Daddy's Girl Page 12

  Twenty minutes later, Meera was wailing into the phone and wishing that she had not been born as Bhagwan screamed at her. First, the rotten date with that icy prig who was so proper that he was a virgin at thirty and then, Bhagwan. Could it get any worse?

  Winding up his tirade, Bhagwan told her, ‘I get one more complaint about you and you are history. You are wreaking havoc with my reputation and with the reputation of the National Express, which took decades to build. You do not work for some shady tabloid. Understood?’ He took fierce delight in hanging up on her.

  Meera was shaking with rage and tears, and wanted to quit immediately. She sat on her bed in utter despair, which tasted acrid in her mouth. This was immediately followed by the realization that she was utterly alone, as the silent tears flowed down her crumpled face. Who can I share this pain with? Nobody will understand. And why would I burden my parents?

  Finally, she gave herself a clumsy, dog-like shake and thought, I need to finish this story, if not for anything else, just to screw everyone’s happiness. And let me steal some Alprax from Ma’s stash so that I might sleep tonight.

  She couldn’t face going to office the next day, where the bush telegram would have already mysteriously transmitted her distress, and official pariah status and Bhagwan’s threat of firing her. She thought, I can’t bear Meetu and Shivani’s ghoulish, malicious delight.

  And Dev and the editorial team would shun her as if she was a plague carrier—so total was Bhagwan’s sway and their abject surrender to him. So she sent Dev a cryptic text message, simply saying, ‘Not coming in tomorrow or day after.’

  So now she had them, two days. And more than a couple of choices. Should she go down the lush path and drown her sorrows? Or maybe retail therapy? Or go to the bookshop in Jor Bagh and buy a dozen books under the kindly eye of the venerable K.D. Singh?

  She decided an oil massage and books were on the agenda, and she immediately felt better.

  The house had also been utterly neglected. A spot of screaming at the servants and getting things cleaned always made her feel good.

  Meera, forever the control freak, liked to have a plan.

  Her phone beeped; it was a message from the priapic Amit and read, ‘Baby doll, when are we having lunch? I want to cook for you.’

  Meera thought bitterly that cabinet ministers in this country must be woefully underemployed if this fucker has nothing better to do than cook for her. What a disgusting, dirty old man! Why couldn’t he fry his own balls and end the source of his troubles?

  She did not bother to answer the text.

  Now that she had some salve for her wounded pride, Meera went back to the old question which was haunting her. Clearly, Mr Nalwa had complained and while Bhagwan delighted in screaming at his minions for no rhyme or reason, just to feel his power, there had been a finality in his tone. That, coupled with Rama Kaushik’s genteel, veiled threats, made Meera feel that she would reach a dead end if she tried to investigate the Nalwa story further.

  Flooded with a sense of an ending, she could feel fresh bile, tasting like acid, rising in her mouth. Meera had to admit to herself that she did not know what to do. Was this what the end of the road felt like?

  Actually it felt like numbing nothingness, even the pain wouldn’t come. Maybe, this is the narco-dullness which symbolizes that you are a grown-up with the ability to be numb to your own pain or anybody else’s, she thought to herself.

  She wondered what she would do next. ‘I can’t really carry on in the National Express suffering like this. Is there nothing else in my life? God, how many years I have wasted!’ She was still numb. Normally, the emotions so quick to the surface, just would not register.

  She felt completely powerless. She had always fancied that she was so smart. Well, this really proved the contrary, didn’t it? she thought wryly. She suddenly felt a longing to go to the ancient Hanuman temple, which she always visited with her Dadi.

  The longing for a higher power, which she had always ridiculed, finally made her laugh. ‘How tragic I have become! The next thing down the slippery slope would be to do an Amitabh Bachchan temple scene from Deewar. Quit being ridiculous, Ms Upadhyaya!’ she scolded herself.

  This was not going to be easy. And she was not going to make it any easier for the others.

