The Edge of Desire

by Tuhin Sinha

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

When journalist Shruti Ranjan, newly-wed wife of the Deputy Commissioner of Kishanganj in the lawless Bihar of the 1990s, is brutally raped by a 'politically sheltered local goon' all of her attempts at getting justice are crushed by a corrupt and complicit state government. That's when the charismatic Sharad Malviya a leading member of the Opposition party offers her an unlikely solution: his party's ticket to contest the Lok Sabha elections. Left with little to choose from, Shruti agrees only to realize that being catapulted to an enviable position of power in an all-man's world comes at a price. Caught between her mentor and her spouse - both upright but ultimately flawed men - and a host of envious others who continue to cast aspersions on her character - she struggles to address the larger problems of the country.

Release date: August 7, 2012

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 179

Sample

In Delhi’s Tihar Jail, a corridor leads you past a row of dingy cells to a slightly more spacious ‘VIP’ cell. Seated inside this confinement, with her back against the wall, her dusky, dark-eyed face resting on her knees, her long hair dishevelled, is politician Shruti Ranjan. At 33, she is petite and slim but looks older than her years. She glances up. Her face reveals nothing.

Amidst drizzle, in a Connaught Place bookstore window, a more cheerful image of Shruti is visible on the cover of a book that is selling like hot cakes. The Edge of Desire is what she calls her memoirs. The owner of the store proudly announces that the book has sold over 2000 copies from his shop in just two days – a record of sorts. The book has become something of a craze with everyone trying to get an inside into Shruti’s tumultuous rise and fall from power.

In his official Boring Canal Road residence in Patna, State Cabinet Secretary Rohit Verma sits watching India News, along with his wife, Shyamlee. It is raining here as well. On the news channel, anchor Abhay Sarkar talks about the political fallout of the revelations made by Shruti in her book. Rohit quietly lights a cigarette. His wife can sense Rohit’s awkwardness. Rohit walks up to the window.

Broadcast live from Humayun Road in Lutyens’ Delhi, two prominent national leaders rave about Shruti’s guts on Sarkar’s show. Shruti has written in her book that while she had known that not all of Home Minister Sharad Malviya’s decisions were completely above board, she had purposely decided to kowtow to him as Malviya was promoting her and opposing him would have jeopardized her career.

One of the two leaders, who has known Shruti for several years, simply says, ‘If Shruti had realized that she had played into Malviya’s hands, she would never have done this.’ The other nods sagely.

Back in Patna, Rohit feels increasingly uncomfort able as Abhay begins to dissect each section of the book with his guests. Seeing his discomfiture, his wife turns off the TV and places a hand on his shoulder but Rohit can’t keep his eyes off the book, a copy of which lies on the table in front of him.

The mild rains give way to violent thundershowers…

Sporadic thundershowers greeted us as our car entered the district on the morning of second July, after an excruciating sixteen-hour journey from the state capital. Rohit and I had been married two days ago in Patna but our marriage had not not yet been consummated. Nor did the long journey give much scope for romance, considering there was a gun-toting guard on the front seat who didn’t miss any opportunity to peer back at us, gauge our proximity to each other, and exchange sly glances with the driver. I’m not sure if I felt particularly romantic, anyway. After all, ours was a conventional arranged marriage.

Dad had put out a standard ad in the newspapers. You know, the kind that says, ‘High status, IAS/IIT/IIM groom for professionally qualified, beautiful, modern yet traditional, 25/5’5 bride from decent, well-educated family of doctors. Dowry seekers excuse.’

This ad is what had brought Rohit Verma into my life.

Government servants, I’ve realized, attach a lot of significance to terms that hold their worth only for effect. Rohit wanted a beautiful bride, as any prize government official would. More importantly, even though he would not explicitly say so, he wanted someone who would willingly play second fiddle to him. I have a strong feeling the inclusion of the word ‘traditional’ may have influenced his liking. No, the Veronicas of the world did not excite him. After all, as the wife of an IAS officer, I’d be expected to accompany him to social dos of all kinds, from flag-hoisting ceremonies on Republic and Independence Day, to undertaking some social work of my own, to being his arm candy when he assumed more important responsibilities in the state capital. Anyhow, that’s how he had explained the responsibilities of an ‘IAS wife’ to me on one of our arranged, pre-marriage dates.



