Mousebite

by Ganesh Chaudhari

I reached Ulhas’s house sometime ago. Rohit cut the cake & the party began. I made sure that I gave him his present. A quick hello to Ulhas’s parents follows that. Trying to withdraw from the action, I find a chair next to the window. There are a few guests who could be from the Mumbai police. Ulhas does not bother introducing anybody to me. There are a few known faces but I don’t want to pay any attention to them today. I am holding a food plate served with homemade pav bhaji. I have not been able to eat away but it could act as a distraction for someone wanting to strike a trivial conversation. Meghna however finds me effortlessly. She is Ulhas’s wife. She knows we have drinks once in a while. And she must be certain of that being the case today. She is wearing an off pink Punjabi. Her hair is short. It goes well with her height of about 5’4”. She wears at least 2 dozen bangles in each hand. Her thin forearms are hard to spot in those.

  “Kai Bhauji kasa kai?” How are things brother-in-law? She always starts the conversation in Marathi. As if to stamp the fact that I am a Maharashtrian.

  “Ekdum takatak, vahini.” Preety good sister-in-law. I reply as usual.

  “How long before we start entertaining you as a couple? Are you getting married this year? ” This is a typical conversation to be initiated with Maharashtrian bachelors. You can do this safely in every city of Maharashtra with equally exasperating but sure-shot effect.

  “Can I tell you the truth?” I whisper in a conspiratorial tone that draws her close.

  “Sure. You can tell me.” She offers sincere audience. Everyone wants to help a bachelor who has not found a soulmate. Given all the vivid possible causes of not being married, such help can be very rewarding, gossip wise. Ulhas walks to us in the background.

  “I have not been able to find a single one even after trying all that I could. Could you please recommend my name to the eligible girls in your knowledge? ” I keep my voice down in an effort to hide the whisky on my breath.

  “Sure. I have been telling you for years. I will definitely do that.” Ulhas now faces her & knows what this is instantly. He can hardly suppress his laughter. She gets the idea too. She raises her hands to her hips in mock anger.

  “I thought you were serious for once Pandurang.” She fumes after sniffing the faint scent of alcohol on Ulhas’s breath.

  “I really am.” I put on my best poker face. Ulhas is in peals. She walks away wagging an accusatory finger at me.

  “Why did you do that?” I feign anger at Ulhas.

  “Come on Pandurang. You will marry only when you find someone better than yourself.”

  ***

  It has turned out better than a shot in the dark. Just as I was expecting that a request to go enquiring into Anees Vilayati’s business based on a torn entry pass may not fly, another lead has surfaced. Tirpe, the constable from Mira road, caught a nice break yesterday night. He managed to collect the CCTV camera footage from the entrance of the Mira road train station. He submitted it to the video analyst yesterday. This analyst, Kshipra, knows me rather well. She studied at Sydneyham around the same time as me. But her course was Computer Science. She worked with a multinational company for a while but chose the relative safety of a government job after marriage. Now she works at the digital evidence lab of Mumbai police. As per protocol (which Tirpe is really improving at), Tirpe told her that I was handling the case. She called me an hour ago. She asked me what she should look for in the tape. I told her about the white SUV. She found it in less than ten minutes. She got me the name of the owner of the SUV from its license plates in the video. Wheely game zone. She is getting the footage enhanced further & we are going to discuss it when we meet.

  I am riding my Enfield Bullet. The image that a tall, sufficiently handsome male riding the Bullet with his eyes behind RayBans is quite a memory for most Indian women. The Bullet’s hypnotic engine firing, a hot male & cool goggles. Pure heaven. I mean to treat them today. Also, the DYSP is going to meet me only at 12. So I have almost three hours to spare. Ulhas is braving a hangover and has promised to meet me at the DYSP’s office. The day has started on a promising note.

