Revolution 2020 (31 page)

‘They’ll
find someone else then?’

‘The DM’s
family will definitely win,’ he said. ‘People love them.’
‘They aren’t interested,’ I said.

‘How close are
you to her?’ His sharp question had me in a dither.

I never lie to
Shukla-ji. However, I didn’t want to give him specifics about
Aarti and me either.

I kept quiet.

‘You like
her?’ he said.

‘Leave it,
Shukla-ji. You know I am immersed in my work,’ I said, evading
the topic.

‘I am talking
about work only, you silly boy,’ Shukla-ji said.

‘What?’
I said, amazed by how the MLA sustained his zest for politics even in
jail.

‘You marry
her. If that broken-legged DM can’t contest and the daughter
won’t, the son-in-law will.’

‘What? What
makes you say that?’

‘I have spent
twenty-five years in Indian politics. It is obvious that is what they
will do. Wait and watch, they will marry her off soon.’

‘Her parents
are pestering her for marriage.’

‘Marry her.
Contest the election and win it.’

I kept quiet.

‘Do you
realise where your GangaTech will be if you become an MLA? I will be
back one day, anyway, maybe from another constituency. And if both of
us are in power, we will rule this city, maybe the state. Her
grandfather even served as CM for a while!’

‘I haven’t
thought about marriage yet,’ I lied.

‘Don’t
think. Do it. You think she will marry you?’ he asked.

I shrugged my
shoulders.

‘Show her
mother your car and money. Don’t take dowry. Even if the
daughter doesn’t agree, the mother will.’

‘Shukla-ji?
Me, a politician?’

‘Yes.
Politician, businessman and educationist - power, money and respect -
perfect combination. You are destined for big things. I knew it the
day you entered my office,’ he said.

Shukla-ji poured
some Black Label whisky into two glasses. He asked the guard to get
ice. I kept quiet and sat thoughtfully while he prepared the drinks.
Sure, power is never a bad thing in India. To get anything done, you
need power. Power meant people would pay me money, rather than me
paying money to get things done. GangaTech could become ten times its
size. Plus, I loved Aarti anyway. I would marry her eventually, so
why not now? Besides, she had somewhat hinted at it. I let out a
sigh.

I fought my low
self-esteem.
It's
okay,
Gopal
, I
told myself.
You
are
meant
for
bigger
things.
Just
because
you
didn
’
t
get
an
AIEEE
rank,
just
because
you
didn't
remember
the
molecular
formula,
doesn
’
t
mean
you
can
’
t
do
great
things
in
life.
After all, I
had opened a college, lived in a big house and had an expensive car.

Shukla-ji handed me
the drink.

‘I can get the
girl,’ I said.

‘Cheers to
that, Mr Son-in-law!’ Shukla-ji raised his glass.

B
usy?’
I said.

I had called Aarti
at work. A tourist was screaming at her because the water in his room
was not hot enough. Aarti kept me on hold while the guest cursed in
French.

‘I can call
later,’ I said.

‘It’s
fine. Housekeeping will take care of it. My ears are hurting!’
Aarti said, rattled by all the screaming.

‘You will own
a college one day. You won’t have to do this anymore.’

‘It’s
okay, Gopal. I really like my job. Sometimes we have weirdos. Anyway,
what’s up?’

‘How did the
dinner go?’

‘Boring. I
dozed off on the table when the fifth guy wanted to inform me of the
Pradhan family’s duty towards the party’

‘Any
conclusion on the ticket?’

‘It’s
politics, Director sir, things aren’t decided so fast. Anyway,
election is next year.’

‘You said
something when you were saying bye,’ I said.

I could almost see
her smile. ‘Did I?’ she said.

‘Something
about your husband becoming the MLA?’

‘Could be,
why?’ she said, her voice child-like.

‘I wonder if I
could apply?’ I said.

‘For the
husband or MLA?’ she said.

‘I don’t
know. Whichever has a shorter waitlist,’ I said.

Aarti laughed.

‘For husband
the queue is rather long,’ she said.

‘I am a bit of
a queue jumper,’ I said.

‘That you
are,’ she said. ‘Okay, another guest coming. Speak
later?’

‘I’m
going to visit Raghav soon.’

