Chankya's Chant (19 page)

It was a Sunday morning and Chandini and Geoffrey were seated in the Holywell Music Room, the oldest purpose-built concert hall in Europe. Opened in 1748, the elegant hall had hosted some of the world’s greatest musicians and composers, including Haydn and Handel. Sunday mornings saw Holywell playing host to the Oxford Coffee Concerts. The very best musicians and ensembles from around the world performed in the absolutely stunning setting.

Chandini’s taste in music had been influenced by the rhythms of Bollywood and she had initially found Geoffrey’s appetite for Bach, Beethoven and Mozart rather insipid. But she soon fell in love with the simple and unadulterated sounds of the organ and violin.

The violinist was performing Vivaldi’s
Concerto in A Minor
accompanied by a string quartet and an organist. Geoffrey grazed her hand lightly. The artiste then went into a beautiful rendition of Bruch’s
Scottish Fantasy
. Geoffrey took her hand in his and held it tightly. By the time the performance had moved on to Beethoven’s
Violin Concerto in D Major
, his hand was on her thigh. They did not stay on for Bach’s
Chaconne
from
Partita in D Minor
.

The fan creaked as it completed one more strenuous revolution but threw off no air. The man seated under it threw off lots. He was seated on a dirty white plastic chair that had seen better days. In front of him stood a shaky table, covered with a sheet of soiled yellow plastic. Another two even more squalid plastic chairs— supposedly for visitors—sat opposite him.

Sub-inspector Brij Lal ran his police station like his personal fiefdom. To the left of his durbar was the men’s lockup, from which a foul stench emanated. To the right was the women’s lockup, dark and isolated. Towards the centre of his office was a steel storage cabinet bursting with case files that had been partially eaten—and digested—by rats. On his plastic-covered desk was an ancient rotary phone that didn’t work and a bottle of whisky that did. Brij Lal took another gulp from his glass and wondered how he should approach the problem.

Instructions had travelled from the home minister of Uttar Pradesh to the director-general of police. The latter had relayed them to the deputy inspector-general who, in turn, had briefed the senior superintendent of police.

The chain of command had descended to the additional superintendent who had instructed the deputy superintendent who had ordered the circle officer who had commanded the senior inspector who had directed sub-inspector Brij Lal—at the very end of the food chain— to do whatever was necessary to get the inmate to talk. The inmate was a known associate of Ikrambhai—the mayor of Kanpur—and had run Ikram’s extortion racket for him.

During the reign of Ikram’s buddy, the police commissioner, no one would have dared to pick up any of Ikram’s men, but now things were different. The Uttar Pradesh home minister possessed definite information that the police commissioner had purposely screwed around and allowed the political conflagration between himself and Rajjo Bhaiya to flare up. The police commissioner had been unceremoniously booted out. The home minister now wanted a conviction to screw Ikram, no matter how many balls had to be crushed in the process.

Sub-inspector Brij Lal took another swig, stretched back in his chair and farted. The food in the police canteen did not augur well for his system—the grub was full of germs. That’s why he needed liberal doses of whisky to kill the bacteria in his intestines. At length, he got up, yelled at one of his constables to accompany him and sauntered over to the solitary-confinement cell where Ikram’s unfortunate henchman was being hosted. The cell, a ten-by-ten room without even a light bulb, had a worm-eaten blanket thrown in one corner, upon which sat the nervous and naked inmate. In one corner stood a wall, three feet in height, separating the cell from the latrine. Its well-planned location inside an unventilated lockup provided the unmistakable stink of piss.

Brij Lal held in his hand what he called his
samaaj sudharak
—the Hindi phrase for ‘social reformer’. His social reformer was a two-foot-long rubber belt attached to a wooden handle. He caught hold of his prisoner’s hair and hissed into his ears, ‘When we carry out our social reform programme with this, there are no fractures, no blood, no major peeling of the skin. Nothing will show up in your post mortem. But the pain will be excruciating. You will appeal to God repeatedly but He won’t listen. So, my friend, are you ready to be reformed?’

The confession was written up and signed within an hour. Gangasagar’s tip-off had done the trick—in addition to the samaaj sudharak.

