The Long Game

Act 1- The Outrage

Everyone needs a slice of motivation. And nothing motivates people like fear. Fear of their livelihoods, or even lives, being snatched away in an instant. And nobody exploits these fears better than the politicians. They know what people are afraid of, or more specifically, what will they vote against. It is the inherent beauty of democracy that if you have nothing to show for your work, you can always make the voting franchise afraid of your alternative.

It had been a set of tumultuous years ever since a Right wing party had formed government at the Centre. The liberal community of the country had not imagined that in spite of the popular opinion that Right Wing parties tend to be violent and intolerant, people had opted to vote them to power. But then, such aberrations have always been a commonplace in the history of democracy. They assured themselves that the course will correct itself, as the people will see through the ways of the government. And they were soon proven right. In just two years, four intellectuals and anti-government voices had been brutally murdered, Hindutva goons lynched minorities, and riots were imminent in many parts of the country.

“For how long will we tolerate these goondas?” the headlines of the article from a popular online news portal ran. The name of the writer was Manoj Mishra. Manoj had written a series of articles criticizing the government on various topics of economic performance, to tackling corruption, to promoting hate crimes. He had received numerous abuses online for his views, and that only made him increase the frequency and intensity of his writings. Manoj was fast rising as a popular figure among the youth as an intellectual, someone who could bravely question the government. His twitter account was followed by over a million followers. Slowly, his fame rose as people across political spectrum began to take note. The ruling government tried to discredit him by calling him a paid agent of the Opposition.

“This Manoj Mishra, who is he? Who knew about him 4 years ago? He is obviously an agent of the Opposition!” the government spokesperson bellowed on a news channel. Sensing some spice, the anchor gave the mic to Manoj, who replied in his characteristically cool voice, “Respected netaji, if you indeed think so, I am willing to make my bank account statements public. You will know who paid me how much. My point is, do you dare to do the same?” This was met with a thunderous applause both in the studio as well as millions of living rooms, who saw in Manoj, their own voice.

“Is this Mr Manoj?” a smooth voice talked from the other end.

“Yes, it’s me. What do you want?” Manoj replied, thinking it would be another goon out to harass him. His notoriety had increased massively after that interview.

“Hello Manoj ji,” the voice replied, “We would like to meet you.”

“What is it about? I would like an assurance of some kind, since I value my life. How do I know you are not a goon from the government?”

“Well, I am Satyam Sundar. Google that name. Soon you will receive video call on this phone. Pick it up.” The connection went off. Soon enough, Manoj received an incoming video call from an unknown number. In trepidation, he received the phone. To his shock, it was indeed Mr Satyam Sunder, the leading investigative journalist of the country, who had compiled a book on the vicious attacks of Hindutva goons, infiltrated their network and exposed them as illiterate, unemployed trolls who abuse for a living. He was an icon for hundreds of young investigative journalists in India.

“Hello Manoj,” Satyam said. Manoj was frozen momentarily. He regained his senses in a moment, and replied, “Hello sir. I can’t describe what a pleasure it has been…” Satyam waved his hand to indicate him to stop, and said, “Yes, yes. Pleasure is important, but we need to talk business. I want you to join our group.”

“You mean your news outlet?”

“Well, not exactly. Come at the address that you will receive after this call, and you will understand everything.” The connection went dead. Soon enough, Manoj received a text message from an unknown number, directing him to The Monarch in Delhi, one of the most expensive hotels of India. The next minute, he received an email with a flight ticket. He wondered what it all meant.

The following week, Manoj was on his way to Delhi. In the interim, he had churned out another article, this time attacking the identity politics of the government. Within 24 hours of it being published, it had already been re-tweeted ten-thousand times, and had become one of the most viral articles on the internet. With state assembly elections looming, that article had put the government on a serious back-foot. Soon enough, Manoj reached the hotel. A turbaned man guided him to a small conference hall where he spotted Satyam. Satyam was not alone. The heads of the biggest news outlets, some actors and actresses belonging to Bollywood and other movie industries of India, eminent writers and poets were also present. He spotted Chandra Dubey, the writer famous for writing many socialist-themed movies. Manoj couldn’t help but notice that Chandra was wearing a gold-plated watch, expensive diamond ring, and pretty expensive shoes. The conference hall had a small bar serving any alcohol from champagne to the finest scotch. As Manoj stood there, his mouth agape, and mind struggling to process the information, Satyam walked to him and announced, “So here is the latest recruit! Meet Manoj Mishra!” Everyone in the hall applauded. Some came to congratulate him. Everyone slowly settled down, and Satyam stood up to speak.

