Mousebite

by Ganesh Chaudhari

  I come from a town called Dharangaon. It is in the Jalgaon district known for its cotton, oil seeds & bananas. I was born in 1982 to a school teacher father & a mother who managed the home. My father owned seven acres of fields. Though dependent on rains, it was still a piece of earth which meant a decent social status. He was an active contributor to the community. He established the first hostel for the students of my community at Jalgaon & was always available for social causes. That is what most people who knew him have told me. Because my mother died when I was two & my father followed her a year later. I was left at the mercy of my father’s brother without any sibling. I don’t call him an uncle because he never cared for me.

  My grandmother, Ahilya did but she was dependent on her son. She tried hard but could not support me as a parent would. Everything that he offered me was second grade. Clothing, primary education, food, care & even the beatings. He took over my home soon after my parent’s death & still lives there. He is old now but rarely calls upon me. His children & wife have always treated me well. One of them is still in touch. I last saw him three years back.

  After one of uncle’s stupid beatings, my grandmother took me to a relative’s place. I remember how she had cried her eyes out. Tears were still flowing down her cheek as the five men summoned by her came to the house. These were respected people from my community who knew my father. They were aware of my plight as in a town everybody knows everybody. My grandmother stopped crying once they were seated around her. Before they could ask what the matter was she posed them a single question. For my father & for her, can they shape my life outside Dharangaon? In the discussion that followed, the five men understood the gravity of the situation. They asked my grandmother for a week’s time.

  After a week, my grandmother packed an old suitcase for me which contained all my belongings. I was going to Mumbai. The five men had called up a professor at the Mumbai University. He knew my father. He had assured them about my school & finding me an accommodation. He had even promised part time work for me to support myself. My grandmother knew the man & trusted him completely. The five men arranged the train ticket & my grandmother gave me a princely sum of two hundred rupees which was enough for a few weeks back then. She cried again that day, kissing my forehead many times over. The thrill of going to a new place had invigorated me & my grandmother was the only person I was going to miss. I didn’t cry. “Stay true Pandu. Whatever you do, work hard & stay true to your heart.” She said as I left the house, that old suitcase in my hand. I was 12.My uncle was more than happy to see me leave & never inquired about what I would be doing in Mumbai.

  The man kept his word. Professor Mahadev Patil was standing right by my train coach at the Kurla station next day. He had a broad build, good height, wore thick glasses & had a warm smile. His ears were big but the nose was flattened. Unlike the Kurta- pyjama that the adults wear at Dharangaon, he was wearing a dress known as the Safari. It was a rage those days & I immediately knew that this man meant business.

  He took me to a hostel for boys near Dadar. The facilities were ok but the best part, as he explained was the proximity to my school. He had enrolled me in the Hindmata Marathi School. He introduced me to a local man who ran a home food joint that offered cuisine like Dharangaon. But the most important lesson he taught me that day came when he was about to leave for his home. He started his sermon as he stood by a shining blue Bajaj Super scooter. “Look Pandurang, I know the world has been hard for you. Had your parents been around, it would have been different. I knew your parents & your father was a dear friend. I could ask you to stay with me. But understand this; I am preparing you for a life on your own. I will be available for everything but you have to start looking after you. You have to learn to take care of yourself. This is important in Mumbai. You have to earn your place here. You can always come & stay at my home if you find these arrangements difficult. But as the son of the man whom I looked up to, I want you to try really hard to be your own man. You owe that to your parents, to your grandmother & to yourself. ”

  Mr.Patil never had to accommodate me at his home. I worked hard at studies. Did all the part-time jobs that I could to support myself. I was a newspaper boy, home tutor for kids, courier for accountants & what not. It was not easy as the rhythm of life in Mumbai was way too rapid for a town boy like me. But I evolved. I used the guidance of Mr.Patil regularly. He paid my entire school fees till I passed 10+2. I think the five men from Dharangaon contributed too. Meanwhile, he enjoyed the fact that I managed to support myself on my own starting almost immediately after coming to Mumbai. There were some particularly harsh months, but I held on. I got a scholarship for a science degree at the Sydneyham College. The teaching & hostel facility there are amongst the best. When I broke the news to Mr.Patil, he was close to tears. That night, he gave me the keys to his Bajaj Super. I declined vehemently but he would have none of it. I still have that scooter, I don’t use it but it is the shiniest object in my parking space.

