bench. ‘Which temple?’ I ask.
Beads of sweat welt on her cheeks. What can I do? The effect of the khaki uniform is beyond my control. ‘Haanh, madam? Which temple you go to?’
‘… Siddhi Vinayak.’
Really? ‘Which god you pray to?’
‘… Krishna bhagwan.’
Krishna? What nonsense, there is no Krishna idol in Siddhi Vinayak. Every devout Hindu knows that.
I hand back her ID card and husband’s photo. I stand up. ‘Okay, madam, go. I will file the report.’
She looks up at me; she looks confused. ‘Just like that? Don’t you need more infor…’
‘Yes, madam, this is Hindustan, not Arabastan. Everything happens like this only. You go now, okay?’
She gets up hesitantly. ‘But…’
I join my raised hands with a loud clap. ‘Arrey-aye, madam, enough! If you do not like it here, take your miya-ji husband and go to Pakistan.’
She leaves.
On That Very Same Afternoon
GK lay on his bed, arms and legs entangled with his lover’s, their bodies so thoroughly enmeshed it was hard to tell them apart. The phone rang.
GK awoke, freeing himself from the snarl of limbs as his right arm reached for the receiver.
The caller was Balbir Pasha, the Assistant Commissioner of Police himself.
GK sat up. This had better be good. And it was. Balbir Pasha sounded nonchalant and to the point, like someone downplaying his own success, as he ‘suggested’ that GK get to Sanjay Gandhi Park ‘if’ he wanted to, because, well, the bodies wouldn’t be around for too long, and the ambulances were already on their way, and GK could stay where he was if he didn’t ‘wish’ to report how barely an hour ago Balbir Pasha and his unit had carried out one of the biggest ambushes on terrorists in months.
Rina, GK’s lover, placed a hand on his bare back; GKshrugged it off.
Like all bastards with authority, Balbir Pasha was now revealing his inability to draw the line: he wanted GK to be at the park in fifteen minutes, cameraman and all; sorry, that was all the time he would allow before inviting rival news channels to cover the event.
GK wasn’t intimidated. He only feared those whose price he didn’t know. Balbir Pasha’s was three lakhs—the amount he had taken from Breaking News, GK’s employer, in exchange for a promise to notify them first of any newsworthy event.
‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ GK informed the Assistant Commissioner of Police.
And what were he and his men to do until then, Balbir Pasha asked. The bodies had begun to bloat, flies were descending in droves and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he had even seen the MCBC News van prowling past the park looking for something to…
‘Ballu, I said I’ll be there in an hour,’ GK reiterated. He wasn’t afraid of sounding testy. GK had been there when Sir-ji, the sordid mogul who condescended to own Breaking News, had patted Balbir Pasha’s cheek at a party and said, ‘Ballu, look after us, yes?’ and the Assistant Commissioner of Police had let loose a torrent of deferential
ji-sirs.
GK smirked as Balbir Pasha hung up with the meekness befitting a Ballu.
Rina touched GK’s bare back once again. GK leapt to hisfeet to flee this woman attempting to turn a straightforward one-night stand into something icky. Sex, like food, could be had any way, any time, appetite notwithstanding. But intimacy, like flavor, was an indulgence—and unfortunately for GK there were some faces he just couldn’t see himself slobbering over.
‘I got to go. You’ll fax me the stuff, right?’ GK asked directly and brazenly.
Rina thumped her head back on the pillow. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Rina was a newspaper journalist working hard on the first big story of her year-old career—a story that she hoped would help rocket her standing, find her a well-placed husband and maybe, just maybe, bring down the state government. The day Rina’s story broke, a few hours after copies of
India Informer
had been home-delivered to thousands of subscribers, Breaking News
Beads of sweat welt on her cheeks. What can I do? The effect of the khaki uniform is beyond my control. ‘Haanh, madam? Which temple you go to?’
‘… Siddhi Vinayak.’
Really? ‘Which god you pray to?’
‘… Krishna bhagwan.’
Krishna? What nonsense, there is no Krishna idol in Siddhi Vinayak. Every devout Hindu knows that.
I hand back her ID card and husband’s photo. I stand up. ‘Okay, madam, go. I will file the report.’
She looks up at me; she looks confused. ‘Just like that? Don’t you need more infor…’
‘Yes, madam, this is Hindustan, not Arabastan. Everything happens like this only. You go now, okay?’
She gets up hesitantly. ‘But…’
I join my raised hands with a loud clap. ‘Arrey-aye, madam, enough! If you do not like it here, take your miya-ji husband and go to Pakistan.’
She leaves.
On That Very Same Afternoon
GK lay on his bed, arms and legs entangled with his lover’s, their bodies so thoroughly enmeshed it was hard to tell them apart. The phone rang.
GK awoke, freeing himself from the snarl of limbs as his right arm reached for the receiver.
The caller was Balbir Pasha, the Assistant Commissioner of Police himself.
GK sat up. This had better be good. And it was. Balbir Pasha sounded nonchalant and to the point, like someone downplaying his own success, as he ‘suggested’ that GK get to Sanjay Gandhi Park ‘if’ he wanted to, because, well, the bodies wouldn’t be around for too long, and the ambulances were already on their way, and GK could stay where he was if he didn’t ‘wish’ to report how barely an hour ago Balbir Pasha and his unit had carried out one of the biggest ambushes on terrorists in months.
Rina, GK’s lover, placed a hand on his bare back; GKshrugged it off.
Like all bastards with authority, Balbir Pasha was now revealing his inability to draw the line: he wanted GK to be at the park in fifteen minutes, cameraman and all; sorry, that was all the time he would allow before inviting rival news channels to cover the event.
GK wasn’t intimidated. He only feared those whose price he didn’t know. Balbir Pasha’s was three lakhs—the amount he had taken from Breaking News, GK’s employer, in exchange for a promise to notify them first of any newsworthy event.
‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ GK informed the Assistant Commissioner of Police.
And what were he and his men to do until then, Balbir Pasha asked. The bodies had begun to bloat, flies were descending in droves and, if he wasn’t mistaken, he had even seen the MCBC News van prowling past the park looking for something to…
‘Ballu, I said I’ll be there in an hour,’ GK reiterated. He wasn’t afraid of sounding testy. GK had been there when Sir-ji, the sordid mogul who condescended to own Breaking News, had patted Balbir Pasha’s cheek at a party and said, ‘Ballu, look after us, yes?’ and the Assistant Commissioner of Police had let loose a torrent of deferential
ji-sirs.
GK smirked as Balbir Pasha hung up with the meekness befitting a Ballu.
Rina touched GK’s bare back once again. GK leapt to hisfeet to flee this woman attempting to turn a straightforward one-night stand into something icky. Sex, like food, could be had any way, any time, appetite notwithstanding. But intimacy, like flavor, was an indulgence—and unfortunately for GK there were some faces he just couldn’t see himself slobbering over.
‘I got to go. You’ll fax me the stuff, right?’ GK asked directly and brazenly.
Rina thumped her head back on the pillow. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Rina was a newspaper journalist working hard on the first big story of her year-old career—a story that she hoped would help rocket her standing, find her a well-placed husband and maybe, just maybe, bring down the state government. The day Rina’s story broke, a few hours after copies of
India Informer
had been home-delivered to thousands of subscribers, Breaking News
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