Mousebite

by Ganesh Chaudhari

  “Once Pritam is back after escorting the guest, he will assign you a case.” Khan throws the hint that confirms my doubt. There is a knock on the door.

  “Come in.” Khan shouts. As he enters, Pritam throws a salute that is way stiffer than his potbelly.

  “Pritam, assign them to a case. Jai Hind.” We salute & turn to walk out of the cabin.

  “Jagtap.” Khan calls me back. I amble back to his table. Ulhas & Pritam leave the cabin.

  “Your name has popped up in the transfer pool.” He speaks with poise but the seriousness of the statement has already hit me in the gut. Transfer pool is a group of police personnel who have served in a particular district for more than five years. By law, they are meant to be transferred away from their current positions which can be anywhere in Maharashtra. Gadchiroli is the most famous of these places because of the love that the Naxals shower on the Maharashtra police personnel.

  I keep an upright chin & show no emotion. Khan is studying me closely for signs of nervousness.

  “I would hate to see you go, but you know the rules.” Khan muses as if talking to any grieving complainant. He leans back ever so slightly on his chair making it screech.

  “Yes Sir.” I reply by bringing my feet close to each other.

  “I will let you know as soon as I have an official word.” He goes back to a sheet of paper on his desk. I move out of the cabin after another salute in Khan’s direction.

  The humid air outside the cabin bathes me in heat but it also brings in alertness to the mind. I walk to Pritam’s seat and keep standing behind the chairs in front of his table. Ulhas has occupied the chair that he left moments ago.

  “I have just the case for both of you.” Pritam flips the pages of an old, thick, yellowing register in front of him. It has a brown paper sticker that reads Current Cases. There is a desktop computer sitting on Pritam’s table but it has gathered layers of dust. I am sure Pritam has already produced the mandatory computer proficiency certificate to the office long time back but obviously does not care to use that skill at work. His balding palate shines with oil as he bends down to look at the pages.

  “This one. Mira road police station. They found a dead body by the footpath early morning today. Male, around 30 years. Looks like a footpathiya. Possibly strangled. Most of the Mira road guys are out on the rally “bandobast” for the next few days so we need to take care of that.” Pritam’s tone is like having to discuss a very low priority job. Footpathiya is the word that we use for people living on Mumbai’s footpaths. Deaths like this are common. They get killed for food, space on the footpath or even a beedi. And “bandobast” is looking after the politicians & their supporters as they gather to discuss “larger” issues at public grounds across Mumbai. I would take a dead body any day over the bandobast. And beedi is a hand rolled leaf joint containing a pinch of tobacco. It is smoked like a cigarette.

  “So can we start with the morgue?” I ask.

  “I don’t care. Just submit this to the Mira Road police station. Finish the case report, the paper work & get me a copy.” Pritam retorts as he throws a thin sheaf of papers on the table. Ulhas picks it up. We throw a salute to Pritam & walk off to the door without a word.

  ***

  Traffic gets sparse as the van takes up the eastern express highway. Mira road is lot more accessible by the train but I am not looking to save on time. In fact I & Ulhas are supposed to kill it.

  “Did you see the way he tossed those papers? I knew it was going to be a bad day the moment I saw them together. ” Ulhas has been fuming since we left the DYSP office.

  “I can take shit from a capable senior but this sucker will have it from me soon!” He continues. I don’t contribute nor do I try to calm Ulhas. That won’t help. Ulhas needs these outbursts sometimes. I want him to remember this just as I will. You have to lookout hard for men like Pritam & especially those like Pulkit. Pritam’s nuisance value is manageable as his credibility is always in question. But Pulkit is a different case.

  His damage capability can be disastrous. Though clean men need not to fear his kind, they should always brace for immediate heat when he gets after them. I stretch out further in the passenger seat enjoying the vibrations of the seat against my back. The windows are rolled down. It is much cooler along the highway as the green hills give an impression of the countryside rather than an area in Mumbai. This reminds me strangely of where a transfer could take me. I am not sure whether I should tell Ulhas about it. I am not certain what I am going to do about it. I think it would be best for me to focus entirely on the assigned job rather than ponder on the transfer.

