Patang
Authors: Bhaskar Chattopadhyay
First published in 2016 by Hachette India
(Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)
An Hachette UK company
This ebook published in 2016
Copyright © 2016 Bhaskar Chattopadhyay
Bhaskar Chattopadhyay asserts the moral right to be identified as the proprietor of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system (including but not limited to computers, disks, external drives, electronic or digital devices, e-readers, websites), or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to cyclostyling, photocopying, docutech or other reprographic reproductions, mechanical, recording, electronic, digital versions) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Print edition ISBN 978-93-5195-035-6
Ebook edition ISBN: 978-93-5195-036-3
Cover design by Maithili Doshi Aphale
Cover photograph by Aashim Tyagi
Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd
4th/5th Floors, Corporate Centre,
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Typeset in 11/14 Adobe Caslon Pro by SÜRYA, New Delhi
To Abhishek Majumdar
‘When you gaze long into an abyss,
the abyss also gazes into you.’
– Friedrich Nietzsche
C
ONTENTS
There are some downpours that make you feel good: you’ve had a bad day, you come home from work, and just as you’ve had a nice wash, it begins to rain. You settle down in an armchair in the balcony with a cup of coffee and watch the parched neighbourhood get drenched in glee. The trees start dancing and swaying in intoxicated joy, street urchins and stray dogs jump around without a care and get soaked to the bone. The skies roar – a deep, grave, all-important rumble – and an inexplicable sense of calm slowly settles over you. You smile. You like the rain. You wish it would rain all night.
And it does.
Soon, the rain turns into a downpour, relentless, ruthless, day after day, night after night, and it suddenly doesn’t seem so poetic anymore. It becomes a menace, like it did that year in Mumbai, when the rains started out as a relief from the sweltering heat, but quickly turned into a nightmare for the poor and an irritation for the wealthy. Those living in slums and low-lying areas watched helplessly as their belongings floated around in knee-deep water inside their makeshift homes. Those who had recently moved from two-wheelers to four-wheelers barely had a chance to thank their stars for not having to take shelter under flyovers with cows and dogs, before realizing that their vehicles hadn’t moved for the better part of an hour. And those who had everything were cursing their luck at being confined to their homes. Nature turned a great leveller and dampened everyone’s spirits without any prejudice whatsoever.
In one such mood, Rasool found himself thinking about how much he hated his job. He had put in his papers as many as three times, but they simply wouldn’t let him go. Frankly, he
hadn’t signed up for
this
! He had a proper Polytechnic diploma, after all. He didn’t enjoy taking a lift to climb a 900-foot-high tower to repair damaged network cables and circuits. Of course, this wasn’t because he had vertigo or something, oh no, but simply because the country’s largest telecom service provider, which cashed in hundreds of crores from India’s growing need to stay connected, paid him a pittance for a highly perilous job that not only required the right set of skills, but also the right set of balls. Yes, he didn’t have a strong enough will to quit, but they wouldn’t even pay for his protective clothing, the stingy bastards! They didn’t know how windy and chilly it got up there!
As the rickety lift cranked its way upwards, it rattled in the heavy winds. Rasool had covered most of his face, but sharp drops of rain continued to lash at whatever little was exposed, making him cringe and curse his luck. He drew the lapel of his jacket tighter around his neck and pulled down his cap to cover his ears. Rasool knew the Central Network Tower like the back of this hand – he had been up here at least a hundred times in the past six years. It stood tall in the middle of what was once a wasteland – a skeletal structure made of steel girders, a criss-cross of metal, broad and firm at the bottom, tapering as it went up and culminating in a self-important platform with electronic dashboards, intricate circuitry and flashing LEDs, all encased in protective cabinets. As the metal-mesh lift jolted to a stop at the very top of the tower, Rasool picked up his kit from the floor, pushed open the lift doors, stepped on to the metal gangway and was immediately hit by an invisible barrier that almost shoved him back into the lift car. He took a few moments to find his bearings.
A nasty day
, he thought. The wind was extra strong today. The tower was standing steady but emitting ominous cranking and creaking sounds, and he didn’t like what he heard.
