Mousebite

by Ganesh Chaudhari

  I have not heard from Dr. Desai yet. I call his office to find out that he has left for an emergency call half an hour ago. This means he has been summoned either by the CBI or the NIA. He has left a message for me. If it is urgent, I can collect the postmortem report & the toxicology profile from the police toxicology Lab at Fort. Dr.Desai has faxed his postmortem report there too. So a compilation is ready. Or I can collect it from him tomorrow. Somehow, my departmental colleagues seem to remember it perennially that I stay at Fort. Anyways, at least he had the courtesy to honor his commitment for today. I decide to visit the Dadar office for having a word with the DYSP before heading home. As I explain this to Ulhas, he makes me change my plan.

  “You have to come to my place in the evening. Rohit is turning 9 today.” Rohit is Ulhas’s son. I am not much of a social functions person. That could also be due to the fact that I don’t have many friends or relatives but it is mostly due to my own reluctance to attend them. However, Ulhas’s entire family knows me. I have to attend this birthday party. Ulhas sweetens the offer further as I accept the invitation.

  “Just get to Borivali station by 7 & I will give you a lift. I have to pick up the cake.”

  This means I have to finish my business at the Dadar police station ASAP. I call up there and am relieved to know that the DYSP will be available only in the morning. I can always ring him up on his mobile but I feel it would be better if I meet him in person to explain the Anees angle. So I make an appointment with him through his office secretary for tomorrow morning. Then there is the postmortem report & the toxicology report to be collected. If I leave it for later, the department will be closed for the day. Going back to Fort & reaching for the party could take over 3 hours but I can make it if I start now. Also, I will be able to get a change of clothes. The Mumbai humidity is something that I have not got used even after a decade & half. As I leave for the Mira road train station, Tirpe offers to drop me there on his bike. We zigzag through the commuters & the vehicles towards the railway station.

  I am at the station’s entrance in less than five minutes. I move through the sparse crowd to make it to the fast train to Churchgate on platform one. The transit from Mira road to CST is a blurry one. My mind coils around the new lead about the Wheely like a snake. The possible link to Anees Vilayati is both intriguing & logical. He definitely qualifies when it comes to the motive behind employing Achhu & disposing him if things go bad. But this turn of evidence appears too simple. I had conditioned myself for a long, arduous investigation. The finding of such a direct looking clue has dented my mental preparations. And given Anees’s reputation, it looks unlikely that he could make such a silly mistake of virtually leaving a visiting card at a crime scene.

  I remind myself that my current priority is processing of the evidence. Why & how are questions that could be answered better if I can identify the who part of the puzzle. And it would also depend on the DYSP’s approach. I am confident that I can make him see the link between the evidence & Achhu’s background. But would he allow me to go forward? A foray into anything involving Anees could backfire very easily on him & on me. Transfers (I am getting used to this threat) could be the least of our concerns. A man like him would be well entrenched into Mumbai. Political & administrative links should be a foregone conclusion. I am certain this would test me but it would be a test for the DYSP too. It is always good to have company in misery.

  5

  Dosta

  My train screeches to a halt at the last suburban station on the Western line, Churchgate. I exit from the subway that emerges on the road to Flora fountain. I walk briskly as I have one more stop before going to the toxicology department. Pavements around Flora fountain host the famous book vendors. These pavements are similar to the footpaths of Mira road but they have been occupied by commercial activity for decades. The vendors treat these pavements as their shop & look after it with everything they have. These pavement shops are open only during the day.

