Club You to Death

by Anuja Chauhan

A certain constraint creeps back into the room.

  ‘Free for three weeks?’ Bambi asks. ‘Are the courts shut?’

  Kashi considers this question for a longer time than logically required, then says. ‘You didn’t even say bye yesterday.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The tambola broke up, and everybody started walking out, and I thought I could sell some juice if I went back to my stall.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ he says.

  There is an awkward silence.

  Yesterday was easier than today, Kashi thinks, vexed. Today is weird because we can’t talk about how nice it is to see each other after three whole years. Shit!

  ‘So how come you’re here again today?’ she asks finally. ‘Rediscovered your fondness for the Club?’

  He rolls his eyes slightly. ‘They called me because now everybody thinks I’m Leo’s lawyer.’

  ‘Oh!’ She giggles, then looks guilty.

  ‘Bee, d’you think … we can be … umm … friends again?’

  It is now her turn to take longer than logically required to reply.

  ‘Bambi?’

  She covers the distance between them in two quick steps and wraps her arms around his waist. Her head rests on his chest.

  Her breath comes in jagged little gasps as she says, ‘I missed you … so … much after Anshul died.’

  And so – finally – the name is out there, between them. Anshul Poddar. Anshul the glorious. Anshul the hyphenated. Entrepreneur–mountaineer. The wealthy arranged-marriage catch from the right community and class, who had wrested Bambi from Kashi’s arms only to perish with a bus full of others in a freak landslide accident in Garhwal the day after their glitzy engagement.

  Kashi sighs, closes his eyes and hugs her back. Looking down at the top of her head, he feels sick with shame as he recalls the moment when he’d heard the news of Anshul’s bus plummeting into a Himalayan abyss. Because his one simple, savage thought had been serves her right.

  Decency and sanity had prevailed later though. He had tried to call her. Even though all the Doscos had said it was a highly avoidable thing to do. But she hadn’t answered his calls anyway, or replied to the text in which he’d asked her to call anytime, they could pull one of their ten-to-six all-nighters if she needed to get stuff off her chest …

  Three years of radio silence.

  Over, just like that, with one simple hug.

  Kashi sighs happily, then frowns. ‘Fuck, Bambi, are you wiping snot on my sweater?’

  ‘I din do anythin.’

  The trainer protesting his innocence is a short, fair, muscular Manipuri dressed in tight, all-black clothes with blonde-streaked hair, bulging muscles and a paradoxically gentle face.

  Padam Kumar looms above him, smiling a sinister cherubic smile. ‘I didn’t say you did, Tiger Shroff.’

  ‘My name’s Thinsuk,’ he replies sullenly.

  But Padam Kumar has already turned to the other trainer – a macho, moustachioed young Malayali with bright eyes and a military haircut.

  ‘What about you, Rana Duggabuti? Your boss is dead – did you also not do anything?’

  ‘It’s Daggubati,’ the Malayali, whose name is Thampi, retorts instantly. ‘And he wasn’t my boss.’

  Padam Kumar chuckles. ‘Lorrd of atty-tyoode! I like that!’

  They’re in the sunny exercise room above the gym. It has a wooden floor, one mirrored wall and huge windows which overlook the main lawns of the club. The trainers are sitting on a pair of rather trendy beanbags and Padam Kumar is standing over them.

  He lets the silence lengthen, sneering down with tough, Singham-ish machismo at the cowering duo. This is how he’d imagined a career in the police force would feel. But then footsteps sound on the stairs and the pleasantly plain features of ACP Bhavani Singh appear at the landing.

  ‘Hullo hullo,’ he says amiably.

  The tension eases out of the trainers at once, much to Padam Kumar’s disgust.

  Bhavani sits down, and sizes up the pair in silence for a while, smiling genially, drumming his fingers idly on the arms of his chair.

  They’re hiding something, he concludes. Outsiders to this city, one from the north and one from the south, they’re radiating the classic mix of belligerence and fear that outsiders exude when faced with city cops. But there’s also something more.

  The question is, is this something more relevant? If they’ve been eating beef in their strictly Hindu rented flats, or peddling illegal steroids to Club members, then it may have nothing to do with the incident he’s investigating.

  He raises his voice, upping his jovialness a notch.