  I was good at studies in the college & it was Mr.Patil who suggested appearing for the Maharashtra Public Service Commission exam for entry to the police force. I cleared the written exam & ran through the physical & the interview without problems. That was nine years back. After receiving my first paycheck & finding a decent rental flat near Fort in the police colony, I went back to Dharangaon. My uncle didn’t acknowledge me. I made it a point to see all the five men who had taken the most important decision my life. I thanked them in the presence of their families & could see that each one of them was happy for me. I personally packed a suitcase for my grandmother that very day at Dharangaon. My uncle didn’t object to that neither did anyone else in his family. Before leaving the next day, my uncle grudgingly handed me a check for Rupees 8 lakhs. He had arranged for selling my father’s land along with his share a few years back. It was the old price of the land but one of the buyers was a member of the five that had shaped me. Another of them worked with the municipality where the sale deed had to be registered. There was no escape from paying me if he wanted the payment for the land & the legal right over it. I took the check, signed off my rights to the property & have not set foot in Dharangaon since then.

  My grandmother was diagnosed with diabetes by the time she came to Mumbai. But I could tell that she was happy with me. She would cook great meals for me by the time I came back from work. Mr.Patil saw her a lot as he was retired by then. They could speak for hours together about Dharangaon & the old days. She never bothered about my work but listened to whatever I had to say anyway. She would go for walks by the sea at evenings. I accompanied her sometimes. She passed away three years back. I think she was at peace with the world when she left it. I still make it a point to see Mr.Patil whenever I find the time.

  During the studying years, the train rides in Mumbai were my timeouts. I would ride to stations on the Virar-CST route on holidays. Getting down at a station I have never been to & exploring the suburb for an entire day was a joy for me. This ride is reminiscent of those times. I have not found love so far but as Ulhas usually says, it is simply due to not trying. He could be right about that. There have been adventures. Short flings, even one night stands. You can’t be 30, almost 18 years in Mumbai & be a virgin. None of the women involved warmed my heart while they were around nor did I miss any one once it was over.

  I have immersed myself in work right from the first day at the job. That has shown in my on job results. Superiors have come to count on me to give my best every time. I am regularly sent to the National Detective College Chandigarh as a department representative for training with the best minds in the department. And to whichever place my superiors see fit for me. I have been lucky in that regard due to the Mumbai police. There are pushovers like Pritam but higher-ups have been competitive & observant so far. So things looked good at work. Till today.

  I am sure if I let Mr.Patil know that I am ready for a marriage, a trip to Dharangaon is all it would take. A transfer to a place nearby Dharangaon will make
it easier. My five guardians will take care of everything. The bride, the marriage & even the Mangalsutra. And I sure can trust them blindly about the bride too. As they say in Mumbai “Tu sirf aawaj kar”. That is all I would have to do. Make a sound. But not yet. I am addicted to this city. I may not be able to leave it.

  It is a sound that pulls me back from the memories. My mobile is ringing. The caller id reads Ulhas. I answer immediately.

  “Are you past Dadar?” He asks.

  “No. Should there in five minutes.” I try to gauge if it’s an emergency.

  “Dr.Desai has finished the PM. He has initial details & he is available.” Which means I can question him at length.

  “I will be at the morgue in 15 minutes.” Ulhas can be real sharp when he wants to be. And I intend to use this time with Dr.Desai.