  Working for the government means that most of the offices that you have to visit are reachable even on bikes. I park my Bullet near the digital evidence lab at Colaba. The parking for two wheelers is small but well spaced. The Bullet takes up almost double the parking size of the smaller bikes. I leave my helmet on the handlebar & climb the steps to Kshipra’s office. It is housed inside the police departmental headquarters for South Mumbai. Usually, I am not welcome here. You see, there is a geographical classification even amongst us cops. Naturally, cops from South Mumbai are supposed to be the elite as compared Mumbai crawlers like me. Some of them actually think so & unfortunately they run the show here. But that is not why I chose to bring my Bullet here. It is entirely due to Kshipra.

  In college, Kshipra was quite a girl. She rode to the college on a Hero Honda every day. That was way back in 2000 when that motorcycle was every middle class boy’s dream ride. There were gearless bikes which were more “Ladylike”, but she chose the manual transmission Hero Honda. Her tomboyish nature didn’t end there. She was part of every student campaign from student body elections to flash strikes. She was a born troublemaker. In fact, I met her during a disciplinary punishment. It so happened that I bunked a computer science class due to a missed train & she walked out of it the same day. It was an elective subject for me but for her, it was a specialization. The punishment brought us together as the lecturer wanted to meet the parents of every student who had missed the class. Particularly Kshipra’s, as she had walked out of the class right in his face.

  I could not get my parents to meet him & she would not let them. I still remember the look on the lecturer’s face when Kshipra had gladly accepted his alternative of not attending his classes for the entire academic year rather than bringing her parents over. My parents could not come to the college, so the same punishment was meted out to me. I thought about getting Mr.Patil over but decided against it .So for every computer science class after that day, me, Kshipra & few more guys had to vacate the class. I got to know her better during that time. Her reasons for the behavior may not be justified but she had them. We are not fast friends but are close enough. I had it that way. I suspect she was seriously falling for me during the last days at the college. But I was not ready then. I told her so & she understood. The topic never surfaced again. We are still friends; she said that was most important for her. She keeps in touch. I would not have done that if she had given me a “not ready yet” reason.

  Since my college days, I respect her hatred of stereotypes & am therefore surprised to see her in this relatively safe job. But maybe people do mellow with age. Anyway, the point is that she knows I have a Bullet & has asked me for a ride on many occasions. She might hold me to it today. I am ready.

  I find her at the makeshift screens booth. It is a corner of a large room. Away from the massive window on the right, it has been kept dark on purpose. There are 6 computer monitors placed on 2 tables. All of them are playing some or the other portion of the surveillance tape from Mira road. Seating surrounded by them is Kshipra. It is hard to guess whether she is looking at them as a group or is concentrating on a particular one. Her hands work on a keyboard to sample a particular screen output.

  “Hello X.” I greet her. In Sanskrit, “Ksh” is pronounced similarly to the English “X”. That is why her nickname, X.

  “Jaggu! How are you?” She looks at me for an instant.

  Make no mistake about it. Kshipra is an attractive girl. She is around 5’8”, athletic & fair in complexion. Like any street smart girl brought up in Mumbai, she dresses well for work & is exceptionally talented. But having known her since my days in college & as a friend for a long time I have never taken up that perspective. She calls me Jaggu as a slang for my surname. She rises from the chair with a beaming smile. I shake her hand and take up a chair right beside her. She looks at me for a long moment. Looking at her, I cannot decide whether it is a
forlorn gaze at memories or a peek at a missed companionship. Her eyes sparkle through her work glasses. The smile is radiant with pleasure at seeing me. She is wearing a navy blue coat over a white top with matching pants. As I said she looks stunning.

  “I am fine. How are you?” I don’t let the conversation break.

  “I’m good.” She answers.

  “Looks like you have made a lot of progress with the tape.” Because this is Kshipra, I don’t waste time in setting up the conversation.

  “Jaggu, Jaggu. When conversing with a woman, it need not always be professional & formal.” She is one of the few persons who can be humorous with me. In fact, she does it on purpose. She is not bothered by other staff members seated a few cubicles away.

  “Oh, you are looking gorgeous.” I play along.

  “See, it is not so hard.” She laughs. I smirk.

  “Ok,ok. Back to work.” She throws her hands in the air.

