CounterFeit

A story by my alter-ego, Namratha Krishnaswamy

January 16, 2010
At the airport, they told me that I had already boarded the plane. The young man behind the counter stared at his computer screen, and then scratching his chin, examined my passport again.
"I'm sorry ma'am," he said, "but you've already boarded the plane."
I was incredulous. I protested that I couldn't have, that I was standing here, in front of him, with a valid photo ID.
He pursed his lips and stared at the print-out of my e-ticket again. He called over his manager, and they had a hurried, whispered conference.
The manager asked me to move to one side. He assured me that this confusion would be straightened out immediately.
I believed him.
Two minutes later, a pair of security guards reached the counter. I frowned, but handed over my passport when they asked for it.
They looked at my passport, flipped through the pages.
And then whisked me off to a holding cell.

When I tried to tell them - at first politely - that I was who I said I was, they ignored me.
Then, when I persisted, they scoffed.
Finally, when I lost my temper, and screamed, in the middle of the airport, they slapped a pair of handcuffs on me.

I made a frantic series of phone calls. I called my father, my uncle in the IAS, my grand mother's second cousin (also in the IAS), my aunt (a housewife), my aunt's neighbour's son (a police official), an old ex-boyfriend (a journalist, but he didn't take my call).

They took my phone away from me.

A sharply dressed man came into the little police cell at the airport, he signed a few papers and then after a sharp stare at me, left.

Moments later, I heard the loud glare of a police siren. A unit of troopers marched into the station, AK-47s held aloft.

They bound me. When I shouted, they gagged me and slipped a black bag over my head.
Stumbling, they led me out. I couldn't see where I was going, and I almost tripped.
Hands lifted me up - somewhere - a van, I think.

It occurred to me - sitting bound and trussed in that hot van, jolted by the bumps and potholes of the road, surrounded by a dozen men with guns - that someone, using my name, had flown on the ticket that I had bought for Delhi.
That person could be anyone. A terrorist. Using my identity.
I tried to speak, but I couldn't - cloth muffled my mouth.
When I tried to move, a gun prodded me in the side.
I sat still.

We arrived somewhere. I hustled out of the van, and pushed somewhere - up a series of steps I remember, and down a corridor with many twists and turns.
Finally, they pulled off the blindfold and the gag, but left the handcuffs on.
There was no light. No windows either - and the air was damp and musty.
I shouted, but they had locked the door.

January 16, 2010
Hours Later

An apologetic, plump man entered the room. His hair was thinning, and in the musty dampness of the cell, he had begun to perspire. Someone turned on a light, and the glare bounced off his bald pate.
He was my father's colleague's sister-in-law's uncle's junior officer, it turned out, and he was a minor official in the state administrative service. He had been sent to clear up the mess and get me out.
It took another hour to complete the formalities. I told the police officer in charge that someone else has used my identity to get on the plane.
"It could be a terrorist," I added.
The T-word had an effect. The police officer picked up his phone and called the airport.
"But the plane's already landed. It was a 45-minute flight." He said, puzzled. "Nothing happened. But they're checking the plane to be sure. But nothing happened. "
,
January 17, 2010
I called the editor I was supposed to meet in Delhi.
"Listen Marie," I said, "I'm really sorry that I wasn't able to make yesterday's meeting-"
"But you did. You even came early." She replied, genuinely surprised. "We met for lunch at Tuscan Sun. I thought your idea for your book was brilliant. I loved the sample chapters that you showed me. Very original, very different. We'd be thrilled for you to publish with Percourt Brown."
I tried to understand what she was saying. "Marie, you mean to say-"
"Listen, I got to go," Marie cut me off, in a breathless tone of voice. "But you're so funny! Calling me and telling me we didn't meet! I love your sense of humor. It's so esoteric! Bye!"
She cut the call.
I tried calling back, but her phone was engaged for the next hour. Later, in the evening, I tried again, but she didn't reply.