  14

  Earlier, Meera had always tried to bargain with Hanumanji, a kind of roll of dice with fate. This time she did not want to bother. Fatigue was overwhelming her. Nothing ever really works out for me, she thought. I do not really fit in anywhere. All my life all I have done is struggle and survive. Where is all the joy and love that is allegedly part of our birthright? Maybe this struggle to survive has wrung dry my soul and left me incapable of giving or receiving love. This was a rare, reflective Meera. She had always buried her real pain and loneliness under her maniacal adherence to regimented routine and bossiness.

  Maybe Mr Nalwa and I are twins, under the skin. Both don’t let anything interfere with our goal, she thought mirthlessly.

  Suddenly, Ram Prasad, their help, stuck his head inside the door and said ‘Baby, sahib bula rahein hain.’

  Walking like an old woman, holding her body stiff, Meera entered the living room to see her father.

  Looking at her, he smiled and said, ‘Gudda, do you want to get married?’

  Surprised, Meera said, ‘Only to a very rich guy. But what’s happened? Why are you asking, Papa?’

  ‘Just thought I would ask you, before you bring some shady, shabby journalist home.’

  ‘You know I would never do that. They clearly cannot support me, in the style that I plan to become accustomed to!’ retorted Meera flippantly, ensuring that he would not see her misery.

  ‘That’s good to know.’ Her father nodded. ‘On that note, do you want to go to the India International Centre for a drink and lunch? Just you and me?’

  ‘Sure!’ said Meera, brightening up. ‘Can we also go to the mandir? Just do a drive by?’

  She did not need to tell him which temple they would have to go to. In their home, ‘mandir’ was shorthand for the Hanuman temple.

  Not letting his surprise show, he said, ‘Sure, we can.’

  Meera, ever the anal driver, felt relaxed and safe only when it was either her or her father behind the wheel. Otherwise, she would scream like the archetypical back-seat driver, with an iron hand nervously clamping the safety grabs and a foot resting on an imaginary brake.

  They stopped near the temple, drew down the window and said a silent prayer.

  At IIC, they went to the main dining hall, which was peopled with the usual bunch of geriatric members, some of them, incredibly enough, in wheelchairs.

  They were the usual sibilant whispers and cantankerous complaints to the waiters, who were quite creaky at the joints themselves and not very keen to push themselves for the meagre tips. The tips were proffered with shaky hands and Meera irreverently maintained that they were index-linked to the 1960s and the high point of the Soviet era.

  A waiter arthritically bent down near Meera and apologetically whispered, asking her to not laugh so loudly. She looked at him incredulously and burst out laughing even louder. He reluctantly joined in the laughter and said even more softly, ‘The couple at the next table say your laughter is disturbing them.’

  Meera looked around and saw a choleric-looking couple, indistinguishable from one another, glaring at her. She smiled sweetly at them and that annoyed the couple so much that it quite put them off their caramel custards.

  After ordering two Bloody Marys, with no Vaidehiji around to look martyred, Meera told her father all about what Rama Kaushik had said and Bhagwan telling her off.

  He listened attentively and then said slowly, ‘Bhagwan is a typical power broker, unscrupulous, will always be prepared to sell himself to the highest bidder. It is known that he and Rama Kaushik have a deal; he is supposed to project Rama Kaushik as PM and then Bhagwan gets his Rajya Sabha seat, which is the one thing he is desperate for.’
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br />   Meera nodded. It made sense. ‘But why are they all out to protect Mr Nalwa? In his case, it’s almost crime and nourishment. The way they have banded together to ensure he gets away.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to keep working for the paper after all this? I don’t think you are happy there,’ said her father.

  ‘I hate it. I hate the pompous fool, Bhagwan, and all his vulgar preening, but you know how bloody minded I am. I don’t want to quit halfway. It will feel like I have lost without doing anything wrong. I just want to do my job,’ said Meera passionately.

  Amused by her candid admission, her father said, ‘Don’t scream; you will disturb the other guests.’

  Half smiling, Meera asked for another drink.

  After the drink came, they ordered their food, in utter agreement as to what they wanted, which was never the case when the two other members of the family were present.

  Luxuriating in the solace she had found at lunch with her father, Meera asked idly, ‘I have to find out why Mr Nalwa is so important to these people? He is an utter freak and would be a risky proposition for them to punt on. In any case, he is a lawyer; how is he so relevant to their machinations?’