  “As I told you over the phone, the SUV is a Toyota Fortuner. Registered to the Wheely game zone.” She plays the footage with a key press on the keyboard. The monitor shows a white SUV moving away from the camera. She pauses & zooms in onto the number plates of the SUV. The hind plate is visible. It even has the same symbol of an ornate wheel that I had seen on the ticket.

  “And it gets better. Looks like the vehicle does a drop after all.” Kshipra continues her swift keyplay. The video plays in slow motion. Its jerkiness notwithstanding, the video clearly shows a man getting down from the vehicle as it pauses for a short while. Visible from the back, the man staggers a little after the car leaves as if fighting to maintain his balance. But he manages to walk out of the grainy, black & white frame of the surveillance camera. Kshipra expertly rewinds the footage back to where the man gets out of the Fortuner.

  “Is this the vic?” Her terminology & the fact that he is seen from the back apart, the man does look like Achhu.

  “Could be him.” I reply. “Can you get me a zoomed & cleaned copy showing the number plates & the man?”

  “Sure. Will be in your mailbox in an hour. ” Kshipra looks back at me. She means my departmental mailbox, as we cops are not allowed to carry evidence on us.

  “You know, this could open up the investigation. Thanks X.” I don’t wish to give her details about Anees Vilayati just yet.

  “Anytime Jaggu.”

  “Do you want to ride the Bullet?” I flash my keychain at her.

  Her face lights up at the mention of the Bullet. She smiles.

  “No, not today. Buy me a tea.” She rises from her seat. We walk out of her office.

  ***

  I am on my way to the DYSPO’s office after half an hour. I expected Kshipra to chew off my ears with the tea. But she was cool about my being out of touch. It actually had far more impact than her blasting me would have had. I mean to reach out to her more often & not only when work demands it. That is a common trait of most of my good friends. I don’t know why but they seem to forgive me for being out of touch for any amount of time. Most of them are not so magnanimous, but do forgive me after long sessions of expletives & drinking, till the next time.

  Kshipra has helped confirm the relation of Achhu with the Wheely club. The DYSPO would be tested. It would take courage for him to give me a go ahead with Anees. I have got an appointment with him. He has given me 15 minutes.

  “Can you be wrong about this?” He asks after I outline the evidence on a large computer monitor his office. He’s in the chair on the other side of the table that separates us. His reading glasses have slid low on his nose.

  “It’s not me Sir. It’s the evidence that is pointing this way.” I clarify.

  “Right. Let us start with the Wheely game parlor. Zhinzod ke rakhdo. He will have to react to that. We will react accordingly. All the way if required.” He looks me in the eye. By asking me to shake up the Wheely, he is taking a course of action that makes the most sense. There is no point in going after Anees directly, yet. He must be the prize catch if he is involved at all. And these kinds of catches have layers of protection. These layers could have elements from criminals, politicians and common people. So the chaos required to disturb these layers has to be planned. It won’t be easy within my department. Because mine is a special unit, our jurisdiction is also floating. We don’t act independently unless the groundwork is done & there is solid proof. If we investigate on our own, we might stamp on some toes & egos. But ignoring this opportunity not only wastes a probable criminal apprehension but is against basic law enforcement. Tricky choice when it comes to bending the law to uphold it. I have no illusions here; DYPSO passes the test for the day.

  “Yes Sir. Will start today itself.” I throw a salute and approach the door.

  “Jagtap, I hope you have not discussed this with anybody other than Gosavi & me.” He queries.

  “That is right Sir.” I stop in my tracks. This guy is smart.

  “Let us keep it that way.” He turns away to look at the monitor.

  I wait for Ulhas to show up at the office. He is visibly excited as I explain what Khan wants us to do. Both of us are at the usual table in the canteen, sipping tea. After knowing that only he & Khan are going to be in the loop with me, Ulhas is overjoyed. But like a seasoned Mumbaikar, he lets the feeling vanish as soon as it appears on his face. I think he realizes that this excitement may get dangerous. Though dormant for a long period, it may not take long for a veteran gangster to get back to old ways. The fact that Anees Vilayati keeps a low profile since his active days is ominous. We don’t know much about him.

