Saas, Bahu aur William Hearst in "All the President's Men"

As a hard-charging investigative reporter whose duties often involve speaking truth to indigents and all that, I often find myself pondering questions like: where do our politicians hide their black money? How high does police corruption go? Why is it that so many sons of prominent judges make a living as lawyers? If I got a call tomorrow from the Indian establishment's version of W. Mark Felt, where would I meet him?

This last question has been bothering me a great deal recently.

Felt was the source who helped the Washington Post crack the Watergate scandal, eventually leading to an iconic photo in front of an airplane and the much overused quote "I am not a crook."  Because Bob Woodward and Leonard - excuse me, Carl - Bernstein never snitched on Felt's identity, decades of Americans grew up not knowing why exactly Nixon resigned as President.  Now of course, students do know.  Well, they could know.  If they cared.

According to a profile in the Washington Post, Felt (whom the Post's managing editor dubbed 'Deep Throat' because workplace sexual harassment laws hadn't been invented yet), was so mysterious that even in film he was represented as "the romantic truth teller half hidden in the shadows of a Washington area parking garage."  Believe me, a "romantic truth teller" is just about the last thing I expect to find hidden in the shadows of a Washington area parking garage, but like I said, those were different times.  In fact, I learned a lot from "All the President's Men," namely that Robert Redford, at one point, was young.

Which brings us to today's discussion.  Namely, where can one rendezvous in secret in Delhi?  This might be useful to me, but it will also be useful to others.  For example, have you ever wanted to smuggle stolen artworks through the Indian capital? Drop off your most recent hacked transcripts of Osama's Skype calls?  Dispose of those photos of yourself at that frat party from ten years ago which you're pretty sure everyone else has forgotten at least you really hope so? Go for a romantic truth telling session with someone your family disapproves of?

Delhi is a lot better for secret rendezvouses (I know, I know,  the plural of rendezvous is not rendezvouses, it's actually "Voulez vous rendezvous avec moi?") than that other great Indian megapolis - Bombay.  Bombay is dirty and crowded and very confusing, and you'll inevitably find yourself drawn into a script like the following:

You:  I'm looking for that dark alley right behind the famous Punjabi dhaba in Nariman Point.

Fruit Seller:  The dark alley?  That alley is very dangerous.

You:  I just want to know where it is.

Fruit Seller:  Why do you want to go there?

You:  It's none of your business.

Fruit Seller:  I just don't think you should go there.  You look like a nice person.  There's a restaurant right over there if you're hungry.  Very good Biryani.

You:  I'm not hungry, I have business to conduct there.

Fruit Seller: (nodding sagely)  I see.  There's also a public bathroom next to Flora Fountain.

You:  I have to go to the dark alley behind the Punjabi dhaba!

Fruit Seller:  Stop getting so worked up!  I'm just trying to help you!

You:  You're not helping me, you're delaying me.

Fruit Seller:  Is it my fault you're getting delayed?  You're the one who's standing here yelling!

You'll eventually stagger into the alley several days late and covered in road dust, only to discover that half of it is covered in rubble thanks to an unfinished construction project that dates back to the 80s.  Also, it's flooded.  And there are rats.  Lots of them.  And a vague smell of tandoori chicken.  You soon realize you're not alone.  Within moments, an entire family has materialized from the rubble, which you now realize has been refashioned through human perseverance to resemble a house.

You:  I have private business to conduct here.

Them:  We own this land.

You:  That's not possible.

Them:  My grandfather was born here.  In this very alley.  Go elsewhere to conduct your business.

You:  I won't.

Them:  Your loss.  *Several minutes of stalemate pass*

Child: Are you looking for someone?

You:  No.

Child:  Are you sure?

You:  Of course not.  I'm just...relaxing.  Respecting my source's integrity.

Child:  Because a man came by here a few hours ago.  He looked really angry, just like you.

You:  What man?

Child:  That man.  The one who works in government.  We saw him on our TV once.

You:  You have a TV??

Child:  You don't?

You:  What happened to the man?

Child:  I don't know.  Maybe he ran away.  He was involved in some bad business.

You:  What do you mean?