  You can get used books, new books, cheap reprints, collector’s editions, magazines, journals in almost every language. If you are patient enough to search for it, I can vouch that you can find every book printed globally since India’s independence. Actually, you can find ones before that too, but that can take longer & more than patience. When it comes to gifts, I rarely look beyond books. I may not get a new copy every time but I sure get some of the best books from here. This is even more appropriate in case of Rohit who is into books. I am sure he has read most of the children’s books that come to mind. So I spend time at a regular vendor of mine to find books that would make a good gift. I choose few Faster Phene titles in Marathi by B.R.Bhagwat, a Satyajit Ray mystery & To kill a mocking bird by Harper Lee. The Marathi books & Satyajit Ray titles are well read but in good condition. To kill a mocking bird is brand new. I read B.R.Bhagwat as a teenager, Satyajit Ray as a college student & To kill a mocking bird when I was twenty five. I hope Rohit reads them before becoming an adult. I pay the vendor at my usual bargain prices which are better than any bookstore. But there are certain advantages of bookstores. Combo offers, signed copies & most importantly gift wrapping. The last one is particularly required now. These book vendors don’t offer gift wrapping which means I have to carry these books in a transparent polythene carry bag.

  I walk towards the VSNL office now. After about five minutes along the footpath, I reach an old stone building. This is a heritage building with 60 feet tall bearded figures cut in stone guarding the entrance. It hosts shops, government offices, private offices & the toxicology & forensics department of Mumbai Police. It was was built by a Parsee business man in the late 1890s for his fledgling trade out of Mumbai. He had employed the services of a British architect to design this. It has been a landmark on the Mumbai skyline since then. Obviously, the businesses hosted by it have long been replaced by the new ones. The owners must be from the current generation. But what has not changed is the fact that some portion of this commercially attractive building being leased to the state at a small price. It was the Britishers earlier & the Mumbai police now. Just like the building, the social responsibility has carried on in the form of letting the government use it for the people. There could be other gestures of giving back to the society but this one is amongst the better ones as it involves being a part of a democracy’s operation. Particularly handy in Mumbai where office space comes at a premium.

  I climb the steps to the first floor. The directions pasted on a cardboard put up on the wall guide me to a large wooden door at the right end of the corridor. Mumbai Police Toxicology & Forensics Department is painted in white on a large black rectangle on the stone wall. I stroll down confidently to the reception desk. I am wearing the same T shirt and cargo jeans that I left home in. There is an empty desk at the reception. I check my watch. It is 4.30 p.m. Looks like the workday is over. I see few cubicles behind the desk. I make my way to the first one. A woman is bent over a microscope.

  “Excuse me, I am here to collect a postmortem report forwarded by Dr.Desai with the toxicology profile. Who should I See?” I fire away.

  She looks up with a graceful jerk in the neck that flips the hair from her forehead. Some stubborn strands dangle to her cheek. I look into the eyes that were angry last time. Though they are behind a pair of laboratory goggles, their depth unnerves me. The crystal cut facial features are relaxed unlike the taut expression they wore yesterday. The physician’s apron looks familiar but the salwar kameez is light maroon today. She slowly rises to her full height. After what seems like eternity, she removes the goggles & gazes into my eyes.

  “Me.”

  I become aware of a light scent of Jasmine, but she shows no sign of recognition. After a few moments, I become aware of the fact that she is still looking at me. She crosses her arms across her chest. I am at a loss of words & check to make sure that my mouth is not open. I am used to having this effect on lot of women but this is the first time in years that it is happening to me.

  “Oh. Hello,
I am Pandurang Jagtap from the Dadar police station. Dr.Desai wanted me to collect a post mortem report along with a toxicology profile from here.” I blurt finally. I show her my identity card. She takes a long look at it.

  She seats on a chair by the cubicle & pulls an envelope from the drawer. The table of the cubicle has a laptop besides the microscope. There are stacked reference books in a corner of the cubicle. The tabletop is clean to a spit. Glass slides, gloves & examination tools are neatly placed in a large pan. By the wall of the cubicle, there is a photograph of Dr.Desai. She hands over the envelope to me.

  “Here you go.”

  “What does the toxicology profile confirm?” When tentative, I always keep the conversations professional. You tend to look less silly that way.

  “The victim was poisoned. It is a sea weed poison. Not easily available though. The death must have been painful as it takes time to block out the oxygen supply. Whoever used that poison wanted the victim to suffer. Timely medical attention could have saved him. ” She summarizes without looking away.