  “So when do we start?” He inquires with an enthusiasm that I have not seen for a long time.

  “Today. Let us derail the Wheely.” I describe to him what I have in mind; he makes a few pertinent suggestions about carrying additional firearms which I accept immediately. I never take my Bullet to on a “Dhaad” or a raid. It looks & stays better at my office parking. Ulhas manages to get a Maruti Gypsy from the car pool. We get in, take a check on the inventory. As it is early into the case, there is no need of paperwork today. We leave in the Gypsy, for the fringe of Dharaavi.

  7

  The Wheely

  Dharaavi is unique. Amongst the largest slums in the world, it is an organic being that retains its territorial extent over time. Once in a while, the government or private interests succeed in clearing a part of it but it reclaims the lost ground somewhere else. Many a times, the same ground too.

  Though a slum, it is as much a living being as any man. So how does it maintain its form? Just like any living being, it has a system of functional organs. These are obviously made up of people but each serves a specific purpose. Let us begin with the heart. Unknown to most, Dharaavi is a major contributor to Mumbai’s industrial output. The dilapidated look of the houses does not give away the fact that most of the small scale industries in Mumbai operate out of them. These include industries making handmade goods like bags, clothing, and food items. But it also hosts not so legal businesses like manufacturing of fake products of almost every type. Put together, the commercial output of these industries & the employment that they provide is the heart of this establishment. It keeps pulling in new blood to augment the old one. The money from the employment at these industries replenishes the residents. Most people who work in these industries prefer staying close by. Not out of choice but out of helplessness.

  Then there are the limbs. Families of the workers who work at these industries & other people who work elsewhere but stay in Dharaavi are the hands & feet. They keep it moving, chugging on like a well oiled machine that bears huge stress, but refuses to give up. Then there is the brain. The brain of Dharaavi is multifaceted. There are those who really work for making it a better place, a place that should be leveled up to rest of Mumbai. They want better civic facilities, would like gradual legalization of the slums wherever possible & would also like to reduce the crimes out of Dharaavi. These include residents, few politicians & even social workers from outside. But their t
ask is hard. Not only do they face opposition & derision from the outside world, they also have to live with people who would like Dharaavi to retain its form. These are the men who use it for purely ulterior motives. Drugs, smuggling, extortion, counterfeiting are the games these men play on the human grounds at Dharaavi. The exposure to the daily struggle of life, hopelessness & social dogma of living here can easily break a soul, bend it or destroy it. But it can also have people make choices that seem easy or as the only option. This could be an easy getaway into the world of crime. Dharaavi has witnessed & contributed to the rise of Dawood Ibrahim, Rauf Lala, Anees Vilayati & many others.

  I have my shades on as Ulhas passes the alley or “galli” that houses the Wheely at its end. It is conveniently located at the end of alley so that it is hard to make out from the road. Ulhas has driven ahead on purpose. He parks the Gypsy into the nearest slot on the main road. I have hidden the Police beacon in the glove compartment. This is just a cursory visit without any judicial standing. We would like to get away as soon & as unnoticed as possible if push comes to shove. This is not wishful thinking. In recent past, motivated mobs in residential areas have burnt cops alive in Mumbai.

  This looks like a business area but you can never be too careful. Still seated in the passenger seat, I check upon my guns. I have one in the holster under my left arm pit. The other one is fastened with Velcro to my right ankle. I also check up my shoelaces. Ulhas goes through his checkups of equipment equally methodically on the driver side. He is wearing his government issued khaki trousers & a half sleeved white shirt. Though it might appear as a school uniform to the eyes, the trouser is a clear hint to everybody that he is a cop. This would make a large difference as I am in my civvies. His shirt is out even though he is wearing shoes. This is to cover the gun that he wears in a hip holster. His spare gun is in the small of his back. He does not bother wearing glasses as he likes to eye people up and down.

  “Let’s go.” He nods at me. No emotions, just his determined face. I wear my in-control look. Time to enter the galli of the Wheely.