Train to Delhi (11 page)

‘What trouble, mother? You're such a timid thing,' he said. ‘Now that I've got my divorce, what can that woman do?'

It was a subdued Purnima that shuffled in. She sat on the floor, near the window.

‘What's the news this time?' he asked, sharply.

‘All's well, sir.'

‘Then why do you keep shadowing me everywhere?'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I just came to see you.'

‘Nobody ever visits for just seeing …'

Gautam kept up the ribbing, piqued by this woman's brusque intrusion.

‘Sir, there was a wrangle between Mr Trivedi and Mohinder sahib the other day.'

‘How does that concern me?'

‘Mr Trivedi didn't think it proper for Mohinder sahib to visit our house so often. It was a sort of moral pollution, he said.'

Gautam felt amused to hear this pedantic expression. Since when had Trivedi been fired with the missionary zeal to ensure moral hygiene in his neighbourhood? Where was he when the romance was running at high tide during Gautam's visit abroad? Why had he started watch-dogging for him when it was all over? He felt tempted to ask Purnima if the neighbours had already heard about the divorce—Trivedi and the others. But that would have boosted her status as a confidante.

‘Look, Purnima, I'm no longer interested in all this,' he said. ‘Unless you have something else to say, I'm afraid I must get back to work.' And he picked up the pad on which he'd been writing his notes.

But she didn't budge. He now realized that he was somehow stuck with her for a while.

‘I also came to know if you'd, please, let me work for you,' she said. ‘I don't wish to stay with Memsahib any longer.'

Ah, the double agent, Gautam said to himself. Or, had Sarita suddenly become conscious that Purnima knew too much?

‘But you already have a comfortable job—salary, saris, tips,' Gautam said, and he nearly added, ‘the excitement of backbiting, muck-raking.' But he merely continued: ‘I'm sorry we don't need any domestic help … My mother herself cooks for me, and this is a small house.'

‘I could sleep on the verandah, in the kitchen—anywhere,' she said. Then, drawing a little close, ‘I do plead guilty, sir—for several reasons.'

‘What?'

Only after asking the monosyllabic question, prompted by his irrepressible curiosity, did Gautam realize how unwittingly he'd encouraged this woman to chatter on.

‘The milk you daily had, sir, was always generously watered …' she said. ‘And, sir, the other man—' she resumed, her face glowing to find in Gautam an intent listener, ‘how you trusted him as your friend and colleague, and loved his child as your own … He used to visit her almost daily when you were abroad. He'd slip in from the front verandah, then stay on for the night. They'd have drinks in your bedroom. What things I've seen and heard! What gross betrayal! My heart bleeds!' Her eyes were now searching Gautam's face to see how he was taking it all. ‘Oh God! How I've lived in sin all this time! If only I'd warned you earlier. Yes, I must take the blame … Only, occasionally, I used to have a word with Mr Trivedi. He's a good man, sir—very understanding, very helpful.'

Gautam nearly asked her to shut up at this point, but decided to let her flow on. Wasn't she spilling the beans?

‘Now I wish to atone for all my past lapses,' the woman continued, ‘by serving you.'

Gautam noticed how hard she was trying to bring up some moisture in her eyes, but it didn't work.

‘She'll have to pay for all this,' the tape started running again. ‘And pay very dearly too—that is, if there's any divine justice. In fact, already they've started quarrelling. Now she accuses Mohinder sahib of having a soft spot for you, because you came to see Rahul. Who else would have done anything like that? Sometimes I wonder if the person to really blame is Mohinder sahib or Memsahib. You did well, sir—shook off that piece of dirt … I doubt if the other man will ever marry her. It served her right …' She paused for a moment, then continued: ‘She returned from the court the other day, thoroughly unhinged. She told Mohinder sahib how very jubilant you were over your release. Why not? While she'll now cry every moment—childless and husbandless—you'll have a hundred years of peace and happiness. What's the fate of a Hindu divorcee? Isn't she like a widow?'

What a devilish creature she was, Gautam thought.

How he'd been carried away by her avalanche of words. He wondered if a man's curiosity was any less than a woman's. If Satan had worked assiduously on Adam, our first man too would have succumbed to temptation. But, of course, the Devil found Eve more exciting, more vulnerable.