  “How long would he have suffered?” This is looking like torture.

  “The pain begins around 100 to 120 minutes prior to death. First sensation of pain starts from the throat, and then the chest feels heavy. Breathlessness & choking are the later symptoms.” She is maintaining a matter of fact tone effortlessly.

  “Any idea on how the poison was introduced into his body?”

  “This poison is available as a powder. It dissolves in water & may give it a dark coloration. My guess would be softdrinks. Dr.Desai’s postmortem report almost corroborates that by the sugar levels in his blood.” She answers.

  “I am also working on a detailed forensic report. Will that be all?” She asks bluntly as I pause.

  “I guess so. Is that Dr.Desai?” I gesture at his photograph.

  “Yes. He’s my father. You will need to sign here.” She answers my question as a register appears in her hand. She is looking down into it & points to a column with her long, slender index finger. Her other hand holds a ball point pen. I sign with the pen. She snaps the register shut & returns to her microscope.

  “Can I get your phone number?” She looks up again. Her expression is somewhere between surprise & anger.

  “I mean the number here. I could have some questions that you could answer best.” I clarify quickly.

  She starts to scribble down a landline number on the thin envelope in her neat handwriting. The novels that I am holding in my hand don’t escape her. She smiles at them as I give her one to support the writing. The radiant expression of glee remains on the face & has me smitten. She turns just enough to hand me the envelope & I smile at her. The name printed in her handwriting reads “Bhavna”. A smile is amongst the largest windows to a person’s soul just like a smirk. I like what I see through this one. I nod once & walk out of her office.

  ***

  I was at my house for an hour. I took a quick shower & got dressed for Rohit’s birthday. I walked back to the Churchgate railway station to catch a fast local train that has dropped me at the Borivali station 10 minutes back. I amble to the cake shop by the western entrance of the station. Ulhas does not keep me waiting. As promised, he is back in his Santro. He collects the cake in a box pack and we start for his home. Close to Ulhas’s apartment is our usual pit stop. “Rangoli Bar”. It is a quiet bar with excellent sea food. Ulhas refers to it as the petrol pump for humans. We stop here often after work as it is convenient for Ulhas. He parks parallel to the traffic by the footpath. I was not expecting to have a drink or two before the celebrations but it may not be a bad idea. As it is a family celebration, I am certain that there will be no drinks served.

  Ulhas walks ahead of me. Rangoli is in a shopping complex. It occupies a large portion of the ground floor. Besides it are shops selling stationery, provisions & garments. The entrance to Rangoli is the least lit door on the face of the building. We enter the door to be greeted by the captain of the waiters. He wears a red waist coat over a white full shirt, black pants that are matched by black leather shoes. His name is Roman. He is of medium height, is large at the waist but moves fluidly. His glinting eyes,well kept hair & thick moustache give him an avuncular look. Roman knows me & Ulhas.

  Roman gets away from his table at the door to approach us. We follow him as he finds us a table.

  “Good evening Sirs.” He greets us only after we are seated. I have had a hitch for months that he uses me particularly to practice his English skills.

  “Very good evening to you Roman.” Ulhas greets him back.

  “What can I get for you?” Roman asks me.

  “Ask him, he’s paying.” I point to Ulhas. Roman turns back theatrically to Ulhas.

  “The usual.” Ulhas quips. Roman disappears to get the drinks.

  Ulhas has been unusually quiet so far. This is unlike him. Does he know that I might get transferred? I have to tell it to him now. It would be a shame if he picks this news from elsewhere. He is not looking at me but is focusing on the menu card. Roman returns quickly with a whisky for me & rum for Ulhas. Accompanying the drinks are a bottle of Pepsi for Ulhas & a bottle of soda for me. A plate hosts neatly cut cucumbers, carrots & beet root. This is how you start an evening.