When our car entered Kishanganj town its speed had to be reduced to a crawl – about ten kilometres an hour – so bad was the flood situation. The nullahs were overflowing. River water had, in fact, entered several parts of the town. At one point, we were compelled to stay put for two hours on a small stretch of road till the water receded.

As we sat staring at the rising water, I looked at Rohit glumly. He was my husband. I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. Why did he then still seem a stranger to me? Why couldn’t he just hold my hand and act more like my man?

Or was I, perhaps, expecting him to be like Abhay, the guy I had once been in love with?

Rohit and I had met just three months ago. I was in Patna staying with my parents. I had quit my job as a correspondent with one of the first private Indian news channels in Delhi and had taken a sabbatical from work. I guess I was trying to find meaning in things – to understand why stuff that I had not anticipated was happening to me.

Being ditched by Abhay after five years of living together had taken the sheen off my existence. After all, we had been a couple right from our second year in college. We had done our Mass Comm. together. Abhay was lanky and dark and by no means good looking, but he exuded a confidence that made him appear quite cool. And in college – when most guys are a bit unsure of what the future holds for them – the swagger he displayed attracted a number of girls. That he, discounting their advances, showed his preference for me, naturally flattered me. It was only later that I realized he was not what he seemed to be.

Living with him I so enjoyed the comfort zone that his company provided that I never realized we were growing apart. We had our differences, sure, but by then my emotional attachment to him was so strong that it didn’t matter what kind of man he really was; I would still have happily continued living with him. We were both quite content in our careers; we were both being noticed by our bosses and moving smoothly up the ladder. Abhay Sarkar had joined the print media; I, the electronic.

Sometimes, it takes a jolt to acquaint you with the truth. Mine was the discovery that Antara, my best buddy and colleague, whom I had introduced to Abhay, was secretly having an affair with my guy.

I’m not sure how many other women have experienced what I did that fateful night: the sight of my boyfriend and my best friend entwined in an unclad and passionate embrace. They weren’t expecting me home that early; I had a late-night reporting assignment that was cancelled at the last moment.

Strangely, when I was subjected to this horrid sight, my mind focused on the bedspread. It was the violet velvet one that I loved so much and which I had bought after much searching, to make our nights together more dreamy. The same sheet now draped Abhay and Antara as they stood in front of me trying to conceal what little they could.

I’m not sure how I would have reacted to an apology from Abhay. But the fact is that Abhay did not apologize; nor did Antara. In fact, Abhay tried to justify his actions by telling me that ours was a ‘confused, overstretched college romance that had outlived its life’.

His words shattered my self-belief. I found it virtually impossible to get a hold on myself. When I moved out and rented a single room apartment, I felt such a sense of forlornness that it killed me from within. How could a man dismiss three years of courtship and another two of living-in together as a confused, over-stretched college romance? And how could I have not seen it coming? How could I have been in such denial of the state of our relationship?

The sight of them together did not cease to haunt me. I desperately tried to erase the last five years from my life, forgetting that human existence hadn’t yet found a way to do that. The image of them together would not let me forget anything. My mental state was that of a dead woman walking.

My parents, both of whom were doctors, knew as much about my romance as one could share with educated Bihari parents of the generation who like to believe they are progressive and communicate well with their children. I had thus, without divulging the intensity of our bond, told them about my ‘special friendship’ with Abhay. It was even implied that we’d get married one day. When I subsequently informed them about my break-up, it was only natural for them to press the panic button. After resisting their persuasion for nearly six months, I finally gave in. I took a sabbatical from work and came back to Patna, the city where I had gone to school.

Leaving Delhi, which I’d begun to feel would be my home for the rest of my life, wasn’t easy. But then, at that point, my journey with the city too seemed to have reached an impasse. Professionally, I’d been covering the same stories over and over – a young French Embassy official molested in the heart of Lutyens’ Delhi; the exploits of Delhi’s infamous Red-Line buses; stories of the various protests that Jantar Mantar had become synonymous with. None of these stories contained the fodder to excite me. About the only assignment I remember with some sense of satisfaction was a press conference convened by the young and dynamic leader of the Opposition, Sharad Malviya. Those were the days when the PM’s post seemed to be decided by a game of musical chairs, what with two of the most unlikely people – Deve Gowda and I.K. Gujral – suddenly occupying the top post thanks to them somehow getting the required numbers on their side. Sharad, in his press conference, had been scathing about the tenets of ‘Westminsters’ democracy’ that enabled any combination of parties to cobble together a government at the Centre if they managed to conjure the required numbers. He called for a massive overhaul of our democratic process.