  Enjoying the food, her father, one of whose chief pleasures in life was indulging in gustatory delights, said, ‘Eat something. I just don’t understand why you want to have a liquid lunch. And stop glugging the bloodies.’

  ‘I love them and there is potassium in the tomato, so I have covered all the basic food groups!’ giggled Meera, rosy-cheeked and flushed with the temporary benediction of the alcohol.

  ‘No more,’ said her father. ‘Now eat something or you will get a migraine for sure.’

  Looking at her crestfallen face, he relented a bit and said, ‘Why don’t you ask your friend Singh about your grand obsession. I think he may be able to tell you something new.’

  Meera immediately piped up, ‘You think so? I will ask. Now, may I have another drink?’

  ‘No, Gudda, you may not. I normally don’t like to preach, but anything in excess is silly and do you really want to go down that route what with all the examples in our family?’

  Sobering up instantly, Meera nodded and said reluctantly, ‘You know, all this massive self-control you and I practise . . . it is going to burst the dam one day.’

  ‘It hasn’t for me till date and it won’t for you. Addiction is a stupid thing.’

  ‘Okay, baap. Can I at least eat the fig and honey ice cream or is that also a part of the grand self-denial we practise?’ pouted Meera.

  ‘Have two, Gudda, and two drinks. That’s all your capacity is—hardly Gandhian abstinence. This propensity of yours for grand exaggeration makes you a good journo,’ he said, beckoning the waiter.

  After they left IIC, Meera called Singh. He did not pick up the phone and ten minutes later, called back from an unknown number. Sounding tense, he said, ‘Don’t call my phone, do not come home or to the office. Come to Lodi Gardens at 6 p.m. I will meet you near the main tomb.’ He hung up abruptly.

  Intrigued and worried, Meera suffered bouts of gnawing anxiety all day. This would be the last straw if her only genuine source were to dry up.

  Word of her protest leave had trickled into the National Express office, leading to even wilder speculation than the usual toxic babble. Raman called pretending to be concerned, but hoping that Meera would quit her job and another rival would bite the dust.

  Meera played it cool and was maddeningly vague, which got his hopes up. ‘Anjali and Meetu are hoping and praying you quit; they were abusing you today saying you had it so easy being born with a silver spoon and being Bhagwan’s blue–eyed reporter,’ he said.

  Sure, buddy, and you nodded right along, Meera thought to herself but said nothing aloud.

  Irritated at her lack of reaction, Raman said, ‘You know, I think Rama Kaushik is leaking to Anjali but more in the nature of bodily fluids than a source would leak to us.’

  Sickened by his patronizing, sexist rubbish, especially after he had just implied that her whole career was due to her connections, Meera snapped, ‘Fuck you. Anjali is disgusting but, honestly, why do you guys make up such excuses for your own failures? I have never got a break because of my so-called connections! I need to hang up now. Bye.’

  Good work, Meeraji, she thought. Your temper has just cost you a rare ally. Sod it, he was a fuckwit. She was unrepentant.

  Reaching Lodi Gardens at 6 p.m., she parked her car and hurried inside. The park was overflowing as usual; the only ones who looked peaceful were the overfed strays who were snoring away blissfully, waiting for the human occupants to leave their temporary custody of the park. Since Singh lived five minutes away from Lodi Gardens, it was strange that he wanted to meet Meera in the park and not at his house.

  Meera saw Singh, his paunchy figure outlined in the darkness, and noticed that his walking clothes were as terrible as his police office clothes, and both failed spectacularly at concealing his paunch.

  She walked up to him and saw he looked like somebody had kicked him in the rectum. ‘Singh sahib, what has happened?’ she asked softly.

  Not meeting her eyes, Singh said, ‘Meera, I think you have got me into terrible trouble. Did you tell Rama Kaushik that I had given you information? I think a case has been registered against me under the Officials Secrets Act.’

  Meera’s mind reeled. She spoke passionately, ‘I swear, Singh sahib, I have never told anyone. And I never will. But Rama Kaushik and Bhagwan seem to know a lot and they are doing everything they can to bail out the Nalwas.’