  ‘So, you two and Leo … you were … friendly with each other, hain?’ He looks attentively from one to the other.

  There is a small, strangled silence. Then –

  ‘I never got to see him,’ Thampi says finally. ‘He used to come very early in the morning and I never have the morning shift. Ask Thinsuk.’

  Bhavani turns his patient, questioning gaze on Thinsuk.

  The Manipuri shrugs. ‘He was kind. A’ways busy, and in a hurry, but kind. I used to ask him for tips, because he was famous in the fitness community, and because his lifting technique was so good – an’ even though he said, “People pay me good money for what I’m teaching you for free, Thinsuki,” he a’ways helped me.’

  Bhavani Singh tips his chair back into a more relaxed position.

  ‘Money-minded, was he?’

  Thinsuk looks sullen. ‘We all have to be – living in this city! Leo was earning so much money – but spendin’ a lot also. He paid big bucks to stay on top of all the lates’ moves and trends. He had the bes’ qualifications. He had heavy fuel consumption too – a’ways driving here and there for his classes on that Hayabusa.’

  ‘O yes!’ Bhavani Singh massages the lobe of his ear for a while. ‘You say his technique was good – but it could nat have been too good if he ended up dead.’

  Thinsuk looks just a little smug. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘In the video, we saw that the bench press bar was already loaded for Leo when he walked into the gym at five. Who did that?’

  ‘I did,’ Thampi says sullenly. ‘It was one of my “closing up” duties. Stack the bar with plates – a hundred and twenty kgs – for Leo the great. He was too busy and too important to load his bar himself. I even had to mix his pre-workout shake and leave it in there’ – he nods at the clear-glass doored fridge – ‘for him to drink during his workout.’

  ‘And I put away everything afterwards when I arrived at six,’ Thinsuk chimes in. ‘The weights, the bottle, the towels. Apart from my regular duties – which are dusting and sanitizing the machines, laying out fresh towels, and setting out the water, and apples and juice.’

  Unlike Thampi, Thinsuk’s voice is matter of fact. He doesn’t seem to mind that Leo hadn’t helped with these duties. Bhavani nods, then asks casually, ‘Why did the Club feel the zaroorat for a third trainer, waise? Don’t you two know how to Zumba?’

  This time resentment flares simultaneously on both the young faces. ‘Of course we do!’ Thampi asserts indignantly. ‘But President Bhatti hired Leo because he has 1.01 million followers on his YouTube channel and Zumba training qualifications from Brazil. So President Bhatti felt he would be a better teacher.’

  ‘And he was? Good? Effective? All the ladies were taking his class?’

  Thampi says sullenly, ‘The ladies just liked him because he knew good English and had trained abroad and all. They let him park his bike right here next to the gym veranda, but we have to park outside the main gate and walk such a long way!’

  ‘But that may be because he only needed parking for one-two hours,’ Bhavani Singh says tolerantly. ‘And you fellows have what, nine-hour shifts?’

  They nod.

  ‘So now that he is dead what will happen? Perhaps President Bhatti will promote you to the pos
t of Zumba instructor?’

  Thampi laughs scornfully. ‘Not if those women have a say!’ he scoffs. ‘They’re much too snobbish to attend our class! D’you know Thinsuk and I are not even allowed to use that swimming pool outside because we may contaminate it?’

  ‘I’m not saying they’re unhygienic on purpose, babe,’ Thinsuk mimics in a bitter tone, ‘they just don’t get enough water in the jhuggis to bathe daily, poor things.’

  The imitation is cruel, but accurate.

  Bhavani chuckles. ‘That is pretty good!’ he says appreciatively. ‘You could be an actor – good-looking boy like you!’

  Thinsuk goes a little pink.

  ‘Tell us something,’ Bhavani continues conversationally. ‘This gym is new, is it nat? Who decided what-what equipment to buy for it?’

  ‘President Bhatti, sir,’ Thinsuk replies. ‘And some of the members who use the gym regularly. And us.’

  ‘O really?’ Bhavani says blandly, even as his mind immediately starts to pluck on the possibilities of kickbacks and commissions. Had Thampi and Thinsuk received some money for recommending Precor over the others? Had that little Sardar ji been in on the deal? Had the supplied material been substandard in anyway? Was that what had caused the accident?