I’m not sure if Sharad’s party subscribed to his views. That, of course, never deterred him from saying what in his opinion served the country’s interest the best. In hindsight, I sometimes feel that had I got more assignments like Sharad’s press conference maybe I would have sustained my interest in my profession and not quit it as abruptly as I had when Abhay dumped me.

To be honest though, the main reason for leaving Delhi went beyond my profession. I’d got to know the city with Abhay. Without his company, the city and its roads and lanes seemed to leer at me; the landscape turned unfamiliar – alien, unknown and hostile. What was worse was when I chanced upon Abhay and Antara holding hands as they walked past me through the buzzing Connaught Place market. Yes, they were officially a couple now. After seeing them in public together once, I’d get paranoid about spotting them again whenever I visited the India Gate area or North Campus.

I realized the streets of the city had begun to taunt me.

Once back in Patna, Dad convinced me that the best way to move on was to get married. I scoffed at the thought. My first reaction was like – with a stranger? That night however I pondered over how people whom you think you know well can suddenly seem strangers. Who then is a stranger? A week later, one evening when Dad broached the issue again, I relented. My sudden change of heart, though, was triggered by something else; Abhay had called that morning. His call had taken me by surprise. There was still some faint hope in me that he would repent. Instead he said, ‘Shruti, Antara and I are getting married next month. and we’d like you to come…’

I froze. For an hour or two after talking to him I felt sick to my stomach. My head throbbed and I felt waves of nausea assault me. Luckily, both my parents were not at home and I managed to compose myself before they came.

My parents were relieved by my decision. The next Sunday, the TOI matrimonials’ page carried the familiarly-worded ad. Ten days after that, Rohit, whose parents lived in the same Kankerbagh locality of Patna as us, met me when he came home on a short Holi break.



The thundershowers had cleared; only a mild and lovely drizzle remained. Slowly the water levels receded and the driver got ready to start the ten-kilometre drive to the Collector’s bungalow, my new home in Kishanganj.

‘Chai?’ an old, fragile woman enquired rapping on the car window.

I didn’t mind the luxury at all. But where would she get it from?

I was explained that the poor, in difficult situations like these, often made money by offering small services to the rich. So, while they weren’t professional tea-vendors, they’d double as them to make money. Similarly, people sold food and even provided shelter in their homes for a fee. Rohit asked her for four cups.

‘I quite love the rains. In fact, when it rained in Delhi like this, I’d spend the whole day moving around from one place to the other. It’s romantic, isn’t it?’ I said, trying to lift our spirits and relax the strained formality between us.

Rohit’s response was strange. ‘Moved all alone?’ was all he asked. Before I replied he added, ‘Rains in these parts are such a dampener. They ruin your day.’

I nodded, still hoping that I would fall in love with him, sooner than later, as Dad had assured me I would. As we sipped our tea, I couldn’t help thinking back to our first meeting.



It was the day after Holi. The venue was a restaurant in Hotel Samrat. We were both nervous; I, because I found it strange to go through the process of an arranged marriage after having been ‘mentally married’ to someone else; Rohit, because he hadn’t really been in a serious relationship before. As such, he was a bit inexperienced in ‘handling women’.

That inexperience revealed itself more prominently in his oblique queries about my past.

‘So have you been in love before?’ he asked me with sudden, bluff confidence.

‘Yes,’ was my terse response, while my expression clearly said – you’d be abnormal if you haven’t.

‘Was it a long relationship?’

‘Yes.’ My responses to both of Rohit’s questions were so cryptic that they cut short any further queries.

Rohit was a decent looking chap of average height – 5ft 8 inches, average build, fair skin, a neatly trimmed moustache and a formal disposition; just the sort you’d imagine a character artist playing an upright sarkari officer in a Bollywood movie would look like. He spoke slowly; his words were always guarded and carefully emphasized. This obviously impeded impulsive reactions on my behalf and often had me wonder, especially in our early days of courtship, whether everything that he spoke was considered and weighed before it was uttered.

