a desperate housewife.’

  ‘Not in this lifetime!’ she retorted.

  Leading her to his beautiful living room, with its mouth-wateringly beautiful, large Souza canvases, Rama Kaushik asked, ‘Coffee or tea?’

  ‘I never drink that foul beverage called tea. Don’t you drink coffee?’ asked Meera with a smile.

  ‘No, I like tea. Just because I am a south Indian, you assumed I drink coffee? Only lazy minds make assumptions,’ he said. Then looking straight at her, he asked, ‘Now, tell me, why are you ferreting around in the Nalwa case?’

  Surprised at being asked in such a straightforward way, Meera blushed a bright red and wondered why Rama Kaushik was so interested. Apart from an all-consuming hate for the PM, who had taken away his beloved finance ministry what normally occupied Rama Kaushik were stratospheric matters involving his ever-upward rise in the constellation. Why did the mere Nalwa murder case interest him so?

  But she didn’t take long to recover. Doing a typical Meera, she asked bluntly, ‘Why are you interested?’

  Rama Kaushik, who matched Meera dimple for dimple and who was not used to being challenged, said mildly, ‘I just heard about it. Can’t I be curious?’ Looking her straight in the eye, he then added even more mildly, ‘Isn’t your father in my ministry?’

  Meera’s hands clenched into fists as she involuntarily tensed and said, ‘Yes, he is. But what does that have to do with my investigation into the Nalwa case?’

  ‘Nothing, I was just curious. You never told me.’

  Tossing her hair back, Meera said, ‘I never tell anyone I meet professionally. Why should I? I don’t want the uncles and aunties to help me. I want to make it on my own.’

  ‘Quite admirable!’ said Rama Kaushik, giving her a beatific grin.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ retorted Meera sharply. ‘I meant it.’

  ‘Why have you turned into such a prickly pear, young lady?’ he protested. ‘It’s most unattractive and does not suit you. As far as the Nalwa case is concerned, I have heard reports that you are obsessed with it and are trying to prove her parents are the culprits.’

  ‘Of course they are and now the whole establishment is trying to help them cover it up.’

  ‘Really? And why would they do that?’ he asked reasonably.

  Unfazed Meera retorted, ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything because what you are saying is not true,’ said Rama Kaushik, still aiming for calm and smiling at her with his trademark grin, which almost always worked as a soothing balm. Meera, it seemed, was another matter, as she was still not seeing reason, as he put it to himself.

  ‘Look, the plausible theory here is the father caught her in bed with her cousin and probably killed her accidentally. That it was an honour killing. The wife appears to be a complete nutter who seems to think
, for reasons unknown, that the sun shines out of his arse and she would tell any lie he wanted. So there’s his cover-up right there!’ said Meera passionately.

  Rama Kaushik’s beatific smile did not waver as he said, ‘Assuming this wild theory is true, which not for a minute do I believe, why would we cover up? It’s not the end of the government if a couple is convicted for murder?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand. Why the kid gloves for the Nalwas?’ said Meera eagerly.

  Yawning elaborately as if he had lost interest in the subject, he said, ‘I thought you were more intelligent than this. This is silly. Some dumb policeman is feeding you this tripe to try and settle scores, and maybe rip-off a rich couple. That is typical police behaviour.’

  Meera realized her options were running out. Rama Kaushik had warned her in his polished, gentlemanly way—the threat delivered with gentle but deadly precision. She wondered desperately what would happen if she refused to fall in line.

  Smiling at him, she asked, ‘So, how is it going with the PM?’

  Rama Kaushik was too clever to press the point. He smiled smugly and said, ‘I do my job and that man, who has lost all his credibility, has no option but to treat me well. You know when a man joins as economic advisor in the government, he has all his stuffing knocked out of him as he is made to realize his lowly place in the world. This one, of course, had no backbone to begin with.’

  Recovering his genteel manner as he realized that he had gotten carried away in his hatred, Rama Kaushik said, ‘I feel let down, you know, sad for the country. It is such a series of missed opportunities. We have ruined the economy, we are back at a 3 per cent rate of growth.’

  Smiling widely, Meera told him, ‘You should be the PM.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I have no ambition, never had any. I only want to teach, write and travel in the time I have left. The only problem is that the so-called mass leaders of my party know as much about policy as a telephone directory,’ he smirked.