January 18, 2010
I got on a flight (without mishap) and went to Marie's office.
"She's in a meeting," the receptionist said. "Who should I tell her is here?"
I gave my name.
"You were here day before yesterday." The receptionist frowned and looked again at me. "But you look a little different. Did you get a haircut? I didn't recognize you at first."
I sat down, and she left for the inner office.
She returned a few minutes later. A slim young woman accompanied her out, dressed elegantly in slacks and a turtleneck. She stared at me. I had never met Marie, in person, but she looked like what I imagined Marie to be.
"You're not Namratha Krishnaswamy," she said. "She was here yesterday."
"You're Marie? Well, the most bizarre thing happened to me-" I tried to explain, but Marie -
"She told me that this would happen. I almost didn't believe it at first. A stalker, who pretends-"
"I'm not a stalker! I AM Namratha Krishnaswamy! You met somebody else! Someone who was pretending to be me-"
Marie's expression had changed from polite disapproval to outright contempt.
Desperate, I pulled out my passport.
"Look-"
She refused to. "Anyone can make those things, these days - make a copy and put your own photograph in it. You're sick. You're just really sick."
A small crowd had gathered now, watching from a safe distance.
With a sneer on her perfect lips, Marie turned to leave. I caught hold of her hand and yanked her back.
"Let go of me!" She screamed.
"Just listen-"
Marie shrieked. The receptionist must have called someone, because a security guard entered the office. Politely but firmly, an iron grip on my upper arm, he escorted me out.
The crowd parted, almost reverently before us. My ears and face were burning. I stared at the ground, not wanting to see those faces - but I couldn't help hearing the whispers -

"Just imagine the gall.
"Poor thing, I didn't believe it when she told us yesterday about the stalker."
"So strange, like a book, even."

January 27, 2010
I tried getting in touch with Marie, many times over the next week, but to no avail. I even sent her manuscript, the one that I was supposed to present to her that day, but it was returned, a week later, with a type-written, standard rejection slip, advising me to try another publishing house.

I tore up the slip.

January 28, 2010
How was this person pretending to me? What did she look like? What did she say that convinced others, so confidently, that she was me?

February 5, 2010
I sent my manuscript to another publishing house,

March 10, 2010
In the mail, a bulky envelope, with a note -

Dear Who ever you really are,

We initially contacted Percourt Brown, because your name appears on their author list, and it seemed to us that your behavior would be both unethical and inexplicable, if you were who you claimed to be. But Percourt Brown, after much deliberation, shared with us some sample chapters and an synopsis of Counterfeit, Ms Krishnaswamy's soon to be released novel. We appreciate their openness, and with this sample we realized that the style of your writing is derivative, and a poor imitation of the same writer whose name you claim to possess. We regard this as some sort of post-modernist joke, a play on the themes and ideas of Ms Krishnaswamy's novel. We would appreciate it if you refrain from such tasteless jests in the future, that end up taking so much of our time and effort and inconveniencing us to such a great degree.

Yours sincerely & etc

The Editors

March 12, 2010
How did this woman who pretended to be me write? What did she write about?
Was she, as everyone seemed to think, a better writer than me?

May 15, 2010
Advance reviews have came out, praising Counterfeit, Namritha Krishnaswamy's debut novel. One reviewer called it "refreshing," another reviewer praised "the elegant, lucid style."

And from another review -

"Counterfeit is the tale of the tragic, frustrated, incomplete rebellion of the individual against a society that prizes conformity, values mediocrity and stamps out individuality. In Counterfeit, debutante author Krishnaswamy offers a terrible, yet convincing reflection of the world we live in."

May 16, 2010
My mother called me. "You never told me your book had been accepted for publication," she admonished me over the phone.
I explained what had happened.
"That's stocking, Nam," my mother said. "It almost sounds like a story. But it's terrible! Really terrible. But seriously - what are you going to do?"

I didn't know. I hadn't the faintest clue of how to deal with this. File a law suit - against whom? I didn't know a thing about this woman who pretended to be me. I hadn't even seen her.
What was I supposed to do?

May 29, 2010
There was a notice announcing the book reading of Counterfeit in my local bookshop, on the sixth of June.

June 6, 2010
A young woman walked into the bookshop. This it seemed, was my doppelganger - for she came in, striding purposefully, already surrounded by a swarm of shop assistants. They buzzed around her as she moved from the fiction section to the non fiction, from biography to psychology. As she swirled around, bags, scarves, sweaters and books trailing after her, sashaying up the stairs to yet more shelves. There was a list clutched in one, manicured hand and a cellphone in the other. She wore pink nail polish.
A shop assistant scurried forth with a book - the book she was looking for? She smiled, graciously, but shook her head. There was a haughtiness to her smile, visible in the tilt of her nose, her condescending attitude that was polite but brooked no encroaching/overstepping. The shop assistants, getting the message, retreated, still buzzing from a respectful distance.
She was attractive, just a notch above plain, but not - never - beautiful. She was glamourous - but not too glamourous. She was exactly the picture of what an author should be.

I didn't like her one bit.