Child:  He's involved with Abu Doom's gang.  He works as their financier on corrupt government infrastructure deals.  He's been smuggling money into the Cayman Islands for the past ten years.  He's very corrupt.

You:  You know where the Cayman Islands are?

Child:  You don't?

You:  How do you know all this is true?

Child:  Ay, baba.  My friend who works as a ragpicker has a niece who almost got married to a man from her village but before the ceremony happened there was a spark of thunder and the pandit said it was a bad omen and they had to call off the wedding.

You:  ...??

Child:  And now she has to work as a maid for money in a big house in the city.  Poor thing.  They only give her one day off a month.

You: ....??

Child:  Oh, and she works in that man's house.  And she sees all his secret documents.  Not that she cares.

You:  I must turn this into a Pulitzer Prize-winning story.  And pretend you never existed.  So I get all the credit.

Child:  You want to write about this in the newspaper?  You must be stupid.  Everyone already knows this.  Why do you want to put it in the paper?

HOURS OF TOIL ENSUE.  When you've finally constructed your masterpiece, your editor calls you in for a conversation like the following.

You:  I've finished this story.  It's a shoe-in for the Pulitzer Prize.  Also, it may lead to some resignations in high places, if you know what I mean.

Editor:  This is all very exciting.  I can't believe you got this story.  The Indian government is impossible to crack.

You:  It wasn't easy.

Editor:  Obviously, we can't tell anyone who your source was.

You:  I'm really glad you're not asking.

Editor:  I am kind of curious.

You:  I'll carry it to the grave.

Editor:  You sure have a lot of integrity, telling me that.

TWO DAYS LATER.  You're palms are sweaty.  You can't sleep.  You probably should see a doctor about all that.  Your story finally appears at the top of the front page.  You anticipate all kinds of hubbub in Parliament.  But that day, nothing happens, except that your fever gets worse.  You finally go to the local charity clinic, where the doctor tells you that your sweats were due not to nerves, but to malaria.

Doc:  Have you been trekking around in damp, moldy, wet places?

You:  *delirious mumblings about journalistic integrity*

Doc:  Have you?

You:  I will never tell you!  You can torture me!  Send me to jail!  Expatriate me!  I won't reveal his name.

Doc:  It looks like the disease is having some side effects of a mental nature.  We're going to observe you overnight.  In the meantime, you can watch TV.

You:  You have a TV?

Doc:  You don't?

The doc switches the TV to a show you've never seen before.  There's a woman onscreen, sobbing and clutching at a man's feet.  An older woman cackles viciously in the background.  Somewhere off-screen, goats bleat and roosters crow.

You:  I don't speak Hindi.

Doc:  You don't know, "Saas, Bahu, Sensex, Tum Aur Woh?"  It's amazing.  The young woman's father died and left her alone, and in order to save her brother from the police she married Sunil Shah, only in this show he's playing a corrupt cop.  He's really too good.

You:  Are all Indian officials corrupt?

Doc:  Now, you see, it turns out that the cop wanted to marry the girl's twin sister, so he has blackmailed her that if she doesn't have her baby, he'll tell everyone that their brother isn't dead but actually under suspicion for killing their great-uncle.  He was horribly abusive.

You:  You said the disease was having side effects of a mental nature?

Doc:  But this is the key scene.  It turns out the cop has been paid off by Abu Doom's gang - they're the most dangerous goondas in the city, very bad - and the cop has been helping them launder money through construction projects for years.

You:  I know that name. Abu Doom.

Doc:  Everyone does.  Look at how Pinky Pandey is crying, you really believe she loves him, of all the actresses she is the best.  All these other girls who are coming in the films now, all they do is wear small skirts and kiss the actors and think that is acting.

You:  What's happening now?  Why is she so upset?

Doc:  She just learned that her husband plans to run away with her sister.  He's stashed all his money in the Cayman Islands.  She's begging him to stay with her...look at how she weeps.  *The doctor notices your bitter tears* I know, it's very moving.  Don't be ashamed!  Even I get teary-eyed at some of these scenes.

You:  It's not that.  I just lost...everything...

Doc:  I know, I know.  These serials are too, too good.  You really feel like it's real.  Like it's happening in front of you.