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.