  We made a stop earlier at the city morgue at Dadar to see the body but it was yet to reach there. As the victim is most likely without kin, it might be available for as long as it takes. So we decided to visit the crime scene first. It is a footpath next to the railway station at Miraroad. I remember Miraroad for its salt fields. Unlike most Mumbai suburbs that are divided by the rail lines into east & west residential areas, Mira road has only east. There are no houses on the west side of the tracks. The western side is entirely the bay. It does have plains close to the tracks which are used for salt farming. The farms are rectangular holes in the earth that hold & dry sea water till only the salt remains. It is quite a site from the trains. But we are approaching from the eastern side now where lots of residential buildings have come up. It seems more are being constructed as most of the hoardings along the road are advertisements for residential projects. I don’t own a home in Mumbai. The costs mentioned on the hoardings make it look like a distant possibility. But my transfer might render that need moot.

  As a comparatively new development, the roads here are broader. Vehicles move faster than the usual Mumbai traffic. Ulhas takes a left turn at a junction that takes us to the police station. The crime scene must be close by as I make out the train tracks from my window. The railway station board is just over 200 meters from the police building. Ulhas finds a parking spot easily.

  As I walk towards the police station with the documents given by Pritam, I notice a lone Havaldar manning the entrance. He is seated on a wooden chair right next to the door. A small table is in front of him carrying what looks like a complaint register. There are a couple of steps leading to the door. As the Havaldar perched on the steps moves his lips I realize that he is chewing on Gutkha. The bluish wall besides him has been streaked with deep maroon stains like brushstrokes. The Havaldar seems a significant contributor to those stains. Gutkha is chewable supari granules coated with tobacco. As the person salivates, he has to spit it out. That is what has painted the wall here & is a common site around Maharashtra. He spits, causing an arc of maroon coloring on the wall that is thick & long. He manages to enquire of me as my civilian clothes hide my identity.

  “What is it that you want here?” Some of the Gutkha granules have managed to hang on to his mustache. He looks disgusting. I don’t bother to answer & make my way in. Ulhas joins me & now the Havaldar follows us.

  “Hey both of you wait up! What do you want?” I turn to him & size him up. He is a portly man of around forty, with medium height & black eyes. He has a double chin that could soon merge into a single one. I don’t trust overweight cops right away & the Gutkha show has just about put me off.

  “If you are dumb enough not to recognize superiors from the department, at least try to keep that foul spraying mouth shut, Tirpe.” I read his name off his name tag. He does well to hide his shock & salutes me. But he is not smart enough to ask my name. I think he is trying to figure where my service revolver is hidden.

  “Who’s the shift in-charge?” I scan tables similar to the other police station that I just came from. Tirpe is leading the way now. He takes me to a table by the window where a man wearing a crisp Khaki uniform is pondering over some photocopies. His name tag reads P.M.Ghadge. He looks up at me & stands instinctively. He too is an Inspector. I waste no time in handing over the envelope to him.

  “Inspector Jagtap
& Inspector Gosavi from Dadar office. We are here to take up the footpath murder case.”

  “Sure. Please take a seat.” Ghadge gestures to chairs in front of his table. Ghadge is lean, clean shaven & looks about my age. He quickly goes through the documents that I gave him. Finding everything in order, he asks if we would like tea.

  “I will have one.” Ulhas accepts. I don’t. It is not uncommon for Ulhas to drink 10 cups of tea in a working day. I can’t stand more than 3.

  “The body was found early this morning by a jogger.” Ghadge begins briefing us.”The clothing is shabby. The hair is worse. There was a wallet on the body but it does not have any id. The face was bluish on discovery with finger marks on the neck. Looks like strangling. The post mortem report is expected late tomorrow.” Ghadge summarizes well.

  “I would like to see the spot where the body was found. Any witnesses?” I inquire.