‘Thank you for telling me all this,' Gautam said. ‘But I've already told you we don't need any help. Please go away immediately before the evening deepens. These are not normal times, you know.'

What a damper on this loquacious woman! Purnima felt stung, deflated. As she rose to leave, her eyes were burning with rage and humiliation.

11

T
he next Saturday turned out to be quite calm—no arson, stabbing or rape reported by the media. It seemed as if the two days' curfew had let the frenzy cool off. Almost all the national papers, specially
The Challenge,
denounced the communal press. Nonetheless, William Thornton was not the sort of administrator to take any chance over a possible resurgence of lawlessness. Fire engines had been stationed at all vulnerable points, and mounted police patrolled the streets round the clock. With such a show of force, the public felt secure to move about freely. All clubs, hotels, schools and colleges were back to normalcy.

The plan had been worked out meticulously. Berry was to bring a handbag, with a couple of Sonali's saris and two changes of dress for him, direct to the railway station, buy the tickets well in advance, while Gautam manoeuvred his escape with Haseena from the Bridge. Gautam was aware that if the operation misfired, both of them might get killed.

Gautam waited for Pannalal and Haseena in the foyer, near the Reception. The girl at the counter flashed a smile at him. Yes, the man was waiting for his call-girl; perhaps she even knew the arrangement for the evening, Gautam thought. In this underworld, there were no secrets—members of this mafia shared everything.

As Gautam looked at the wall-clock, it showed twenty minutes past eight. Since eight, he'd been gazing restlessly at the swinging door; still no sign of Haseena and the pimp.

Surely the man had overheard his talk with her. And, if the pimp had also somehow come to know that he was a journalist, it would be a disaster. Perhaps Pannalal was aware that while it was possible to get around the police, it never worked with the press. These thoughts kept Gautam on pins and needless.

Suddenly, the door swung and there walked in the pimp and Haseena. Gautam nearly leapt forward to greet them.

‘Sorry, sir, for being late,' Haseena said. ‘We were held up near the Delhi Gate by a policeman, but Pannalalji somehow managed to palm him off.'

The pimp just grinned. Since there was no time to lose, it was Gautam who took the initiative. ‘Here's seventy-five plus room charge, and another thirty for you, Pannalalji.'

The pimp understood that the deal had been struck for three hours this time.

‘Thank you, sir,' he said, baring his betel-stained teeth. ‘I've reserved the same room for you.' Then he added, with a leery wink in his eyes: ‘Have a good time, sir.'

Gautam merely nodded. He had bought an extra hour to cover up any possible delay in taking off. He looked back to make sure that the pimp had settled down in the foyer.

As soon as they were alone in the room, Gautam announced his strategy. After a few minutes, she'd lead him to the terrace where they'd sit on the parapet for a while, then go up to the tower to survey the entire terrain. And then they would take off. It might be a mile to the Ridge Road on the other side of the fields. With slush all around, they'd also have to wade through mud and swamp. It would be calamitous if they missed the 10:30 train.

‘But, first, let me have a quick look out,' Gautam whispered. ‘I've been having nightmares about your jailer.'

‘He's been behaving rather oddly towards me,' she said. ‘I hope he's not suspicious.'

Softly, he unbolted the door and peeped out. There was no sign of the man right down to the passageway's end. He must be drinking away in the lounge.

Gautam shut the door and said: ‘The coast's clear. Now to the terrace!'

‘Follow me,' said Haseena.

They stepped into the passageway, and through the rear door came to the terrace. As they sat for a few minutes on the parapet, Gautam looked all around, taking in the fields which stretched up to the southern end of Darya Ganj. Then they climbed up the tower.

From there, Gautam could survey the entire area. He could even see the turrets of the Mecca Mosque near Neel Kamal, the dome of the Victoria Zenana Hospital and, further down, the archway of the Delhi railway station.

‘Now let me take over,' he said. ‘I guess I've mapped out our route. About thirty minutes to the mosque, then on to the station—if all goes well.'

But as they were coming down the tower, a dazzling flashlight caught their backs. Then they could hear the footsteps of someone hurrying up from the eastern side of the terrace. Haseena looked back and at once recognized the face. It was Pannalal, closely watching their movements. So, the man was keeping them under his constant surveillance, from a discreet distance.