  Ulhas mixes Pepsi in his drink & waits for me get mine topped with soda. Roman comes back precisely at that moment to drop ice cubes in both the glasses. In India, it is rare, almost criminal not to clink glasses when friends drink together. We do it & draw on the drinks. Ulhas lights a cigarette. He smokes only when he drinks.

  “Please tell me that this is not the last drink that we are going to have together.” So he knows.

  “No yaar. We have just started.” I play it cool.

  “You know what I mean.” He snorts.

  I take another sip from the drink & place my glass slowly on the table. I look him in the eye.

  “My name is in the transfer pool. Khan told me just yesterday. ” Was not that difficult, was it? Should have told him earlier.

  “That is why I think we still have time.” Ulhas has thought this out.

  Ulhas is amongst the most upright cops that I have met. He does not believe in bribes, but he is big on favours. I am sure he must have pulled a huge one to find out that my name is in the transfer pool. His had appeared 3 years back & luckily for him he got a Mumbai posting again. I may be lucky too, but then I may not be. His face is mired in the cigarette smoke.

  “What do you mean we still have time?” I probe.

  “See Pandu, you know that I was in the same situation three years back.” He pauses as I nod. He is one of the few persons who can call me that even when drunk.

  “Then I got a lucky break. But it was not entirely luck.” I dread what I may hear next. An arrangement, a compromise is very unlike the Ulhas that I know.

  “No, no. It is not what you think. I didn’t pay anybody. But I did speak to the home minister directly. I told him that it would be very difficult for me to go away from my family. Taking them with me would mean disrupting Rohit’s school, Meghna’s job & staying away from my parents. ” Meghna is Ulhas’s wife. Both his parents are diabetic & require regular attention.

  “He said he would look into it. And I think he did.” Ulhas finishes. All the transfers of Maharashtra’s police personnel are ultimately approved by the home ministry. The home minister can therefore change or cancel any transfer if there is a good reason. Though it is highly irregular to change it without a life and death situation or a channelized bribe, there have been odd cases where the home minister has done it entirely out of humane considerations. Ulhas looks like a really lucky man.

  “I mean we can meet him. Explain it to him. See if he can cooperate. Again.” Ulhas signals Roman for another round & digs into the salad. I have finished my drink & nearly all the beet slices. Beet is a good de-tox agent as per my reading.

  “And what do we tell him? I don’t have any reasons on the family front.” I pick my teeth with a toothpick. I am q
uite certain that a home minister won’t give a second thought about stopping the transfer of a bachelor with no family whatsoever.

  “Come on. You will think of something. If you go out of Mumbai, life will be hell for you. I was born here but you made yourself here.” Ulhas is letting his mind flow. The alcohol & his true concern are a heady mix.

  “I once made myself a promise that I won’t move out of Mumbai. But with this transfer pool thing, I am not so sure. Dypso didn’t say he would help.” I bare my point of view.

  “Often, it is the promises that we make to ourselves that are the hardest to keep, dosta.” Dosta is Marathi for close friend. That is an observation that makes me observe silence. Ulhas breaks it almost immediately.

  “I know you may not like it but I have already sought an appointment with the home minister. It will take at least a week to get one. So you can make up your mind by then. Even if you decide on not coming, I will go alone.” I have rarely seen Ulhas getting so possessive about his friends. But the best friends that I have are mostly like this.

  “Look Ulhas, there is no need for this. I will work something out.” I try to make him change his mind.

  “I am sure you will. Think of this as a backup plan.” He knows my thought process. He signals Roman for a refill. Roman comes around promptly with the drinks a few moments later.

  “Tell me something Roman. If your boss offers you a 100% raise in salary for a job outside of Mumbai, what will you do?” I ask Roman as he pours the whisky in my glass.

  “The question is what my boss will do without me. This place will be a mess soon after.” Roman speaks like a true Mumbaikar. “The answer, I won’t take that job.” He concludes. Ulhas has a strange smile on his usually stern face.

  6

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