“Assembly elections in three states are close. We have to ensure that the ruling government is brought down. We cannot have a prolonged right wing narrative in this country. With the exception of some of us, like Mr Manoj here, most of us have been rendered irrelevant in the face of the social media revolution. We need to show that we can still be the opinion makers we once were. What are our options?”

“Sir, we have already overplayed our card with the lynchings. That episode was used to topple the government in the previous election,” said Shanti Devi, a well-known Dalit activist.

“Maybe we can intensify the same narrative. More of the same. I can have our comrades march out in protest at any time,” Surendar Jha, a well-known political activist opined.

“No you fools! For how long will we keep milking the same cow?” Satyam added, suppressing a smirk for the irony.

“Sir, if I may?” Manoj lifted his hand. Nobody expected the young prodigy to speak so soon. Satyam indicated him to speak.

“We can write op-eds in our magazines, and publications, raise popular sentiment against the establishment…” He was cut short by Adil Khan, a popular stand-up comic, known for his expletive-riddled anti-establishment rants, “Manojbhai, if we wanted to do that, we wouldn’t have formed this syndicate. This is our action team.”

Satyam nodded in agreement, and so did everyone else in the room. Adil stood up and said, ‘Sir, I think we need to shock the public. People may not care enough for the life of a Muslim dairy farmer, but they will surely be shocked if someone famous is lynched.”

“Elaborate Adil,” Satyam said.

Adil continued, “How many people here know about Vijeta Kumari?”

“You mean the famous adivasi activist? She is actually doing some good work!” Manoj shouted, shocked that they might be planning to murder one of the very few people who work selflessly.

“Yes,” Adil replied calmly, “That means she is famous with the masses. Although she isn’t known for any political stand, we can always attribute a random quote to her. I am sure the very talented Mr Mishra can whip up an article attributing her murder to Hindutva goons. It will portray the ruling party as both violent and anti-Dalit.”

Manoj was speechless. He merely nodded. Whether he liked it or not, the bulk of his following and popularity came because of the people in the room.

“So it is final! A month before the elections, Miss Vijeta will meet her end. It will give us enough time to whip up a popular sentiment.”

Two months later

“….in a shocking turn of events, Ms Vijeta Kumari, a selfless Dalit activist, who spent her life in the jungles, trying to improve the life of adivaasis, has been found dead in her home. Reports claim that several men wearing saffron robes, and a tilak on forehead, entered her house late at night. Neighbours sensed some commotion, and sound of Jai Shri Ram. Before anyone could reach, the goons had escaped. Sources close to Ms Vijeta say that she was unpopular with ruling party for her anti-Hindu stance…” Manoj’s article was already typed before the actual deed could occur.

There were immediate demonstrations all across the country. Every Opposition leader hatched on to the narrative, every activist worth their salt carried out protest marches. The government spokespersons found himself unable to answer any question. The entire narrative of elections was shifted to the intolerance of the ruling government and Hindutva terror. Predictably, the ruling party lost all three elections.

Manoj received another ticket via email, this time to The Continental, one of the largest hotels in Mumbai. This time, he knew what to expect.

Act 2- The Pawn

“Welcome everyone. This is the success party of our previous campaign,” Mr Sundar started his speech. He went on to thank Mr Kapoor, a leader from the party that had benefitted from the campaign, accepted the gifts in return. He was in the middle of his speech when he spotted Manoj. Waving his hand, he introduced Manoj, “And ladies and gentleman, here is the man of the hour. Mr Manoj Mishra! This guy amplified our voices and made them reach to the Hindi heartland, where illiterate villagers still believe everything a well-dressed guy speaks in English.” It was followed by loud guffaws all around. Manoj made himself comfortable, picked a cocktail and sat on his chair. The party was royal, and it was the glitziest event he had seen. Any reporter, any real reporter, he thought to himself, could blow the cover off these people if he/she were to be present in the hall.