  “No witnesses. Other people living on the footpath say this guy was an irregular. No known relatives or friend. They call him Achhu. Unlike others who beg or pick rags during the day, nobody knows what he did for a living. Some say that he came to the footpath once a few months. Stayed for a few days then vanished again. Tirpe will take you to the crime scene. We managed to photograph the crime scene in the morning. The images are uploaded to the server or I can get you a copy by the time you return. I am emailing the case details to you right now.” Ghadge adds. It is good to see someone putting technology to use.

  So this Achhu was not a regular on the footpath social scene. But was strangled there. Could someone amongst the regulars have done this? After all, they knew this guy does not come back for months. Nor was there a danger of people coming to find him. Ulhas is sipping on his tea with great interest.

  “We will let you know as we progress.” I stand & shake Ghadge’s hand.

  ***

  Tirpe is leading me outside the station as Ulhas falls in step with me.

  “Is it nearby?” I ask Tirpe.

  “Yes, very close Saheb.” Tirpe replies adding the Saheb which neither I nor Ulhas care about.

  “Then let’s walk to it.”

  I follow Tirpe along a road that runs parallel to the road where the police station is. This place is close to the railway station. And from what I know, there might be a window of just over an hour when the local trains are off the tracks in the wee hours. It is impossible to imagine that a man was strangled here without anybody noticing it. The footpath is slightly broader here. That must be one of the reasons why the homeless prefer it. After all, Mumbai has amongst the world’s highest prices for per square feet of developed real estate.

  Some of the “residents” are visible now & so are there “residences”. They are nothing more than large polythene sheets or tarps tied to the walls by the footpath. Some have been innovatively tied to electric posts, even to advertisement holders to have a rectangle over the head. Some are small even for a child & some are big enough for a man. Scattered inside are plastic sacks flowing with rubbish, rags. But every tarp has tactically left way on the footpath for people to walk about. I think these guys know the importance of footfalls to an enterprise.

  But the looks are a letdown. There are men with greased beards. They have hair that has not seen care for ages, yellowed or decaying teeth. Some have amputated limbs. The clothing is uniformly scarce & shabby to varying degrees. Some are wearing oversized shirts & no pants but are managing to cover themselves. Some are wearing clothing which has different patches sewed in. There are men, women. Young boys with phlegm dripping noses & girls carrying infants in their arms. All of them are busy asking the passersby for alms. I count fifteen of them. They recoil almost together at the sight of Tirpe’s uniform but continue after a pause.

  “They know we are not here to drive them away. They would come back after a few days anyway.” Tirpe glances at them as we pass by. That is a fact here. Poor people, most of them leaving like this in Mumbai know what’s illegal. But survival takes precedence over morality. So they exploit a loophole for a while and move onto the next if heat is on. They can always come back to the old one if it is available. They don’t ask us for alms.

  An empty spot comes up out of nowhere on the footpath. There is a small yellow crime scene tape around a rectangle made by four bamboo sticks. Inside the tape perimeter, a chalk outline of a body is visible. The outline looks small suggesting a foetal position of the body. Apart from the outline, there is nothing inside the taped area. There is a dustbin ten meters down the road. It is a metal bucket with a capacity of around 15 litres that is hanging on a steel frame. It is overflowing with rubbish. I remember the instructor at the National Detective College telling the class at a training session “Don’t think of the crime scene as a projected or final image. You would be better off projecting from it, capturing everything that the projection hits. Physically, logically & visually.” I guess the bucket is large enough for a visual hit. I dial Ghadge’s number on my cell phone. Oh, Vodafone has a special rate plan for all cops. So best to use it, right? He answers on the third ring.

  “Ghadge.” That’s all he says.

  “Ghadge this is Jagtap. Who covered the crime scene in the morning?”

  “I did.” As I expected.

  “Do you have the contents of the dustbin near the crime scene? The one that is towards the station end of the footpath. ” I query.

  “No. We were given only 30 minutes at the scene. I hardly finished photographing the it.” Right.