  2

  Chicken65

  I make my way to the morgue quickly. After getting down at the Dadar station, I get out through the eastern exit. Walking past the Akshardham mandir on the left, I settle into a brisk pace amongst the crowd. In Mumbai, you can never be alone, at least physically. Your home might give you a delusion that you are but the sheer number of people going about their business on such a small piece of land means that it is never the truth. I walk under the flyover at the Sane Guruji sqaure & go straight on the road towards Wadala. My old hostel is close by, so is the office & so is the morgue. Another right turn brings me to the morgue.

  It shares the compound with the fire brigade which is an irony in itself. Two endeavors at the opposite ends of the spectrum of human life grouped together. One about saving it, the other about documenting its end. One pours all its energies to save every possible life while the other tries to remain sane through death of every kind. It is not a big facility. I think its capacity is around 20 bodies. But accommodating as the city of Mumbai is, I have never seen it storing below 40 bodies in different states of decomposition. Many bodies are never claimed & have to be disposed by the authorities. There are only 20 freezers available in the facility so other bodies make do with cots, stacks & even sacks depending on their roles & importance in an investigation.

  A wave of nausea hits me as soon as I enter the morgue through its only door. I know the morgue is amongst the foremost institutional consumers of formaldehyde in Mumbai but you can never prepare yourself for it. It hits like a stinking secret which is unabashedly daring me to acknowledge it. I swallow hard. I am about to repeat Tirpe’s handkerchief trick when I realize that Dr. Desai is seating at his table alone. He looks at me serenely. Like a butcher in a meat shop, but I know the truth. He has already had at least three stiff drinks. I make way to his table careful of other tables in the way. Some of them have dead bodies that are covered with a thin, government issued bed sheet. I don’t want to pull one over accidentally. He smiles at me.

  The stinging aroma of rum overrides the sweet taste of formaldehyde as I near him. May be it is more than three drinks. Unlike the polished surfaces & the high tech equipment that is depicted on television, city morgues are like this. And imagine having to be there more than 12 hours a day, cutting the dead bodies carefully. A few hard shots of liquor may help. Dr. Desai has been on this job for 25 years. The entire police department is aware of Dr.Desai’s drinking on job but I think it is one job where it comes not as an occupational hazard but as an operational security.

  His movements are measured as if tempered by the alcohol inside & on the outside. Though he is seated, I can make out a solid build showing few signs of aging. His rolled apron reveals arms that are as thick as a car axle. He is wearing a pair of jeans to go with black sport shoes. A two day stubble & long hair has been a fixture with him for ages. The air is cold here as we are seated just by the rows of the freezers. His eyes are twinkling as I touch two fingers to my head in a mock salute. He knows me & we have had lot of interesting chats. He comes about as a man who loves life.

  As I sit in front of Dr.Desai, a young woman walks in with a report to be signed by him. I never hear her approach. The first thing that strikes me about her is the eyes. They are drilling down Dr.Desai with an intensity that cannot be normal. They are a black but are visible in the semi dark room. The nose is straight as an arrow. Her lips shine lightly. Her chin seems prominent but it completes the perfectly proportioned face. I see her shapely, longish fingers over the table as she turns the pages for Dr.Desai. She is also wearing an apron like Dr.Desai over an azure colored Salwar kameez. A stethoscope hangs by her neck. Though the Salwar kameez is loose fitting, the apron actually accentuates her lithe figure. Her slightly curly hairs roll merrily on her neck. She must be over 5’10” and all I can do is admire her athletic grace as she goes away without acknowledging me or Dr.Desai. As she walks, her flat soled shoes snub all the sounds just like her gaze that ignored me. The detective that I am, I can’t help but notice that she was not wearing a ring, a Mangalsutra or a bindi.

  Dr.Desai rouses me from this stupor.

  “She’s not in a good mood today.” He confides in me almost whispering. I don’t answer, wondering about Dr.Desai’s relationship with the woman.

  “Ulhas told me that you have finished the PM for the Mira road victim. Can we discuss that?” I try to sound businesslike. Dr.Desai stares at me just a little longer than usual as if knowing that I am avoiding that topic but smiles finally. He picks up a bunch of papers from his table along with his marker pen & rises.

