Read Online The Story of My Assassins by Tarun J. Tejpal - Free Book Online
Authors: Tarun J. Tejpal
Tags: Suspense
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begin to change. As I kissed her cigarette-mouth, it would became increasingly tender, soft, full of endearments, gratitude; all Hindi would now vanish, only sweet English phrases would bloom. Yes please, my god you are lovely, how good you feel, love how you move, I miss you so much, don’t stop, why can’t you see me every day, god you are amazing, love what you are doing, love what you are doing, love what you are doing.
Later, naked in front of Bonaparte, flat on her back, she would begin to slit her wrists again. Now in a gentler way, teasing out speculation about the cops and the killers.
Slowly, over the weeks, she had become convinced that the whole thing was a frame-up. But, after the peculiar way her mind worked, it wasn’t me she was worried about. She thought I was more than capable of taking care of myself. ‘Fully bloody enlisted member of India’s most elite caste, the only true brahmins of modern India—the upper middle-class Anglo! Right school, right language, right friends! Patronized by the system, understands the system, can work the system inside out, and outside in! In fact, pretty much invented the system! The one fucking caste that the Brits created, to ruthlessly dominate old Dr Manu’s four!’
I made a note to gift her a copy of the
Manusmriti
. But I knew what she was tilting at. She was basically concerned about the poor sods the system was using in the frame-up. Those who were supposed to guard me; and those who were supposed to have shot me. In her words, India’s true low-castes, with neither money norinfluence—ruthlessly deployed against each other to fulfil the agenda of the master class. Whose fully bloody paid-up member I was.
In the beginning it was just about her wanting information from me, about both shadows and shooters, and I failing to provide any, which led to her rants. ‘How can you not want to know? How can you be so indifferent?’ And so on, till the nailing on the wall. Then it became a growing suspicion of a sinister plot. In this story I was just a decoy, my fate unimportant; and the cops were minor victims, collaterally damaged for having to fuss over me. The actual victims were the assassins. These were innocent men the system wanted to fix—for reasons of business, politics, religion or terror, this we did not know yet.
Yes, Jai’s talcum had been sprinkled.
I was the talcum.
The killers—the killers were the real victims.
3
MR LINCOLN MEETS FROCK RAJA
T hat year the rains meandered on right into September in a kind of epileptic way, with sudden fits of rain, a sharp cascade of large luscious drops that would stream suddenly, bringing back memories of childhood monsoons when a daily soaking was inevitable. And even as the fit uncurled its full force, before the first hour was out, the drains overflowed, the roads flooded, and the traffic snarled at every intersection, every underpass, the mouth of every colony. Sara’s master class would suffer stalled cars; her low-castes would slip down uncovered manholes. At such a time it was difficult to believe this was a modern city—seemingly so organized, so ornamental under clear skies and bright sun, its roads wide, its trees lush, its flyovers leaping up to the heavens.
The canker seemed to be concrete.
In an excess of sprucing up, the city had been choked. Delhiites, seeking ever new ways of displaying their affluence, had bought up every kind of new tile and stone hitting the market and laid it out where they could. Marble—green, pink, Bhutanese, Nepalese. Stone—Jaisalmer gold, Kota grey, Agra red, Jaipur pink. Granite—black, brown, speckled. Tiles—Italian, Moroccan, Spanish. Sidewalks, backyards, gardens, driveways, open areas, walkways—everything was being paved and cemented. Every pore blocked, every breath stemmed: the earth was given a hard, impregnable gloss. The fat drops simply bounced off it.
And then, as if in reparation, days would go by without a falling drop, and the power
Later, naked in front of Bonaparte, flat on her back, she would begin to slit her wrists again. Now in a gentler way, teasing out speculation about the cops and the killers.
Slowly, over the weeks, she had become convinced that the whole thing was a frame-up. But, after the peculiar way her mind worked, it wasn’t me she was worried about. She thought I was more than capable of taking care of myself. ‘Fully bloody enlisted member of India’s most elite caste, the only true brahmins of modern India—the upper middle-class Anglo! Right school, right language, right friends! Patronized by the system, understands the system, can work the system inside out, and outside in! In fact, pretty much invented the system! The one fucking caste that the Brits created, to ruthlessly dominate old Dr Manu’s four!’
I made a note to gift her a copy of the
Manusmriti
. But I knew what she was tilting at. She was basically concerned about the poor sods the system was using in the frame-up. Those who were supposed to guard me; and those who were supposed to have shot me. In her words, India’s true low-castes, with neither money norinfluence—ruthlessly deployed against each other to fulfil the agenda of the master class. Whose fully bloody paid-up member I was.
In the beginning it was just about her wanting information from me, about both shadows and shooters, and I failing to provide any, which led to her rants. ‘How can you not want to know? How can you be so indifferent?’ And so on, till the nailing on the wall. Then it became a growing suspicion of a sinister plot. In this story I was just a decoy, my fate unimportant; and the cops were minor victims, collaterally damaged for having to fuss over me. The actual victims were the assassins. These were innocent men the system wanted to fix—for reasons of business, politics, religion or terror, this we did not know yet.
Yes, Jai’s talcum had been sprinkled.
I was the talcum.
The killers—the killers were the real victims.
3
MR LINCOLN MEETS FROCK RAJA
T hat year the rains meandered on right into September in a kind of epileptic way, with sudden fits of rain, a sharp cascade of large luscious drops that would stream suddenly, bringing back memories of childhood monsoons when a daily soaking was inevitable. And even as the fit uncurled its full force, before the first hour was out, the drains overflowed, the roads flooded, and the traffic snarled at every intersection, every underpass, the mouth of every colony. Sara’s master class would suffer stalled cars; her low-castes would slip down uncovered manholes. At such a time it was difficult to believe this was a modern city—seemingly so organized, so ornamental under clear skies and bright sun, its roads wide, its trees lush, its flyovers leaping up to the heavens.
The canker seemed to be concrete.
In an excess of sprucing up, the city had been choked. Delhiites, seeking ever new ways of displaying their affluence, had bought up every kind of new tile and stone hitting the market and laid it out where they could. Marble—green, pink, Bhutanese, Nepalese. Stone—Jaisalmer gold, Kota grey, Agra red, Jaipur pink. Granite—black, brown, speckled. Tiles—Italian, Moroccan, Spanish. Sidewalks, backyards, gardens, driveways, open areas, walkways—everything was being paved and cemented. Every pore blocked, every breath stemmed: the earth was given a hard, impregnable gloss. The fat drops simply bounced off it.
And then, as if in reparation, days would go by without a falling drop, and the power
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