After extensive wining and dining, arrangements were made for all the guests to stay overnight, to avoid being seen sloshed out on the streets. Arrangements were also made for “high-class” girls, if anyone so desired. It was an orgy to put the decadent French kings to shame. Manoj declined both services, since he wasn’t drunk and had no wish to share his bed with a girl he couldn’t afford.

“It is a pity that you chose to leave, Manoj,” an inebriated Sundar said.

“I am sorry sir. I have to leave. There’s an article to be published tomorrow.”

“It’s okay son. You have work to do. Well, don’t forget to collect your payment from the doorman.”

Manoj wondered what payment Mr Sundar was referring to. He found it soon enough, as a turbaned waiter handed him a suitcase. Manoj quietly took the briefcase and slipped out of the debauchery he was witnessing at the hands of the greatest proponents of socialism and strongest crusaders of the poor.

He did not open the briefcase till he reached home.

Once home, he gingerly opened the case, and his eyes shone with a glint. It was exactly what he expected. He pocketed the contents, and sat on his couch, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. There was soon, a rap on his door. He knew what to expect, as he tiptoed to the door. The knocks had changed to incessant bell-ringing. Manoj felt the cold revolver in his pocket.

Manoj slowly opened the door, and was greeted by loud chants of “Jai Shri Ram!” and four burly men, wearing saffron kurtas, with tilak on their head and rudraksh maalas around their necks, barged in. Manoj was flung inside.

“You bloody anti national, Muslim loving pig! How dare you write against our netaji?” one man shouted. Manoj could sense the crowd gathering outside his door, even though it was shut tightly.

“I am only doing my duty, as a journalist…” Manoj’s defence was cut short by a whack against his head. Temporarily dizzy, he stood up, swayed and fell down again. The first man signalled the others to bring out their clubs and sticks. They meant to kill. Manoj was a static target, already unconscious. They lifted their clubs to beat him to death.

The following day’s headlines were predictable.

“Prominent journalist and noted anti-government voice Manoj Mishra lynched by Hindutva goons.”

It was a huge shock to everyone. Manoj had been one of the sanest, and most popular anti-government voice over the last three years. There were talks of his book being published. And he had never written a word against Hinduism. People were dismayed at the actions of the government. Everyone knew that the ruling Right Wing party had its hand in the murder.

“This is a black day for democracy. From online trolling and slut-shaming, these Hindutva goons have now resorted to murder. First Vijetaji and now, my dear friend Manoj. When will this stop? Should we all just stay silent on government atrocities?” Mr Sundar spoke to the media, and continued, “To oppose this cruel act, some eminent and senior journalists, writers and artists will hold a press conference tomorrow at the Press Club. If we do not oppose this, who else will? The aam aadmi is too scared to even speak now.”

Next day at the press club, the stage was set for a huge event. The police had fortified the place, expecting a riot, given the sensitive nature of the event. There were already calls for beheadings of Mr Sundar and the rest, on social media right wing pages. The army of journalists, ready with their mics and recording equipment had assembled. Mr Sundar, dressed in all whites, stood up slowly from his chair and said, “First of all, we will observe a two minute silence to mourn the departed soul.” It was followed an utter silence in the hall. Two minutes later, Sundar went again to the mike, and said, “Today, we mourn the murder of Mr Manoj Mishra, who was a pure soul, untainted by the trappings of material wealth, and one who never feared to speak his mind, irrespective of the consequences. I wish every Indian had the same courage.”

One hand went up in the audience. Sundar signalled him to stand. A heavily bearded man, wearing a baggy shirt and thick eyeglasses stood up.

“Sir, are you sure Mr Manoj is dead? The police didn’t find his body.”

“What kind of question is this?” Sundar thundered, “Of course he is dead! The goons hid the body after killing him.” Sundar signalled the journalist to sit down. But he was a tough nut.

“Sir, one last question. What makes you so sure about the entire operation?”