  As he is considering these possibilities, his phone rings. He extracts it from one of his roomy trouser pockets.

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Jai Bhavani,’ comes a deep, well-modulated, south Indian drawl.

  Bhavani’s square face splits into a wide smile. He is very fond of the Tamilian head of forensics.

  ‘Daaktar sa’ab!’

  ‘What a good-looking corpse you’ve sent us this time, Bhavani. The girls are quite excited. Makes a change from the usual desiccated specimens we get.’

  ‘My pleasure, my pleasure! So what information do you have for us?’

  ‘Well, on the face of it, it looked like accidental traumatic asphyxia.’

  ‘Speak English, daaktar sa’ab,’ Bhavani entreats.

  ‘A sudden force has compressed the neck and cut off the oxygen flow,’ Dr Krishnan explains. ‘I’m guessing that was the barbell.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That seems to be the cause of death, but—’

  ‘It was nat?’

  ‘No, it was not.’

  ‘A heart attack, or a tumour of some sort?’

  ‘Nothing so innocent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Your man was drugged, Bhavani. He’s awash with a particularly filthy sort of drug cocktail called “Pinko Hathni” that’s been doing the rounds lately, though in areas far less posh than the Delhi Turf Club. No wonder he dropped a loaded bar on himself.’

  ‘Pinko Hathni?’

  ‘It derives its name from the fact that the extremely swift hit it delivers is like being kicked in your central nervous system by a sexy female elephant.’

  Bhavani Singh isn’t often at a loss for words, but all he can manage in response to this is a strangled-sounding ‘Wah’.

  ‘Could he have taken it himself?’ he asks after a beat. ‘As a … a performance enhancer, of sorts?’

  ‘It’s not that kind of drug. If Usain Bolt took the dose your chap did before a race, he would speedily strip himself naked when the starting pistol went off, amble dreamily down the track marvelling at the contingent of psychedelic gorillas copulating in the stands, then go suddenly limp and drop dead.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘We checked the flask you sent with the body. It was empty, but it had traces of Creatine Monohydrate. That’s a common pre-workout drink – a lot of these body-builder types take it just before they lift. It was laced with Pinko. So find out who filled it. That’s your man. Or woman.’

  Krishnan disconnects. Bhavani lowers his phone.

  His face is entirely expressionless as he turns his genial eyes on Thampi. ‘You mentioned preparing a drink at midnight and leaving it in that fridge for Leo.’

  Thampi’s face grows apprehensive. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bhavani’s voice is very gentle. ‘Tell us how you did it.’

  Thampi licks his lips. ‘The way I always do – three tablespoons of the Creatine powder in water. It mixes really easily.’

  Very conversationally Bhavani Singh asks, ‘And Pinko Hathni? Does that mix easily in water too?’

  ‘Pinko what?’ Thampi’s jaw sags ludicrously. ‘No, I didn’t, sir! I didn’t!’

  Bhavani spreads out his hands. ‘No, no, it is completely understandable – the fellow is no better than you – your muscles are just as good, we can see that! But he gets paid so much more – he is making lakhs and lakhs and parking his motorcycle inside and flirting with the pretty ladies, while you stack his weights and clear his dirty towels. Over the months, resentment and khundak is building up and so one night, while you are making his wretched pre-workout drink, you take a tablespoon of Pinko Hathni and you’ – he twists his wrist graphically – ‘drop it into the flask!’

  Thampi is now staring at Bhavani in horrified fascination. ‘You’re mad!’ he says. ‘Of course I did not! I’m not insane – I’m perfectly happy with my job – and if you see a photograph of my girlfriend Malathi – she is fifty times better looking than these dried-up Delhi women—’

  ‘Yes, she’s top class,’ Thinsuk agrees, with perhaps too much fervour.

  Thampi throws him a dirty look. ‘—then you would know that I would never do something like this!’

  ‘You’re just picking on him because he’s an outsider!’ Thinsuk says bitterly. ‘It happens to us all the time – you’re looking for somebody to pin it on and close the case quickly, so you’re zooming in on us! All north-Indians behave like this!’