‘I have
stopped talking to him,’ she said. She didn’t protest
against my proposed meeting with him. I took it as her consent.

‘Intentionally?’
I said.

‘Yeah, we had
a bit of a tiff. I normally fix things up, I didn’t bother this
time.’

‘Good,’
I said. ‘So what’s the tourist saying?’

‘She’s
Japanese. They are polite. She will wait until I finish my call.’

‘Tell her you
are on the phone with your husband.’

‘Shut up.
Bye.’

‘Bye,’ I
said and kissed the phone. I opened the calendar on my desk and
marked the coming Friday as the day for my meeting with Raghav.

                                                              ♦

I pressed the nozzle
of a Gucci perfume five times to spray my neck, armpits and both
wrists. I wore a new black shirt and a custom-made suit for the
occasion. I put on my Ray-Ban glasses and looked at myself in the
mirror. The sunglasses seemed a bit too much, so I hung them from my
shirt pocket.

I had taken the day
off on Friday. Dean sir wanted to bore me with a report of the
academic performance of the students in the first term. I needed an
excuse to get out anyway.

All the best. Avoid
hurt as much as possible, Aarti had messaged me.

I assured her that I
would handle the situation well. From her side, she had messaged him
a ‘we need to talk’ equivalent and he had responded with
a ‘not the best time’ message - exactly the kind of stuff
that irked her about him in the first place.

I told my driver to
go to Nadeshar Road, where Raghav’s place of work was.

One could easily
miss the
Revolution
2020
office in the midst of
so many auto-repair shops. Raghav had rented out a garage. The office
had three areas - a printing space inside, his own cubicle in the
middle and a common area for staff and visitors at the entrance.

‘May I help
you?’ a teenager asked me.

‘I am here to
meet Raghav,’ I said.

‘He’s
with people,’ the boy said. ‘What is this about?’

I looked inside the
garage. Raghav’s office had a partial glass partition. He sat
on his desk. A farmer with a soiled turban and a frail little boy sat
opposite Raghav. The father-son duo looked poor and dishevelled.
Raghav listened to them gravely, elbows on the table.

‘It’s
personal,’ I told the teenager before me.

‘Does he know
you are coming?’

‘No, but he
knows me well,’ I said.

Raghav noticed me
then and stepped out of his cabin.

‘Gopal?’
Raghav said, surprised. If he was upset with me, he didn’t show
it.

Raghav wore a
T-shirt with a logo of his newspaper and an old pair of jeans. He
looked unusually hip for someone in a crisis.

‘Can we talk?’
I said.

‘What
happened?’ Raghav said. ‘MLA Shukla sent you?’

‘No,’ I
said. ‘Actually, it is personal.’

‘Can you give
me ten minutes?’ he said.

‘I won’t
be long,’ I said.

‘I am really
sorry. But these people have travelled a hundred kilometres to meet
me. They have had a tragedy. I’ll finish soon.’

I looked back into
his office. The child now lay in his father s lap. He seemed sick.

‘Fine,’
I said and checked the time.

‘Thanks. Ankit
here will take care of you,’ he said.

The teenager smiled
at me as Raghav went inside.

‘Please sit,’
Ankit said, pointing to the spare chairs. I took one right next to
Raghav s office.

I chatted with Ankit
to pass time.

‘Nobody else
here?’ I said.

‘We had two
more staff members,’ Ankit said, ‘who left after the
office was ransacked. Their parents didn’t feel it was safe
anymore. As it is, salaries are delayed.’

‘Why haven’t
you left?’ I said.

Ankit shook his
head. ‘I want to be there for Raghav sir,’ he said.

‘Why?’ I
said.

‘He is a good
person,’ Ankit said.

I smiled even though
his words felt like stabs.

‘The office
doesn’t look that bad,’ I said.

‘We cleaned it
up. The press is broken though. We don’t have a computer
either.’

‘You did such
a big story,’ I said. ‘They fired an MLA because of you
guys.’

Ankit gave me a
level look. ‘The media ran with the story because they wanted
to. But who cares about us?’

‘How are you
operating now?’ I said.

Ankit opened a
drawer in the desk. He took out a large sheet of paper with
handwritten text all over it.

