“This,” he said, muttering under his breath. “Is the most useless project that has ever been implemented.” She shot him a scathing look. “That’s disrespectful to two awfully big countries,” she retorted, buckling her seat belt. Her looked at her, wanting to argue. “Shut your trap till we get there. I want to enjoy my last moments as an American,” she snapped at him.
What followed was a series of completely sarcastic glances from Yuva, and he absent-mindedly browsed through a magazine; but Maya seemed intent to keep her glance away from her friend of 20 years. She was locked to the view that perked outside her window, a window that shows nothing but a cluster of white clouds moving about under the shimmering sun.
It was the last time that Maya Rathod would ever feel serene in her life over the next few years.
“I can’t hear a thing,” Maya screamed at the top of her lungs, with the wet khaki jacket she was wearing making it utterly difficult for her to walk about. “I might as well strip naked, it’s fucking heavy,” she muttered to Yuva, partially shivering with the gun trembling in her hands. Both of them are hunched behind a TATA Sumo a good meter away from the officer in charge, who had asked them to remain in their current position. Flashes of light sprinkle in the rotten old building, indicating gunshots, but the monsoon is ensuring even that sound wouldn’t be hearable enough to their ears.
Within the blurred sight of Maya, she saw a pair of hands frantically waving at them, hands covered in another khaki jacket. “I think we are on,” she said to Yuva. He flexed his muscles. “This is even more ridiculous,” he uttered as both of them rushed under the downpour, past their police chief, past a barricades of fellow police comrades, and finally endeared themselves at the entrance of that chaotic building. Hunched temporarily at either side of the entrance, they overheard sarcastic shootouts directed at them by those guarding the entrance. “Here come the American pigs, not time to send proper police into the building yet I suppose, I didn’t know you guys are this disposable,” ranted a policemen clad with inspector uniforms. Yuva noticed his tag. S. Kumar.
And with that, they moved into the building. It was a brief second of silence, like the calm before the storm- there was almost nobody downstairs worth taking a shot at. Or at least Yuva thought so as he watched suspectly, lowering his gun, until a clicking sound made him realize he has blundered. The bullet had splashed on Maya’s thigh, as she immediately crippled down, tumbling to the floor like a chair which legs have just refused to support the body anymore.
“Nice suit,” Nassar said, glancing at Yuva as he walked past him and took his place two seats away. Yuva glanced at him, indifferent to the supposed compliment he just received. “It’s trouble, isn’t it?” Yuva asked, caressing his reddish knuckles, with parts of its skin peeling off. “You bet,” Nassar said, seemingly locked at seeing Yuva’s knuckles as well. Nassar was even more dumbstruck as Maya trudged down the silent floor alley, with a walking stick to her aid, but assuredly making more walking progress than a regular man would do. Her emotion read out in her face.
“You fucking moron!” she hollered at Yuva once she came a distance close enough to start speaking to him. He looked up, seemingly mute. “That’s brute,” she added, pointing slyly at the little mark of wet blood that appeared on his Versace suit.
“That’s why he is suspended,” Nassar added with a gloomy face. “I don’t want a suspension,” Yuva retorted. “I have no choice buddy. Look, there are people down there who would love it to see you go. You’ve been a threat from the moment you came. I mean, don’t expect us to throw tiffins at you when you come to steal our bread.”
“I’m resigning. Not stealing anyone’s bread.”
“That’s not what I…,”
“I’m leaving Nas, let me go.”
Maya shot Yuva a puzzled look, but Yuva had already made his decision. One of the only two adopted law enforcement, outsource trained law enforcement officers in India, had denounced the purpose of his arrival in the world’s second most populated nation.
Maya would, over the next three years, completely forget how to be an American. A report would land in her table stating the outsource program implemented between America and India was an immense success. And she would become the museum toy who would be used as an example, the only one there is, as to why this program was a success. She had a spiral staircase that would lead to an ala-attic house, designed just enough for two people. The place where she escapes from all of the attention- from both as the newly appointed Chief of Police and also as the guinea pig for a political experiment conducted by two countries who are too smart for their own good.
Drinking coffee at the balcony and glancing over, she wished that he, Yuva, would experience what she is experiencing. That he would be in her shoes. He should be. He’s the other guinea pig who went into hiding. “Now the whole world will declare you as my husband,” she said, turning around and looking at him, as he was busy writing something on his messy desk. He paused momentarily. “React, pig,” she raised her tone. They have been living together since the day they arrived in India, why would thoughts of a couple of conservative people matter to them now? For Maya it does, with the amount of uninvited attention she has been receiving of late. She had to do something about it. She looked at Yuva with a glint in her eyes. “I can use you,” she said, nodding to herself. “What?” he asked, still immersed in his writings.
….the continued implementation of this program would be hazardous for the law enforcement environment and would make it hostile. I wish this mistake is not repeated. It undermines the capacity or efficiency of local, Indian-bred police officers, and I have had to overcome a lot of hostile relationships for no warranted reason since I came here, all because the country had, in adopting me back here, signaled that my colleagues are incompetent. My success is not, and never should be, a gauge. I have immense passion for this profession and that is the sole reason I wish to be accounted for my success, not my American training process, or my education and upbringing there. I wish to point out that my friend Yuvaraj, the fellow participant in this program, who was with me from our times in Chicago up until now in Chennai, retracted for he couldn’t take this heat. A nominally calm person with a jovial exterior, the adverse reactions of this outsourced program was visible in the way he got into feuds with our colleagues, and in order to impress them went out of his way to release his frustrations in other ways. He eventually resigned while facing suspension for assaulting the lawyer of a criminal we caught in an ambush in Chennai three years ago. And it all started with me getting shot in my thighs while both of us entered the already gunshot-ridden building during that rainy day. The reason I’m narrating all of these events again is because human emotions are very subjective, and whatever mission or ambitious program there were to be implemented, we should never forget the complexity of human emotions. Now a journalist by profession, Yuva had discovered his smiles and jokes again, something which went amiss in his days as an Indian policeman. Let’s not disillusion ourselves that this program works. There are no shortcuts to crime eradication. Bred in America doesn’t read as intimidating for criminals.
For a better India. For a better future.
“You didn’t have to psyche me in there,” Yuva said. “Digging old dust, you pig,” he muttered. “Why did you publish it then? It’s your column, your space in the paper,” Maya told, fiddling with her gun while sitting on the sofa. “Well, a writer can’t say no to well written pieces, and you could have just mentioned about us. You know, botch the myth that we are married or anything like that.”
“Nobody would believe that we are just friends; that nothing ever happened. Not even in America would they believe us,” she retorted.
There was a momentary silence. There wasn’t the typical crack, the typical lame argument that Yuva would put forth.
“I have something to tell you. Well, just, you know, to share,” he said after a while, dropping down the magazine he was browsing through and sitting up straight, with a flickering grin installed on the features of his face.
She smiled. She knows him so well that she knew what is coming.
“Thoda, American boy met an Indian girl.”
To be continued…