Clenching his teeth and banishing all thoughts of turning around from his mind, he made his way to the central pillar and opened the junction box. A couple of minutes later, he discovered the problem: a fried circuit. It would take him at least 20 to 30 minutes to mend it. The quicker solution was to replace it, but the boss wouldn’t be happy about that. Replacement cost more than repairing, and he would inevitably get a yelling when he met his boss down below. ‘Surface Tension’, Rasool called it, and he hated it. But he was in no mood to stay up there for another half an hour either, so he pulled out the fried chip from the circuit board and placed it in his jacket’s pocket. He would have to inflict some more damage to it to justify his choice of action, but he could do that later. He replaced the chip with a brand new one from his kit, snapping it securely into place. The green light on top of the circuit board lit up with a short beep. He spoke into his walkie-talkie to report that the network was working now, and as soon as he received a confirmation, he packed up his kit. A large, menacing purple-grey cloud hovered directly above his head, and he could see scary streaks of lightning emerging from it. He rose to his feet and turned towards the gangway.
It was exactly then that he heard the bang.
What was that sound
, he thought, startled. As the thunder began to fade, he heard a bang again, and then again. Trying to follow its source, Rasool began circling the tower slowly and cautiously, before he realized it had come from the eastern side. The rain continued to lash away at his face, the strong gusts of wind only making matters worse. Treading extremely carefully, he walked up to the railing of the eastern walkway and peered down. There was nothing there, just a 900-foot drop to the ground, which he couldn’t see thanks to the heavy rain. Suddenly, another loud bang echoed behind Rasool, scaring the living daylights out of him. He let go of the kit and gripped the
railing tightly, steadying himself. Very slowly, he turned around and, wiping the rain away from his eyes, looked up towards the 40-foot-long antenna at the top of the tower.
Hanging upside-down from one of the extended metallic poles of the antenna was the body of a man. His legs were tied to the pole and his hands were tied behind his back while his ivory white suit shone against the dark clouds hanging above him.
Feeling giddy for the first time since he had climbed the tower six years ago, Rasool felt his legs collapse beneath him. He wiped his eyes with his gloves once again and squinted to take a closer look. Was the man alive? Could he do something to help? But as his eyes adjusted themselves and focussed, he saw that the man’s face and forehead had swollen up like an ill-shaped balloon, and that his eyeballs had burst out of their sockets.
A shiver crept up Rasool’s spine and he let out a piercing shriek, which was drowned out by a deafening clap of thunder.
‘Thank you, Mr Shinde, that was lovely.’ Maya extended her hand towards the minister, who looked at her coldly and grunted under his breath. He had been warned about this cunt, and he should have known better. But he had underestimated her and, as a result, for the last 30 minutes, the wretched bitch had stripped him bare on national television. He refused the handshake, threw a sharp glance towards his assistant and stepped off the platform. He had to get out of the studio, he needed some fresh air. A soft, scornful smile touched the corner of Maya’s lips as the minister walked out. When the make-up man started to pad her cheeks, she waved him aside and asked Mohit for her packet of Virginia Slims.
‘That was good,’ Mohit smiled as he lit Maya’s cigarette.
‘If only I had 10 more minutes,’ Maya muttered in between puffs. ‘Anyway, what’s next?’
Mohit started to explain the highlights of the next segment as Maya smoked, listening closely. Finally, he turned around to gesture towards a woman who had been waiting discreetly behind them. At Mohit’s signal, she hurried forward until she stood before Maya.
‘Maya, this is Ananya. She works for me in the field research team.’ Mohit introduced the young woman, who smiled politely. Maya spared her a glance and a phoney smile before looking down at the mark of her own lipstick on the cigarette butt. She liked looking at that mark whenever she smoked. It reminded her that she was in control around here. These smoke breaks were the only thing that kept her sane during the mad scurry of an 18-hour day. As the most popular news anchor on television, her life wasn’t easy, after all. An assistant of sorts in a dapper business suit swiped away furiously on her iPad and yelled out from near the camera, ‘Maya, Chief Secretary Ahuja says he can do dinner tomorrow at nine.’
Maya thought for a few seconds and yelled back, ‘Tell him I’ll be there.’
‘But he said no cameras.’
Maya sighed and said with a smirk, ‘Well, then tell him, and quote me, “I’m not your date, but I know who was on New Year’s Eve!” See if he agrees to the cameras after that.’