  “Fikar not. I got it.” Tirpe has got a large evidence bag with him. I offer a pair of Latex gloves to Tirpe. He is scared. The dustbin has been painted crimson with Gutkha spitting patterns just like the wall at the station.

  “Gather all of it Havaldar.”

  As Tirpe walks slowly towards the dustbin, I start talking to the footpath dwellers around the tape. Ulhas takes up one side. I start in Hindi, ready to switch to other language if required. By the time Tirpe returns with the evidence bag an hour later & a handkerchief wrapped over his face; we have covered almost all the people there. They have gathered around us like a community meeting on the footpath. Seems that they care about their kind. Nobody knows when the victim came to the footpath. The last guy slept off at midnight. Some of them knew the victim as Achhu. According to them, he never stayed for more than 2 days. Came back thrice a year. Never fought for a place. Just occupied whatever corner was available. Some have shared food with him. Most of the times, his food. He never discussed much. Many think he spoke like a South Indian. But was fluent with Hindi too. Nobody strikes to me as hiding anything yet. As I nod to Ulhas about leaving, a girl of around 5 comes forward. Her face is stained with dust. She is wearing a tattered skirt & a t-shirt. And she is barefoot. But her eyes sparkle with life.

  “He had a mobile.” She says.

  I smile at her. “Did he? How do you know?”

  “He showed me Dabaang on it.” She is almost blushing.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the girl.

  “Bela” She replies with a smile of her own.

  “This is for you.” I reach in Ulhas’s shirt pocket & give her the chewing gum. She scurries back to her position on the footpath. We break the meeting & get back to the police station.

  ***

  I am instructing Tirpe what he is supposed to do with the dustbin contents. They are to be separated according to types. Plastic items to be grouped together, paper items to be grouped together, genetic items to be grouped together, but each item goes in a separate bag. Genetic items are things like hair, fingernails etc. I instruct him to leave the muck or liquid portions separately, airtight if possible should I need them. Some of the paper evidence might also require drying. Tirpe suggests using the blower of the office vacuum cleaner as it has an adjustable blower arrangement. But I ask him to get a hair dryer. I think Tirpe has enough work till tomorrow.

  Over another cup of tea, Ulhas has received a call from the morgue. The body has reached the morgue an hour ago & Dr. Desai wi
ll be conducting the post mortem shortly. Dr.Desai does not do everything by the book but he gets it right. Given the amount of post mortems that he has to undertake & the conditions that he performs them in, I think it is a fair trade. It is already afternoon so we decide to break for the day. Ulhas offers to drop me back to Flora Fountain but I have something else in mind. I plan to catch the Virar-CST fast local from Mira Road station. Ulhas makes a face as he listens to my idea & goes away after dropping me near the railway station. I have still not managed to tell him of my likely transfer.

  As I enter the station, the first thing that strikes me is the queue for tickets. Seasoned Mumbaikars like me have season tickets which save queuing for a single journey ticket, but Mumbai always has newcomers. Or people who are here for the short term. This city is bursting at the seams but manages to make space for new arrivals. There are some who find her to be an adrenalin pumping thrill; some make a pact with her & some are scared of her to stay any longer. I have been in all the three categories at different times.

  I reach the first platform at a casual pace. Like all railway stations in Mumbai, this one is crowded too. But the crowd is exceptionally more on platform number two. The rail traveling pattern reignites in my memory. On the western railway line, more people go towards Virar by evening & other suburbs as they return from work in the main city. The pattern reverses in morning as office hours approach. I am happy to be on the first platform as I have experienced traveling at rush hour on the CST-Virar route. It can be a smothering experience. But if you are a daily passenger, it is easy to build camaraderie. Once in the regular group, you can expect better seats, a game of cards or even Bhajans sang as a group during the ride from Virar to CST. It’s a society on the move, with its own layers. I get inside a CST bound fast local that has just arrived at the platform. The digital clock at the platform reads 5 pm. The train starts within a minute towards CST. My memories run along with it.