Between the Assassinations (16 page)

Work began. He calmed down. He avoided Ms. D’Mello.

That evening, the editor-in-chief of the newspaper summoned him to his room. He was a plump old man, with sagging jowls and thick white eyebrows that looked like frosting and hands that trembled as he drank his tea. The tendons in his neck stood out in deep relief, and every part of his body seemed to be calling out for retirement.

If he did retire, Gururaj would inherit his chair.

“Regarding this story you’ve asked Menon to reinvestigate…” said the editor-in-chief, sipping the tea. “Forget it.”

“There was a discrepancy over the cars—”

The old man shook his head. “The police made a mistake on the first filing, that was all.” His voice changed into the quiet, casual tone Gururaj had come to recognize as final. He sipped more tea, and then some more.

The slurping sound of the tea being sipped, the abruptness of the old man’s manner, the fatigue of nights of broken sleep, got on Gururaj’s nerves and he said:

“A man might have been sent to jail for no good reason; a guilty man might be walking free. And all you can say is, let’s drop the matter.”

The old man sipped his tea; Gururaj thought he could detect his head move, as if in the affirmative.

He went back to the YMCA, and walked up a flight of stairs to his room. He lay down on the bed with his eyes open. He was still awake at two in the morning, when the alarm went off. When he emerged, he heard a whistling sound; the policeman, passing by him, waved heartily, as if to an old friend.

The moon was shrinking fast; in a few days it would be entirely dark at night. He walked the same route now, as if it were a ritual formula: first slowly, then crossing to the center of the road, and then dashing into the side alley until he reached the bank. The Gurkha was in his chair, his rifle on his shoulder, a glowing beedi in his fingers.

“What does the grapevine tell you tonight?”

“Nothing tonight.”

“Then tell me something from a few nights ago. Tell me what else the paper has published that is untrue.”

“The riots. The newspaper got that wrong, completely.”

Gururaj thought his heart would skip a beat. “How so?”

“The newspaper said that it was Hindus fighting Muslims, see?”

“It
was
Hindus fighting Muslims. Everyone knows that.”

“Ha.”

The next morning Gururaj did not turn up at the office. He went straight down to the Bunder, the first time since he had gone there to talk to the shopkeepers in the aftermath of the riots. He traced every restaurant and fish market that had been burned down in the riots.

He went back to the newspaper, rushed into the office of the editor-in-chief, and said:

“I heard the most incredible story last night about the Hindu-Muslim riots. Shall I tell you what I heard?”

The old man sipped his tea.

“I heard that our MP, along with the Mafia down at the Bunder, instigated the riots. And I heard that the hoodlums and the MP have transferred all the burned and destroyed property into the hands of their own men, under the name of a fictitious trust called the New Kittur Port Development Trust. The violence was planned. Muslim goons burned Muslim shops and Hindu goons burned Hindu shops. It was a real estate transaction masquerading as a religious riot.”

The editor stopped sipping. “Who told you this?”

“A friend. Is it true?”

“No.”

Gururaj smiled and said, “I didn’t think so either. Thanks.” He walked out of the room while his boss watched him with concern.

The next morning he arrived at the office late once again. The office boy turned up at his desk and shouted, “Editor-in-chief wants to see you.”

“Why didn’t you turn up at the City Corporation Office today?” the old man asked him as he sipped another cup of tea. “The mayor asked for you to be there; he released a statement on Hindu-Muslim unity and attacking the BJP that he wanted you to hear. You know he respects your work.”

Gururaj pressed his hair down; he had not oiled it this morning and it was unruly. “Who cares?”

“Excuse me, Gururaj?”

“You think anyone in this office doesn’t know that all this political fighting is just make-believe? That in reality the BJP and the Congress cut each other deals and share the bribe money they take on construction projects in Bajpe? You and I have known for years that this is true and yet we pretend to report things otherwise. Doesn’t this strike you as bizarre? Look here. Let’s just write nothing but the truth and the whole truth in the newspaper today. Just today. One day of nothing but the truth. That’s all I want to do. No one may even notice. Tomorrow we’ll go back to the usual lies. But for one day I want to report, write, and edit the truth. One day in my life I’d like to be a proper journalist. What do you say to that?”