‘Sir writes
the articles, I write the matrimonials. We make photocopies and
distribute as many as we can.’

‘How many?’
I said.

‘Four hundred
copies. It’s handwritten and photocopied; obviously not many
people like that in a paper.’

I scanned the A3
sheet. Raghav had written articles on the malpractices by ration
shops in Varanasi. He had hand-drawn a table that showed the official
rate, the black market rate and the money pocketed by the shopkeeper
for various commodities. I flipped the page. It had around fifty
matrimonials, meticulously written by hand.

‘Four hundred
copies? How will you get ads with such a low circulation?’

Ankit shrugged and
did not answer. ‘I have to go to the photocopy shop,’ he
said instead. ‘Do you mind waiting alone?’

‘No problem, I
will be fine,’ I said, sitting back. I checked my phone. I had
a message from Aarti: ‘Whatever you do. Be kind.’

I kept the phone
back in my pocket. I felt hot in my suit. I realised nobody had
switched on the fan.

‘Where’s
the switch?’ I asked Ankit.

‘No power,
sorry. They cut off the connection.’ Ankit left the office,

I removed my jacket
and undid the top two buttons of my shirt. I considered waiting in my
car instead of this dingy place. However, it would be too cumbersome
to call the driver again. I had become too used to being in
air-conditioned environs. The hot room reminded me of my earlier days
with Baba. As did, for some reason, the little boy in the other room
who slept in his fathers lap.

I looked again from
the corner of my eye. The farmer had tears in his eyes. I leaned in
to listen.

‘I have lost
one child and my wife. I don t want to lose more members of my
family. He is all I have,’ the man said, hands folded.

‘Bishnu-ji, I
understand,’ Raghav said. ‘My paper did a huge story on
the Dimnapura plant scam. They broke our office because of it.’

‘But you come
and see the situation in my village, Roshanpur. There’s sewage
everywhere. Half the children are sick. Six have already died.’

‘Roshanpur has
another plant. Maybe someone cheated the government there too,’
Raghav said.

‘But nobody is
reporting it. The authorities are not doing anything. You are our
only hope,’ the farmer said. He took off his turban and put it
on Raghav s desk.

‘What are you
doing, Bishnu-ji?’ Raghav said, giving the turban back to the
hapless man. ‘I am a nobody. My paper is at the verge of
closing down. We distribute a handful of handwritten copies, most of
which go into dustbins’*

‘I told my son
you are the bravest, most honest man in this city,’ Bishnu
said, his voice quivering with emotion.

Raghav gave a smile
of despair. ‘What does that mean anyway?’ he said.

‘If the
government can at least send some doctors for our children, we don’t
care if the guilty are punished or not,’ the man said.

Raghav exhaled. He
scratched the back of his neck before he spoke again. ‘All
right, I will come to your village and do a story. It will be limited
circulation now. If my paper survives, we will do a big one again. If
not, well, no promises. Okay?’

‘Thank you,
Raghav-ji!’ There was such hope in his eyes, I couldn’t
help but notice.

‘And one of my
friends’ father is a doctor. I will see if he can go to your
village.’

Raghav stood up to
end the meeting. The man stood up too, which woke up his son, and
bent forward to touch Raghav's feet.

‘Please
don’t,’ Raghav said. ‘I have a meeting now. After
that, lets go to your village today itself. How far is it?’

‘A hundred and
twenty kilometres. You have to change three buses,’ the farmer
said. ‘Takes five hours maximum.’

‘Fine, please
wait then.’

Raghav brought them
- the man and his weak and sleepy son - outside the office.

‘Sit here,
Bishnu-ji,’ Raghav said and looked at me. ‘Two minutes,
Gopal? Let me clean up my office.’

I nodded. Raghav
went inside and sorted the papers on his desk.

The man sat on
Ankit’s chair, facing me. We exchanged cursory smiles.

‘What’s
his name?’ I said, pointing to the boy who was lying in his lap
once again.

‘Keshav,’
the farmer said, stroking his son’s head.

I nodded and kept
quiet. I played with my phone, flipping it up and down, up and down.
I felt for the duplicate Mercedes key in my pants pocket. I had
especially brought it for the occasion.