  “Come with me. I think you should see this.” He walks towards the rows of freezers. I manage to follow him as he pulls a handle on the rectangle marked 19. Vapors hiss out of the freezer as I inch closer. Not sure of what I will see, the rough voice of Dr.Desai gives me the perfect excuse to look at him rather than the body.

  “He looks to be in late twenties. Had no health issues. Some childhood scars for marks. Nothing else. No jewellary, no good luck charms. Time of death is around 12 p.m. in the night.” Dr.Desai explains. I take look at the Y incision on the torso of the body. The stitches look big & purple at the edges so I move my gaze upwards. The face is too roundish, suggesting moderate to heavy regular drinking with junk food. But it could also be that of a plump man. The beard is nothing more than stubble; the brows are thin & well spaced. I squint to make the blackish marks on his neck most probably made by fingers.

  “COD is strangling, right?” I look for confirmation on the Cause of Death. We don’t have the equipment of the CSI but we use the same terminology.

  “No. It appears so but it is not the truth.” Dr.Desai’s teeth gleam in mischief.

  “So what are these?” I point at the marks at the victim’s neck.

  “He made those himself. He died due to poisoning.” The doctor reveals through his smile.

  “Who would poison a footpathia? Are any organs missing? ” I make an educated guess.

  “I think you got it all wrong. No organs are missing & he is definitely not a footpathiya.” Dr. Desai is enjoying this.

  “Why is that Guruji?” I give up & accept his tutelage.

  “Two things. He has soft palms. I have seen a lot of footpath deaths. The palms are never soft. Many of them pick rubbish, some lift heavy objects, some sift through junk. All are into highly manual labor. The skin has to rough up in those hands. But his palms have soft skin. Secondly & I can demonstrate this. He has a Mousebite. ”

  “Mousebite. You mean he was attacked by mice?” I don’t get it.

  “No. I mean this.” With his marker pen, he lifts my right palm in air. He moves the marker pen to point at the rightmost part of my wrist. Just where the palm ends. The skin there is bunched into a darkish thick mass, a square centimeter in size.

  “He used a mouse regularly.” I mutter under my breath. When using a computer mouse, the wrist end of the hand is in continuous friction with the surface the mouse moves on. This causes the skin there to bunch up & darken. So this was definitely caused by an external mouse connected either to a desktop or a laptop.

  “That’s it!” Dr.Desai quips as he sh
ows me an even larger Mousebite under the corpse’s right palm.

  “What was used as a poison?”

  “The test results will be available only by tomorrow evening. But whatever it was, it made him almost claw out his own throat.” Dr.Desai concludes.

  “I will see you tomorrow then.” I turn away from the dead body fuming with white vapors.

  “I am sure you will.” Dr.Desai keeps smiling.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I am walking back to Dadar railway station. The air has cooled down with the evening which makes walking more pleasant than earlier. I said goodbye to Dr.Desai as quickly as possible with a promise to visit tomorrow. I rushed out of the morgue quickly but the woman was nowhere to be seen. As I try to shrug off the chance meeting with her, the new facts brought forward by the PM assist me by taking over my mind.

  The victim did have a mobile with him, used a desktop regularly. So why did he have to stay on a footpath? That too with a frequency of once every three months? Unlike the initial assessment of strangling, he most certainly died of poisoning. Who would do that? Anything is possible in this city of opportunities & wealth. People make strangest of arrangements to get on with their businesses & not all of them are moral. Odd working hours, earning favors by going out of the way & out of clothes, bribing are the well documented adjustments but like men, they are always evolving without a direction. This makes a case for inquiring about the victim at cyber cafes, computer vendors & offices around the area. May be in the entire city. Well, I think I should start with the assigned jurisdiction. I make it a mental point to get copies of the victim’s photograph tomorrow at the police station.