  Singh’s shoulders slumped as some of the tension seemed to drain away. He said softly, ‘I believe you. Then it must be phone taps and their suspicion that I was not going to let the case slide.’

  ‘But have they told you anything?’ asked Meera.

  ‘Not officially, but I have a meeting with the CP early tomorrow morning by the bastard’s standards, and from what a batchmate in the IB told me, a case has been registered and three of your stories have been cited.’

  ‘If the assholes get in touch, I promise you I won’t say a word, and let them see what they can do in court if they summon me,’ said Meera.

  ‘Okay. Now, I am trusting you. Do not call me; I will get in touch if necessary.’

  Meera felt a wave of overwhelming dismay; after all this effort, she had lost her source anyway. Singh prepared to walk away when he let out an audible groan. Meera swung around, wondering what new disaster had hit them. She saw the home secretary and his daughter walking on the path and looking at them with undisguised interest.

  ‘This does it. My career is over. He will have to take a call on the OSA case and he has now actually seen us together,’ said Singh softly.

  Meera said sharply, ‘Stop it. Quit moaning. I know him and I can fix this. Wait for me in the car park.’

  Quickening her pace, she caught up with Keshav Rao and said pleasantly, ‘Hi, how are you? Fab weather for a walk. How are you, Vasanthi?’

  Rao looked at her and said with a poker face, ‘Did I just see you talking to a senior Delhi police officer?’

  Meera smiled and said, ‘Of course you did, and if an OSA case is registered against him and the IB comes calling in the Nalwa case, I shall be happy to name you as my source.’

  Rao laughed. He had always liked her chutzpah. ‘Meera, relax. You are a friend. I think the OSA should be applied in matters of grave national security not politically fixed cases. I haven’t even seen you today and you can tell your friend that.’

  And with that, the 6 foot 3 inch tall, exceedingly fit Maharashtra cadre IAS officer increased his pace and loped off.

  Sighing with relief, Meera ran to the parking lot and saw Singh pacing up and down anxiously. She ran up to him and said, ‘It’s going to be fine, really. I fixed it. I said if he allowed them to register the case, I would say he was my source.’

  Relief lighting his eyes, Singh smiled for the first time that day, ‘Meera, I think I may have underestim
ated you. You are a brave girl and a resourceful one too. Okay, take this number and call me. But only in case of a real urgency. And do not give up the story.’

  Still panting from her running and her incoherent rush to reassure Singh, Meera said, ‘I do not give up stories, Mr Singh. Quite persistent that way. See you.’

  As Singh walked off, he suddenly turned and took Meera by surprise as she was opening her car’s door. Surprised, she asked, ‘Do you want me to drop you?’

  Singh nodded reluctantly and clambered in, resembling a beached whale. After he managed to get the seat belt on with great difficulty, while Meera squirmed with embarrassment, she started the car.

  Suddenly, Singh said in a great rush, ‘Don’t give up; they did it. And I will file that charge sheet even if I get sacked.’ He paused before speaking up again. ‘Meera, there is something I need to tell you. Arjun Nalwa was expelled from IIT for nearly killing one of his classmates. He used to deal with drugs on campus . . . When his classmate found out and taunted him about it in public, Mr Nalwa lost his temper and started beating the boy up. He battered him to a pulp and the victim barely survived the incident. He was rusticated from the college the next day. He fled to Chandigarh where he met Mrs Nalwa’s father. He charmed his way into winning the industrialist’s trust and convinced him to fund his start-up. Eventually, Nalwa ended up marrying Cuckoo Bindra too.’

  Singh’s house loomed before her in the gathering dusk and Meera felt she couldn’t breathe. Before she could open her mouth, he left the car with the silky smooth grace of a burglar, which always surprised Meera to her clumsy core.

  Meera’s head was spinning; she laid her head down on the steering wheel. Finally, to her dazed relief it made some kind of sense—grotesque sense, but sense nevertheless.

  So now she knew. But could she tell anyone?

  She wanted to hang on to this information for the next time Bhagwan pulled rank or Mr Nalwa tried to get her sacked. The thought made Meera smile with pure joy.