The editor-in-chief frowned, as if thinking about it, and then said, “Come to my house after dinner tonight.”

At nine o’clock, Gururaj walked up Rose Lane, to a home with a big garden and a blue statue of Krishna with his flute in a niche in the front, and rang the bell.

The editor let him into the drawing room and closed the door. He asked Gururaj to sit down, gesturing at a brown sofa.

“You’d better tell me what’s bothering you.”

Gururaj told him.

“Let’s assume you have proof of this thing. You write about it. You’re not only saying that the police force is rotten, but also that the judiciary is corrupt. The judge will call you for contempt of court. You will be arrested—even if what you are saying is true. You and I and people in the press pretend that there is freedom of the press in this country, but we know the truth.”

“What about the Hindu-Muslim riots? Can’t we write the truth about that either?”

“What is the truth about it, Gururaj?”

Gururaj told him the truth, and the editor-in-chief smiled. He put his head in his hands and, in a laugh that seemed to rock the entire night, he laughed his heart out.

“Even if what you’re saying is indeed the truth,” the old man said, regaining control of himself, “and observe that I neither admit nor contradict any of it, there would be no way for us to publish it.”

“Why not?”

The editor smiled. “Who do you think owns this newspaper?”

“Ramdas Pai,” Gururaj said, naming a businessman in Umbrella Street whose name appeared as proprietor on the front page.

The editor shook his head. “He doesn’t own it. Not all of it.”

“Who does?”

“Use your brains.”

Gururaj looked at the editor-in-chief with new eyes. It was as if the old man had a nimbus around him, of all the things he had learned over the length of his career and could never publish; this secret knowledge glowed around his head like the halo around the nearly full moon.
This is the fate of every journalist in this town and in this state and in this country and maybe in this whole world,
thought Gururaj.

“Had you never guessed any of this before, Gururaj? It must come from the fact that you are not yet married. Not having had a woman, you have never understood the ways of the world.”

“And you have understood the ways of the world far too well.”

The two men stared, each feeling tremendously sorry for the other.

The following morning, as he walked to the office, Gururaj thought,
It is a false earth I am walking on. An innocent man is behind bars, and a guilty man walks free. Everyone knows that this is so and not one has the courage to change it.

From then on, every night, Gururaj went down the dirty stairwell of the YMCA, gazing blankly at the profanities and graffiti scribbled on the walls, and walked down Umbrella Street, ignoring the barking and skulking and copulating stray dogs, until he got to the Gurkha, who would lift up his old rifle in recognition and smile. They were friends now.

The Gurkha told him how much rottenness there could be in a small town: who had killed whom in the past few years, how much the judges of Kittur had asked for in bribe money, how much the police chiefs had asked. They talked until it was nearly dawn and it was time for Gururaj to leave so he could get some sleep before going to work. He hesitated: “I still don’t know your name.”

“Gaurishankar.”

Gururaj waited for him to ask him his name; he wanted to say,
Now that my father has died, you are my only friend, Gaurishankar.

The Gurkha sat with his eyes closed.

At four in the morning, walking back to the YMCA, he was thinking,
Who is this man, this Gurkha?
From some reference he had made to being a manservant in the house of a retired general, Gururaj deduced that he had been in the army, in the Gurkha regiment. But how he ended up in Kittur, why he hadn’t gone back home to Nepal, all this was still a mystery.
Tomorrow I should ask him all this. Then I can tell him about myself.

There was an Ashoka tree near the entrance to the YMCA, and Gururaj stopped to look at the tree. The moonlight lay on it, and it seemed different somehow tonight; as if it were on the verge of growing into something else.

They are not my fellow workers; they are lower than animals.