‘Saar,’ began the young Keralite, his oily black hair slicked back carefully, ‘I am aa-nerd tomit you.’

‘You are aa-nerd tomit me?’ repeated Gangsagar, not too sure of what the young, dark, polite man had just said. He then realised that the south Indian was saying that he was
honoured to meet him
.

‘I studied in ko-liage yin Kerala, now looking to yearn many in job with you.’

Gangasagar did a mental translation.
I studied in a college in Kerala and am now looking to earn money in a job with you.

‘Why did you leave Kerala?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘I zimbly jembed at the chance of baying here in Yindian pulley-ticks.’
I simply jumped at the chance of being here in Indian politics
, translated Gangasagar to himself, as he smiled at the earnest young man.

‘What qualifications do you have?’

‘Yum Beey Yay.’

‘Ah! An MBA—good. I need someone who has management skills.’

‘I know, saar. You are very bissee man.’

‘Yes. I am busy but I still do manage fairly well on my own. I’ll give you a shot—something tells me that I won’t be sorry. Thousand rupees salary okay?’

‘Will it attract yingum tax?’

‘Income tax? I don’t think so. It would be below the minimum threshold,’ said Gangasagar smiling at his new secretary.

‘Sir. I have this friend. He’s a waiter. He’s waiting to meet you.’

‘Why would I want to meet him, Menon?’ asked Gangasagar, ignoring the accent. After several months, Gangasagar now found that he was speaking almost like Menon himself.

‘Sir. I think you should meet him. He can be very valuable.’

‘Why on earth would a waiter be of any value to me?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘Sir. He wants to join you.’

‘I have no need for a butler. Tell him to find someone else.’

‘No, no, sir. He doesn’t want a job. He wants to sell you something.’

‘What?’

‘Information.’

Gangasagar’s ears perked up.

‘Can I bring him inside? He’s been waiting for an hour,’ asked Menon.

‘Sure. Let’s meet him,’ said Gangasagar.

A young man—a Muslim from Kerala—was ushered in by the enthusiastic Menon. ‘Sir. This is Hameed. He’s a waiter at the Golden Gate bar here in Kanpur. Go on Hameed—tell sir your story,’ urged Menon.

The sub-judicial district magistrate yawned. It had been a long day hearing bail applications of inmates. He heard another defence lawyer argue a case that he knew nothing about and shouted ‘Bail denied!’ mid-sentence. The startled lawyer looked at him quizzically wondering why he hadn’t been given due hearing. He didn’t realise that the magistrate had made up his mind well before the hearing ever started.

The magistrate had a nasty little secret. He was married to a loving wife and had two sons, but his wife had ceased to excite him anymore. He had tried ayurvedic remedies to help his sagging libido but nothing worked. He visited brothels thinking that a little action on the side would kickstart things. The girls had ended up laughing at him. Fed up of his miserable existence, he sauntered into a bar and ordered himself a whisky-soda on ice. The waiter not only brought him his drink but also lots of peanuts and crisps. He left the bar that night along with the waiter only to realise that his brain was wired differently. His machinery was still in working order but it needed alternative current, not the straight kind. He was suddenly happy—and gay.

The waiter had soon realised that there was a profitable opportunity awaiting exploitation—his days of waiting tables, washing dishes and pacifying disgruntled customers at the Golden Gate bar seemed to be over. He was now the secret lover of the sub-judicial magistrate.

The magistrate’s nasty little secret wasn’t that he was a closet homosexual. The nasty little secret was that any case heard by the magistrate could be fixed for a price. His agent was the efficient waiter who had graduated from serving peanuts to delivering sentences—Hameed.

It was definite. The telltale signs were all there. It was certain that it was that time of the month when she had come to expect pain in her lower abdomen, spasms in her uterus, dizziness in her head, and bloating everywhere else. But the symptoms hadn’t arrived. She was quite definitely pregnant.

Terrified of the consequences, Chandini ran to Geoffrey’s college and waited for him outside until his lecture ended. He saw the expression in her green eyes and knew. Panic was written all over her face. He held her hand as they strolled into Headington Hill and allowed their feet to squelch the autumn leaves on the ground.

At length, she asked, ‘What shall we do, Geoffrey?’