‘There's the devil, Pannalal,' she whispered to Gautam, who felt frozen to the marrow of his bones. ‘Put your arms around me … Hug me. Kiss me. Do something quick, please. He is not used to his customers just talking away.'

At once Gautam took her in his arms, bending over her mouth for a kiss. But he felt like an actor who has to do it under a blinding camera light, with the director shouting away: ‘No, do it again … action!'

As he brought his mouth close to her lips, the footsteps faded away into the distance. The man had obviously felt reassured that it was only a sort of foreplay before the couple returned to their room for a bout of love.

‘I guess he has now moved away,' Gautam said, his heart still pounding against his ribs. ‘Well, it's now or never. I've spotted a strategic point to jump off the terrace onto the battered end of a wall, just knee-high.'

‘Let's go.'

First, they softly paced towards the vantage point, Gautam's arm still clasping her waist. Then suddenly, he leapt off. With amazing promptness, Haseena too jumped after him. Now they were running breathlessly, across the fields, along the furrowed rows of cabbages and cauliflowers. But they'd hardly gone a few yards deep into the fields, when the flashlight caught them again. Then came a menacing cry: ‘I'll get you both in a moment,' the pimp thundered. ‘I'll suck your blood. I know what you're up to.'

The bald patch on Pannalal's pate gleamed like a sheet of Belgian glass in the candid moonlight.

As Gautam looked over his shoulder to see how close the man was, he caught sight of the naked blade of a long knife, glistening above his flashlights. Then the sound of a splash. Their pursuer had slumped into a marshy spot which they'd cleared already.

‘Keep running, Haseena! He's slipped … This may give us a lead.'

But she was nimbler on her feet than even Gautam himself, for she'd waded through a small strip of water while he was trailing behind, a little out of breath.

Ahead of them lay a shallow puddle, a remnant of last Thursday's rain, and then the main road which curved round the southern edge of Darya Ganj, like a sabre.

Gautam and Haseena sped along the road's edge, then turned sharply into a bylane. There they saw a house ablaze with a solitary fire engine fighting the flames. The sight of a huge crowd brough the couple some solace. They were out of danger; now they could easily thread their way through the mêlée and steer clear of Darya Ganj.

As Gautam was escorting Haseena through the crowd, he heard someone shout: ‘It must be some bloody Muslim arsonist! We'll wipe out the whole lot of them.'

Another voice joined in: ‘We'll pack them off to Pakistan.'

Then a maddening cry rumbled in the air: ‘Har Har Mahadev!'

‘Let's keep pushing ahead,' Gautam said to Haseena.

But just as he was about to get her out of the crowd into a bylane, Gautam's eyes caught Mohinder, who was standing on the compound wall of the burning house, a scrapbook in his hand. Was he reporting this incident?

Gautam had begun to seriously consider resigning from
The Challenge,
if that was the only way to avoid seeing Mohinder in the offices of his paper. If the man turned around to see Gautam ‘running away' with a young beautiful woman, wouldn't he report it all to Sarita?

‘Is he someone you know?' Haseena asked, as she saw Gautam's eyes riveted on the man.

‘Not really …' Gautam said, now shaken out of his thoughts. ‘We must keep moving on.' Then, looking at his watch, ‘We have only half an hour …'

‘Do you think we'll make it to the station?'

‘I hope so,' Gautam replied, leading her across the lane.

‘Hey, Gautam!' someone shouted, jumping out of a jeep parked along the curb. ‘What are you doing here? Reporting?'

It was Bala Subramaniam, special correspondent of
The Evening News,
and secretary of the Press Club.

‘What a surprise!' Gautam exclaimed, taking the man's hand in a nervous clasp. ‘I'm not reporting, Bala … But can you help me? I'm in trouble.'

‘You do look flustered.'

‘Can you take us to the railway station?' he asked. ‘We're being pursued.'

‘All right, get in both of you.'

While Haseena climbed into the rear, Gautam sat in front with Subramaniam. ‘Eh, who's she?' Bala whispered into his ear. ‘A real smasher!'