“Are you out of your mind? We have gathered here to mourn and protest, not to create our own conspiracy theories!”

The man suddenly removed his glasses and the thick beard, which was evidently, a wig. Sundar stood there shocked. It was Manoj!

Act 3- The long game

Sundar, and the rest of the people on the dais stood there speechless. Manoj stood before them, in an event meant to mourn his death.

“Since the chief speaker of the event is out of words, I will speak,” Manoj announced, and walked up to the dais, “This man, Mr Sundar, and his entire team of eminent intellectuals, professors, writers, and artists have planned each and every event of communal unrest over the past four years. They have formed their own narratives and forced their opinions on the people of India, which has led to influencing of election results. When they were out of ideas, they planned to murder Ms Vijeta Kumari who unlike them, genuinely worked for the poor. And now, with General Election approaching, they wanted a bigger bang. So, they planned my murder. The entire cabal, with the details of every operation with proofs has already been sent to major media houses in India and abroad.”

There was a hushed silence in the hall. And then, as if snapped out of a dream, the journalists thrusted their mics on Mr Sundar’s face, who had by then, signalled his driver to bring the car around. In the ensuing ruckus, nobody noticed four more people remove their wigs, and slip out of the hall. Manoj stepped down and walked away, without answering any other question. Mr Sundar and his team hurriedly escaped before the journalists could ask anything further, and sat inside their cars.

And the cars went up in air one by one, exploding. Everything was streamed live due to the media coverage. The incident would be talked about for days after it occurred. Nobody knew the murderer, and nobody heard from Manoj Mishra after the event. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Only Manoj knew what had happened that day at his flat.

One day before, at Manoj’s flat

“I am only doing my duty, as a journalist…” Manoj’s defence was cut short by a whack against his head. Temporarily dizzy, he stood up, swayed and fell down again. The first man signalled the others to bring out their clubs and sticks. They meant to kill. Manoj was a static target, already unconscious. They lifted their clubs to beat him to death…

….and then Manoj swiftly rolled to one side and shot his attacker point-blank. He fell down, stunned, and with a hole at the back of his head, from where his brains had flown out. The other attackers looked equally confused. Manoj pointed his gun at them and said, “Nobody moves. Absolutely nobody moves.” He didn’t have to warn them. The sudden twist in events had left the other three attackers dazed and confused. Manoj then opened the music folder in his phone, which was connected to his surround-sound speakers via Bluetooth, and played “Jai shri Ram” chants. The attackers had no clue what was happening. Manoj smiled, and fired three clean shots. All three were dead.

There was constantly increasing knocks on the door. The neighbours, visibly worried, had even called the police. Manoj could hear the familiar police sirens. He dragged the bodies towards his room, and quickly opened the windows. A garbage collection truck was waiting directly below his window. Manoj threw the dead bodies in the truck, and himself jumped in. Upstairs, he saw the neighbours finally enter his house by breaking the door. He smirked to himself. They had absolutely no idea.

It had all begun when Manoj had received a note from his planted man inside the Continental, about the cabal’s plan to murder him the next day. Those plans were discussed before he reached. Manoj knew what to expect, who to expect, and he was ready.

Present day, at an unknown location

“So, you knew about the cabal?”

“Well, what these self-proclaimed intellectuals didn’t know was, that I was a decoy. I was following their handiwork for a long time. It was evident that they were triggering these events. The Manoj Mishra they so admired had infiltrated their network, only to take it down from within.”

“But all those articles, those tweets, talk shows? Was that all…”

“Yes Gita. Everything was a part of a plan. Plus I didn’t even research for my articles. There were a fixed set of words I kept on using and re-using. I knew they will lap it up, as it aided their agenda.”

“What next Dr Shyam?” Gita asked. She was still having difficulty remembering the name. After all, it was only the previous day that the vigilante-doctor had revealed his true identity. He said he was on a run for the last two years, and trusted nobody. But Gita was different. She had shown her courage and character that day by planting bombs in the cars of Mr Sundar and his cabal, in spite of such heavy police presence.

“I don’t know. Only time will tell with whose blood we will write the next chapter of Scalpel Notes,” Shyam replied with a twisted smile.