Rohit was happiest talking about his job. I discovered he was a diligent worker and had a mission plan for his district, which was famous for all the wrong reasons. He was driven by an urge to bring about real change in the quality of people’s lives. He was really bugged by corruption at all levels; yet was pragmatic enough to know he could not wish it away. He had a strong point of view on almost every social or political issue; yet knew when to put these aside lest they become a hindrance in the discharge of his job responsibilities. Rohit was clear about his role – he was a catalyst between the government and the people; moreover, he was an instrument of the government, at the service of the people. He was a workaholic and a proud one.

Rohit wasn’t quite into music or the arts. He did like watching movies though; his preferences were confined to Madhuri Dixit Hindi films or international action flicks. And like most Indian smalltown men, he feasted on cricket.

Our first date can’t be called romantic by any stretch of the imagination. I guess Rohit had some apprehensions in his mind; worries that I might not like him. This had probably prevented him from being more expressive of his sentiments to me. Perhaps I just liked to think that Rohit was not the sort of guy who demonstrated his feelings. But when we parted he did mention to me that he’d had a great evening, perhaps the best in many years.

That still did not prepare me for what happened two days later. Rohit’s mom called up my dad to say that Rohit wanted to marry me. It took us all by surprise. I mean, things were happening far too suddenly; my meeting with Rohit two days ago hadn’t given me the vaguest idea that he would be so prompt with decision-making. Rohit was supposed to leave for Kishanganj the day after and said he wished to meet me once again before he left.

This time round we met for dinner. Rohit surprised me once again with the suddenness of a question that I hadn’t anticipated. ‘So, how far did you tread in the relationship that you were in?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, was it a physical relationship?’

I paused, uncertain how to feel about this query. Was he probing, inquisitive, or just plain envious?

‘Yes. We lived together as a couple.’

He took a long pause to absorb this. ‘And why did it break?’

‘Because he lost interest in me, while I kept thinking love is eternal,’ I said bitterly. I found it hard to hold back my emotions. ‘One part of me still loves him as much as I hate him. Because that part of me belongs to him. A close relationship often moulds you in a certain way without your realizing it.’

What I said was heart-felt; I couldn’t stop myself from saying it. I was certain Rohit would not want a future with me after hearing me out.

‘Will you allow me a part of you?’ he asked unexpectedly. ‘A part to begin with, and then, maybe if we do fall in love, we could belong to each other completely?’

I was completely bowled over by Rohit’s words. Sure, he was less fun; a bit of a chauvinist too. But he seemed like a nice, honest bloke. He did have a sensitive side, which was often camouflaged by some of his more mundane preoccupations. Maybe this was due to the largely administrative nature of his work and the fact that his job required him to deal with boring, lesser evolved, junior-level government employees.

I was emboldened enough to ask him how come he hadn’t been in a serious relationship yet.

He shook his head. ‘I guess relationships are destined. I’ve been meaning to experience one, but never quite felt as inspired as I do now… there is something about you that makes me want to spend the days – and nights – with you.’

When Rohit said this he seemed less a stranger to me than Abhay had these last few months. If anything, Rohit was a positive stranger, who meant well. That was the subconscious trigger that made me want to go for him at that point.

I had experienced the perfunctory existence of a big city. I now felt a craving to live in the far-flung interiors. Besides, I would have a doting husband for company. To my surprise I did not feel any aversion towards an arranged marriage.



By the time we entered the Collector’s bungalow in Kishanganj town, the rain had ceased. Looking around my new home I saw that the bungalow was quite modest. Even though Rohit had invested in new furniture and curtains, they did little to lift my spirits. I wondered why Rohit’s favourite colour had to be violet. The vivid brightness of the curtains took me back to the day I’d bought the same shade of fabric with Abhay after a whole day of searching and shopping.

‘What’s happened, Shruti? Are you alright?’ Rohit said, looking at my suddenly pale face.

‘Y… ye… yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine.’

After a pause, I asked hesitantly, ‘Rohit, can we change the curtains?’

‘Sure,’ he responded casually.

I wondered at that point if Rohit was aloof and oblivious to some things because he was insensitive, or because he. . .