  ‘Never!’ Pained, Bhavani Singh holds up a stubby, rebuking finger. ‘We never, ever niptao the case quickly. It is impossible to sleep well with a guilty conscience and the one thing that we love the most in the world is a good, sound sleep!’

  ‘Then check last night’s footage,’ Thampi mutters. ‘What use is that stupid camera, anyway? Why don’t you check the CCTV recordings and see for yourself!’

  Bhavani leans in. ‘See what, Thampi? What are you so anxious for us to see?’

  Thampi’s head comes up, his clear dark eyes full of a desperate earnestness. ‘See that I left ten minutes early last night! It was Malathi’s birthday and I wanted to be with her at midnight! So I cleaned up the place, stacked the plates on the bar, made Leo’s protein shake and put it in the empty fridge. And because Mukesh Khurana was still huffing and puffing on the treadmill, I requested him to lock up the place and drop the key off. He could have poisoned the shake – he must have poisoned the shake – everybody says his wife was sleeping with Leo, and he was furious because Leo blackened his eye in front of everybody only yesterday!’

  5

  Very, Very Over-Smart

  ‘It is murder, sir. Quite clearly. A case of poisoning.’

  Bhavani is pacing the veranda in front of the DTC gym, hung with baskets of hot pink petunias at regular intervals. The scent from them is sweetly cloying.

  ‘Could the chap have taken it himself?’ the chief wants to know. ‘To enhance his performance? Don’t these weightlifter types do that all the time?’

  ‘It’s a party drug, sir. So that is nat very likely. Of course we will examine all possibilities.’

  ‘I’ll send you back-up right away,’ the chief says. ‘This is going to be a high-profile maamla, Bhavani.’

  ‘We know sir. An election was supposed to take place today. Gen. Mehra – woh surgical strikes waale – is standing for Club president. Against a lady who is rumoured to be having an affair with the murdered man, sir.’

  ‘Good grief. So, she’s a prime suspect then.’

  ‘Her husband seems to be the man behind it, sir. He was at the gym five hours before the incident. Locked the place up and had e
very opportunity to doctor the drink. The CCTV footage should clinch it quite conclusively.’

  ‘Good. Close it out fast. Have you got back-up?’

  ‘Yes sir. A full team has arrived – they’re combing the scene.’

  ‘Good,’ the chief repeats. ‘Stay on top of things, Bhavani. Don’t let ’em blow up.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Bhavani hangs up and looks at Padam who is hovering nearby.

  ‘Yes, PK?’

  ‘They want to show you something they’ve found on the CCTV, sir.’

  A few minutes later he is back in the smelly little ‘command centre’, peering down at the computer screen, one hand resting on the back of operator Ram Palat’s chair. An image is frozen on it, time code 11.45 p.m.

  Young Ram Palat adjusts his baseball cap and explains the image animatedly.

  ‘Sir, I’ve watched all the footage from ten till the time the ladies walk in at five-forty-five. Mukesh Khurana is doing his workout while Thampi prepares the protein shake and puts it in the fridge, but Khurana never goes anywhere near the fridge.’

  ‘And then?’ Bhavani prompts him. ‘What’s exciting you so much, Master Ram Palat?’

  ‘Telling, sir!’ The young operator’s voice is alive with suppressed excitement as he presses play. ‘And then at exactly eleven-forty-five, a bunch of helium balloons floats up and covers the camera! Look!’

  They watch till the balloons he has described rise to totally obscure the view of the gym. Ram Palat turns to gauge the impact of this news on Bhavani and is not disappointed. The old ACP’s eyes have started to gleam.

  ‘O real…ly?’ he muses slowly. ‘Aise hi? By magic?’

  Ram Palat nods excitedly. ‘Exactly, sir!’

  Bhavani rests his chunky buttock on the arm of Ram Palat’s chair.

  ‘Well done, mere sher. And then what happens? Do the security people spot the problem from this great command centre and rush in immediately to fix the problem?’

  Padam Kumar clears his throat.

  ‘Nikamme hain, sir, sab ke sab – lazy fellows. I just spoke to the two who were on duty here last night. They stammered out ki it was a very cold night and a long walk to the gym across the lawn, so they thought it’s just balloons, let it be. And anyway, sir, at twelve-fifteen the balloons sort of scattered and floated away here and there on their own, and full visibility was restored.’