The book launch started on time. She pushed her spectacles delicately back, and read a few pages from her book, in a delicate, feminine voice.

I seethed through her reading. The words, the ideas seemed to fly through me. But the audience listened, respectfully. An old man, sitting next to me, oohed and ached through the reading.
"What language," he whispered to me, "what command of the language."

I sneered.

A woman got up, in the second row, hand raised. "Ms Krishnaswamy, what was the inspiration behind your story?"

She smiled, simpering, and answered. "What an excellent question! The idea behind this story began when, in fact, there was an impostor - who was wandering around town, convinced that she was me! Some people were even convinced -

I stood up, my blood boiling. Pink spots danced in front of my eyes.

"and it was interesting….I tried to imagine what it would like to be someone pretending to be. That's how-"

"Stop!" I cried. I couldn't bear it anymore. "You're a liar. You're pretending to be. You've stolen my life, my publisher - even this -

I gestured to the people, sitting down in chairs, mouths agape, watching me -

"was supposed to be mine. But you're taking it all - I won't let you."

My double smiled, knowingly, as if to saw - see, this is her.
The woman asked, a little frightened - "Is she dangerous?"
The old man began to edge away from me.

It was too much. I screamed. I ran unto the podium, determined to wrap my hands around her neck and throttle the life out of her, force her to take back the lies - force to say that it was a sham…

But I didn't. The bookshop security guard, and a couple of audience members, got between me and the podium and wrestled me to the ground.

I was thrown out of the book reading and charged with assault. They held me down, until the police constable arrived. He smiled when he saw. "Why she's just a little thing," he said to the security guard. "Ease up on her, nothing she can do surrounded."
When he asked me for my name, I told him.
"But that isn't your name! Come on, tell me your real name!"
I bit him then.
He yelled, and dropped hold of my arm. I bared my teeth, tasting blood, and the security guards and bookshop assistants, backed away from me warily.
I pushed through the bookshop door and sprinted to freedom.

That evening, I rang up my mother. "Mom, there's this woman, this author - who is pretending to be me."
"I know sweetheart," my mother said, "I've been trying to get through to you all day. I can't believe this. I really can't.
I couldn't help it then - but I started crying. "I'm so scared that she'll convince you too-"
"I'm your mother! I'll always know how you are. Don't worry, my sweet, we'll do something, a court case. Your dad has contacts," she consoled me. "We'll figure away out of this. Come home tomorrow."

June 7, 2010
I made the news, and the next day the papers were full of the book launch.
One commentator called it a "publicity stunt" and opined that my double, the author of Counterfeit, had deliberately arranged it to boost sales.

I shook myself. I packed and got dressed. Then I took a train to the neighboring city, five hours away, where my parents lived.

I got in late evening. There seemed to be a party at my parent's - and then I remembered, it was my sister's - and her's husband's - wedding anniversary. I stared foolishly at the door, before rushing out again to buy a bouquet of roses.

When I got back, I rang the bell. No one answered the door, so I buzzed again.
A deathly silence. And then the beginnings of a horrible fear began to churn my stomach -

My mother opened the door. Her eyes were shadowed - she avoided looking at me.
She pushed back the door - and then I saw my family, and -
Her.
She was standing, there right next to my sister, her brown eyes boring into mine.

I turned to my mother, desperately.
But she shook her head, a little uncertainly.
My father filled the silence, "You're good I grant you-
"Satish-" my mother murmured.
He brushed her aside and went on. "You had us fooled us for a while."
"She's not well, Satish, don't you see?" My mother whispered. "She needs help."

How could they think she was me? How had she convinced them?

My father shook his head and growled. "Go now, before we call the police!"
When I didn't move, he shouted - "Go!"

June 8, 2010
In a dustbin, I found a magazine with a picture of her, and then another one in a newspaper.
In the window of a bookshop, I saw her face with my name on a poster.

I looked at my face, reflected in the bleary glass of the shop window.
I couldn't recognize myself any longer.

They found me on the street, hours later.

October 22, 2010
Here, the attendants tell me that out of sympathy, the author Namratha Krishnaswamy - the author I tried to impersonate, they add - is paying for my treatment. I have no relatives, no memory of a previous life nor any records of one, I am destitute - and Ms Krishnaswamy's act the doctor, who visits everyday, tells me, is one of great charity. At first, I used to ask him, resentfully, if she was a better me than I?
But I've stopped now. It's just an old joke, now.
Sometimes the other inmates pass by, and whisper, pointing at me, and I wonder if perhaps I'm wrong and she really is me and I - well then, whom am I?