‘Your first time at an election campaign, Rai?’ Andrew asked. I nodded, determined not to be annoyed by his using my second name.
‘You did well out there at the stall.’
‘I’m glad I have your approval, Brown.’
This wasn’t anything like what I had seen in the movies. An ocean of humanity moving in unison like waves that jostled for space to feel the sun. Picture perfect. And then the din, where voices were heard but not the words. It was into that setting that the politician, invariably cast as the villain, arrived, stepping on a carpet of slogan shouting before the speeches took over.
As removed as reel is from real, I could tell it was beginning to boil, going by the chase Andrew was involved in. Another press vehicle was honking annoyingly behind us, but Andrew wasn’t relenting. I was not sure he should be driving. I thought he’d have been better off taking notes, planning his moves or whatever it was political reporters do at such times. We should’ve taken the office car. Anonymity be damned.
‘Do you want me to drive?’ I heard the squeaky trill in my voice.
‘No. Why?’ A smile punctuated his question.
I shrugged. I just asked. A different why was playing on my mind though.
Why had Andrew asked me to join him on this campaign trail?
It was the editor’s nudge obviously, but he could’ve shrugged aside the suggestion.
Was it because of the pressure he was supposedly under to get the Hari Rao interview?
I could hardly ask my almost-fiancé for a favour for my ex-lover.
Not only did Andrew know me better than that, but he was also a thorough professional. He took the direct approach; going through someone or everyone was not his style. If there was a way, he’d find it himself.
So why had Andrew knocked on my door then?
Why had he shown me that diary, belonging to whoever this Bhumika Velu was – his great-grandmother’s friend maybe – after all these years?
It’s not something he had chanced upon last week; he’d had it before he left for the United States. I had meant to ask, but we were caught in a different tango in the aftermath.
I had spent a sleepless night wondering why he had read it out to me. But there was something more; those notes just didn’t fold. They were filed away but only momentarily. They kept coming back to me like some sort of endless hide-and-seek game.
My mind was ticking in myriad directions, and my emotions were all over the place.
There was Andrew and there was Ravi. I couldn’t have one, and I didn’t want the other, not in the way he wanted me in his life at least. That was why my heart was tap dancing when Andrew asked me if I wanted to join him.
I told my father it was an opportunity for me.
Bollocks, as Chhaya would’ve said.
Andrew parked just around the corner from the village temple in Malavalli and walked in the direction of an open estate truck that was carrying Hari Rao. He was smiling and waving at the crowds, but he looked old and frail.
‘Rao’s PA told me he’s expecting me. So when he gets off the truck and walks to the car, I could approach him for an interview,’ Andrew whispered in my ear. Not that anyone would’ve heard, even if he shouted.
The entire village had gathered, it appeared. There were children as young as two and three years of age, screaming and dancing alongside the youth. Then there were the middle-aged and old folks, who were finding it difficultto put one foot in front of the other but standing there resolute. If this was a show of solidarity, it resonated serious muscle.
I wondered how Andrew could get close enough to Hari Rao given the number of people around the man. It was far more civilized in the world of feature writing; we didn’t accost people. We set up interviews and sat down for them with a cuppa maybe.
‘The whole village is here’, the PA told me after we had somehow managed to fall behind the truck that carried the mountain of a politician. We were moseying with the crowd. ‘We go this way for two kilometres,’ he said, pointing at the mud road, ‘and then stop at every house.’
I watched as Hari Rao descended from the vehicle. He looked a little fuller than from a distance. Andrew approached him as he headed towards a waiting SUV.
There was an exchange of greetings, I think, and as I moved closer, I heard Hari Rao tell Andrew, ‘I know who you are, Mr Brown.’ Both men smiled at each other. Andrew’s expression was a little forced.
After Hari Rao got into his four-wheel drive, Andrew tried to extricate himself from the crowd. Oily-haired boys and girls tugged at his arm, asking if he was a ‘fillam actor’. Andrew lowered his frame down to their little lengths and held court before he came around and found me.
‘What happened?’