Gururaj could no longer stand the sight of his colleagues; he averted his eyes as he came into the building, scurrying into his office and slamming his door shut as soon as he got to work. Although he continued to edit the copy he was given, he could no longer bear to look at the newspaper. What especially terrified him was catching his own name in print; for this reason he asked to be relieved from what had been his greatest pleasure, writing his column, and insisted only on editing. Although in the old days he used to stay up to midnight, now he left the office at five o’clock every evening, hurrying back to his room to fall on his bed.

At two o’clock sharp, he woke up. To save himself the trouble of finding his trousers in the dark, he had taken to sleeping in all his clothes. He almost ran down the stairs and thrust open the door of the YMCA, so he could speak to the Gurkha.

Then one night, at last, it happened. The Gurkha was not sitting outside the bank. Someone else had taken his chair.

“What do I know, sir?” the new night watchman said. “I was appointed to this job last night; they didn’t tell me what happened to the old fellow.”

Gururaj ran from shop to shop, from house to house, asking every night watchman he met what had happened to the Gurkha.

“Gone to Nepal,” one night watchman finally told him. “Back to his family. He was saving money all these years, and now he’s gone.”

Gururaj took the news like a physical blow. Only one man had known what was happening in this town, and that one man had vanished to another country. Seeing him gasping for air, the night watchmen gathered around him, made him sit down, and brought him cool, clean water in a plastic bottle. He tried explaining to them what had happened between him and the Gurkha all these weeks, what he had lost.

“That Gurkha, sir?” One watchman shook his head. “Are you sure you talked about these things with him? He was a complete idiot. His brain had been damaged in the army.”

“What about the grapevine? Is it still working?” Gururaj asked. “Will one of you tell me what you hear now?”

The night watchmen stared. In their eyes, he could see doubt turning into a kind of fear.
They seem to think I’m mad,
he thought.

He wandered at night, passing by the dim buildings, by the sleeping multitudes. He passed by large, still, darkened buildings, each containing hundreds of bodies lying in a stupor.
I am the only man who is awake now,
he told himself. Once, up on a hill to his left, he saw a large housing block burning with light. Seven windows were lit up, and the building blazed; it seemed to him to be a living creature, a kind of monster of light, shining from its entrails.

Gururaj understood: The Gurkha had not abandoned him at all. He had not done what everyone else in his life had done. He had left something behind: a gift. Gururaj would now hear the grapevine on his own. He lifted his arms toward the building burning with lights; he felt full of occult power.

One day as he came into work, late again, he heard a whisper behind him: “It happened to the father too, in his last days…”

He thought,
I must be careful that others do not notice this change that is happening inside me.

When he reached his office, he saw that the peon was removing his nameplate from the door.
I am losing everything I worked so hard for, for so many years,
he thought. But he felt no regret or emotion; it was as if these things were happening to someone else. He saw the new nameplate on the door:

KRISHNA MENON

DEPUTY EDITOR

DAWN HERALD

KITTUR’S ONLY AND FINEST NEWSPAPER

“Gururaj! I didn’t want to do it, I—”

“No explanation is necessary. In your position, I’d have done the same.”

“Do you want me to speak to someone, Gururaj? We can arrange it for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you have no father now…But we can arrange a wedding for you, with a girl of a good family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We think you are ill. You ought to know that many of us in this office have been saying that for some time. I insist that you take a week off. Or two weeks. Go somewhere on holiday. Go to the Western Ghats and watch the clouds for a while.”

“Fine. I’ll take three weeks off.”

For three weeks he slept through the day and walked through the night. The late-night policeman no longer said, “Hello, editor,” as he had before, and Gururaj could see the man, as he cycled past, turn and stare at him. The night watchmen also looked at him oddly; and he grinned.
Even here, even in this Hades of the middle of the night, I have become an outsider, a man who frightens others.
The thought excited him.

He bought a child’s square blackboard one day, and a piece of chalk. That night he wrote at the top of the blackboard: