‘Arrey kahan sexual, we have reached the age of innocence!’ snorts Mala Dogra. ‘I am simply craving some quality, honest conversation. Nothing else!’
The conversation continues in this vein for a while. Finally, the siblings manage to extract a promise from their father that he will spend more one-on-one time with their mother, and, after demolishing the mighty bowls of rajma-chawal, the family regards each other torpidly across the table.
‘What’s the latest on the DTC murders?’ Balbir asks his son. ‘You’ve palled up with that ACP, haven’t you? Does he really think Behra Mehra did it? Nobody in the fauj does. They’re all saying he’s being framed.’
‘I think he may reluctantly be coming around to that conclusion,’ Kashi says. ‘I can’t reveal the details because they’re confidential, but there are other theories.’
‘Reveal, no!’ Nattu says cajolingly. ‘Who will we tell, anyway!’
‘No, no!’ Kashi shakes his head laughingly. ‘I can’t.’
The brigadier frowns. ‘Don’t ask him to betray a confidence, Nattu. It’s unethical.’
‘Haw!’ Nattu gasps. ‘When it’s you who wants stock market tips from you son-in-law—’
‘That’s not the same thing at all.’
‘What about Mukesh Khurana?’ Mala Dogra wants to know. ‘Surely he has a strong motive? We all saw Leo knock him down at the club the day before he was murdered! How come this ACP isn’t investigating him?’
‘His wife was damn eager to dig up that kitchen garden,’ the brigadier recalls. ‘Couldn’t wait to put her wretched rainwater harvester into it! Would she have done that if her husband had stuck a body in there a few years ago?’
‘Maybe she didn’t know,’ suggests Nattu.
‘Yes,’ Mala Dogra remarks bitterly. ‘Maybe her husband doesn’t tell her anything either!’
Everybody wisely pretends not to have heard this loaded statement.
‘You guys are right,’ Kashi says. ‘Bhavani should be following up on the Khurana angle. I wonder why he isn’t?’
‘Because he’s being pressured to pin it on old Mehra, that’s why,’ the brigadier fumes. ‘Typical civilian behaviour! They always get a fauji to take the hit for them!’
‘But who would issue such instructions?’ his wife asks.
‘Somebody rich and highly placed, obviously!’ is the disgruntled reply. ‘Mehra’s a vain, credit-hogging fool, I’m sure he’s made a lot of enemies.’
TRANSCRIPT OF A RECORDED STATEMENT BY OM PRAKASH MEHRA.
My name is Om Prakash Mehra, I was born in Gurdaspur in 1954, went to school in Chandigarh and was selected to the National Defence Academy at the age of 16. I married my wife Savitri when I was 26 years old, served in the Indian army for 47 years, retired at age 65, and for the past three years have been a grieving widower.
On Bumper Tambola Sunday Night, I ate my dinner and went to sleep at 9 p.m. I keep no live-in help but you can check with the security guards in the building. I woke up at 5 a.m. as is my long-established practice and went for my daily morning jog.
I do not know the man Leo Matthew at all. Yes, I received a song video from him late last year, but I could make neither head nor tail of it, and so ignored it completely, and soon forgot all about it.
Yes, I did donate Rs 16 lakh, over several years, to the orphanage in Badshahpur, but I donate money to several good causes. I do not like to speak about my charitable works, but I can produce receipts, if required.
I met Ajay Kumar only once, three years ago, when he arrived at the home of his estranged wife, Ganga Kumar, and began physically abusing her, claiming she was having an affair with a rich sahib. As she is alone in the city and considers me a father figure of sorts, she phoned me and I rushed to the spot, slapped the fellow a couple of times to knock some sense into him, then marched him to the police station to give him a good fright. No formal charges were pressed, however, because Ganga did not want to destroy his life. I somehow got the impression that both husband and wife were eager to avoid the police. He disappeared thereafter and I have neither seen nor heard from him since. Nor, as far as I know, has she.
There seems to be some sort of convoluted theory doing the rounds that I was the ‘rich sahib’ having an affair with Ganga. This is a wild fairy tale and completely untrue.
Another wild fairy tale is that I somehow rigged the tambola game on Sunday to start an argument between Mukesh Khurana and Leo Matthew so I could frame Mukesh for Leo’s murder. Apparently my motive for doing this was to discredit Mukesh’s wife, Urvashi, who is my rival in the Club election, and has publicly accused me of using my position and privilege to force myself upon Ganga. Needless to say, this last is also completely untrue.
Yes, I do have an army revolver like the one found in the kitchen garden, but I misplaced it some time ago.
Anybody who knows the DTC intimately, knows that our late gardener Ram Gopal aka Guppie Ram was a phenku of the highest order, always telling vastly exaggerated tales for his own amusement. He probably found a few British-era bones in the garden, and spun an elaborate and entertaining story around them. I understand forensics is an inexact science and dating bones is problematic.
I suspect that the Opposition parties, working in tandem with Pakistani agents, are trying to discredit me because my role in the surgical strikes has made me so popular. It is their stated official position that the surgical strikes never happened at all, and now they are trying to embroil me in this DTC case simply because I happen to be a member of the Club.
As for me, my commitment to my men, the army and the nation speaks for itself. I am sure that our excellent police will absolve me eventually. Jai Hind.
END OF INTERVIEW.
The watchmen outside the Khurana residence in sleepy, leafy Panchsheel Park don’t quite know what to make of the twisted, satyr-like figure who has emerged suddenly from an autorickshaw to loudly demand entrance into the bungalow within.
Exuding a powerful smell which makes them all wrinkle their noses, he leans heavily on one crutch while waving the other about like a weapon, and shouts in a thin but extremely carrying voice.
‘I’m here to meet the beautiful Urvashi Khurana! She needs to explain why she doesn’t love us any more! Let me in! Let me in or I will expose how the rich mistreat the crippled classes! Or—’ His eyes light up suddenly. ‘Even better … I will expose myself!’
Dropping one crutch, he starts to fumble with the front of his pants.
‘Oye, bhikari!’ says one watchman. ‘Keep your pants on! This is a decent neighbourhood!’
‘Who’re you calling a beggar?’ demands the interloper, one hand poised upon his crotch.
‘Nobody,’ the other watchman replies hastily. ‘Here, take ten rupees and git. You can’t show us anything we haven’t seen before anyway!’
‘Who is it, Rambahadur?’ Urvashi’s exquisite voice speaks suddenly through the intercom. ‘Who is making so much noise outside?’
Rambahadur wipes his forehead. ‘Madam ji, it seems to be a crippled gent—’
Hearing Urvashi’s voice, the visitor hobbles up to the security camera. ‘It’s me, Urvashi!’ he shouts shrilly. ‘Leo’s friend! From Badshahpur! We sat together at the funeral, remember!’
He licks his lips and peers into the camera, an ingratiating smile upon his face.
There is a long pause.
Then Urvashi speaks crisply. ‘Let him in.’
A few minutes later, an impassive manservant lets a visibly triumphant Randy Rax into the Khuranas’ tastefully done-up living room. Urvashi is seated on a wicker chaise lounge, dressed in her usual flowing white, Lahore-chic outfits.
‘Hello, Rakesh,’ she smiles pleasantly. ‘How have you been? Missing your friend?’
He stares at her, gulping unattractively. ‘Yes,’ he manages to say finally.
She gestures towards a comfortable couch. ‘Do sit down!
What will you drink? Or eat? Or both?’
He lowers himself awkwardly into the seat, throwing his crutches down beside him. ‘Coffee,’ he says hoarsely. ‘And biscuits.’ Then he specifies challengingly. ‘Jim-Jam biscuits.’
She gives a tinkling laugh. ‘Well, I’m not sure we have that exact brand, but we’ll organize some jammy cookies for you.’
She issues some instructions to the hovering manservant, then turns her full attention to Rax. ‘Now tell me, what is troubling you? Why have you made the long trip from Sohna Road to meet me?’
Rax executes a theatrical little double take. ‘You know where I live?’
‘Oh yes,’ Urvashi replies serenely. ‘But tell me what the problem is?’
Randy Rax struggles visibly to hang onto his obnoxiousness in the face of so much graciousness.
‘You’re the one with the problem,’ he manages to spit out, finally, coarsely. ‘Not me!’
Urvashi’s eyebrows rise. ‘How so?’
He grimaces oddly, eyes darting from here to there, looking at the various expensive objects d’art in the room, the discreetly flashing diamonds at her ears, throat and fingers, the huge lawn visible from the French windows.
‘It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. That’s from the Bible!’
‘That’s very wise. And true.’
‘It’s the Bible. Of course it’s wise and true! It’s the world’s biggest bestseller! Outsells Agatha Christie, J.K. Rowling and Lady Chatterley’s Lover – combined!’
‘I’m not surprised.’
He gives a low moan and starts to sway back and forth. ‘Where are my Jim-Jams?’
‘Coming,’ she says composedly. ‘You will enjoy them, you know, my chef is quite excellent.’ She smiles at him kindly, sympathetically.
He shivers visibly under her gaze. ‘You’re pretending to be nice.’
‘Why would I pretend? Tell me, why did you say that I have stopped loving you?’
His face gives an odd sort of spasm. ‘Vicky told me you’ve stopped donating to Badshahpur Children’s Village. How are they going to manage if you don’t provide for them?’
‘That’s not true,’ she says. ‘I’ve been giving them money for the last twenty years. Much before Father Victor Emmanuel’s time. Why would I stop now? Ah, here come your coffee and biscuits!’
Rax looks at the pretty tray, steaming coffee in spotless white china, a floral Wedgwood plate piled high with gorgeous raspberry jam tarts, and produces a sound which is half-giggle, half-snarl.
‘Those look like titties!’
‘Well, don’t hold their looks against them,’ she says humorously. ‘They taste really good – and that’s the main thing, isn’t it.’
She proffers the plate to him invitingly.
Rax takes a cookie warily. ‘Not laced with Pinko Hathni, are they?’
She gives an incredulous little laugh. ‘Why would I want to poison you?’
He bites into the cookie, then starts to rock back and forth again, his head cocked to one side, his eyes mischievous, and curiously birdlike.
In a thin mocking voice, he starts to sing.
‘You think, your secret’s safe,
You think you left no trace …’
You think that no one knows,
You’re smelling … like a rose …’
Chrysanthemum’s night range for men is beautifully designed. There is one navy-blue dressing gown with white piping, in particular, which has been hailed as a classic by all the fashion magazines. Unfortunately, when Mukesh Khurana wears it, he looks rather like an unappetizing extra from the Star Wars movies.
Thus attired, he emerges from his spacious Italian-marbled bathroom and smiles at his wife, reclining on the gorgeous Malaysian cane bed with a magazine.
‘Drink, Urvashi?’
She shakes her head, smilingly. ‘No, thanks. How was your workout?’
‘Excellent. That Thampi really is a very good trainer.’
‘I’m so glad.’
Her voice is a little subdued. Mukesh looks around.
‘How was your day?’
She puts away her magazine and slides lower under the covers. ‘Oh! Very uneventful. Nothing happened.’
He looks a little nonplussed. ‘So I’ll just have my drink alone then?’
‘Please do,’ she murmurs, slipping on an eye mask. ‘I have yoga at five … Good night.’
He stares down at her motionless figure for a while, then nods, tightens the cord of his dressing gown a little, and pads out into the living room. He is preparing his nightcap when the security guards buzz from the gate.
‘Sir, visitor.’
Mukesh peers into the security camera and recognizes the bulldoggy visage of Club Secretary Srivastava. Uttering a small exclamation of surprise, he presses the speak button.
‘Haan, send him in.’
A few moments later, a manservant ushers the old man in.
‘Evening, sir,’ the secretary says stiffly, hovering in the doorway.
‘Come, come, Srivastava,’ Mukesh says with slightly patronizing affability.
‘I need to speak to you urgently.’
‘Arrey, I was at the club only!’ Mukesh replies. ‘With Thampi – you could have come in there. Why to drive all this way?’
The old man reddens. ‘It’s a confidential matter, sir.’
Mukesh gestures towards a plush seat – the same one Randy Rax had occupied not long ago.
‘Please sit!’ He points to his glass. ‘Drink piyoge?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
An awkward silence ensues.
Clearly Srivastava is having starting trouble. Khurana sips his drink, and seeks about for something to say.
‘Toh, how’s the staff taken the discovery of the second dead body?’ he hazards finally.
Srivastava unfreezes.
‘Not very well, sir. The kitchen garden is right behind the office block, and quite a few of them have started saying the place is haunted.’
‘Bakwas!’ Khurana says roundly. ‘That body’s been pushing up beetroots there for the last three years and nobody breathed a word about hauntings, and now suddenly the area is infested with ghosts aur kya kya!’
Srivastava responds to this by lapsing back into an incommunicative silence.
Khurana stares at him mystified, then has another go at goading him into speech.
‘So Srivastava, why you’re changing sides? All this time you were supporting General Mehra. You even got me insulted me in front of the whole club on Tambola Sunday! Then why this sudden visit to the humble Khurana home?’
Srivastava presses his lips in a thin line. Then, his voice heavy with disapproval, he says, ‘General Mehra has … betrayed my trust, sir … I was sadly misled.’
‘Really?’ Mukesh leans forwards, his navy-blue robe spilling open a little to flash flesh nobody wants to see. ‘I thought you were a great fan of his!’
The bulldoggy old face starts to purple unattractively. ‘We have a tradition at the DTC sir, that every year during the Bumper Tambola, one line is always won by a proxy of the administrative staff, and all of us divide those winnings amongst ourselves.’
Mukki puts down his glass. ‘Kya, kya? You have tradition that what?’
With even greater stateliness, the old man repeats his little speech. ‘A tradition, sir, that every year during the tambola, one line – top, middle or bottom – is always won by a proxy of the administrative staff, and all of us divide those winnings amongst ourselves.’
‘A tradition of cheating and stealing then.’ Khurana looks triumphantly vindicated. ‘I knew it! Tum log rigging karte ho! You people are corrupted!’
The old man’s colour heightens. ‘It is a tradition devised by a president far greater than your wife can ever be, sir. To
compensate for the meagreness of our salaries and show how much we are valued by all members of the Club.’
‘Balls!’ Khurana breathes hard. ‘You buggers are well-paid enough. You have job security. Many of you are on the take for all sorts of things. You’ve no reason to rig the tambola and pocket one large prize every year except plain greed. How do you do it anyway?’
‘It’s a time-honoured system,’ Srivastava explains with dignity. ‘I select a particular ticket, abstract the five numbers printed on it from the ninety-nine inside the wire-frame drum, and slip them up my sleeve.’
‘So that’s why you’ve always resisted an upgrade to an electronic system. I thought you read out the numbers simply because you fancied the sound of your own voice.’
Srivastava ignores this snide remark. ‘Then, during the tambola, I let one ball slide down from my sleeve every now and then, and announce it. A family member of one of the admin staff is in the audience with the selected ticket, and once all five numbers have been called, he claims it.’
‘Bada fine-tuned system lagta hai,’ Mukesh says sourly. ‘Can I ask how the winnings are divided?’
‘According to years of service,’ the secretary replies smoothly. ‘With the longest serving employees getting the most, and the newest the least.’
‘So you oldies get the makkhan-malai.’ Mukesh snorts, unimpressed. ‘So what happened this year?’ Did one of the youngsters, unhappy with his meagre share, go bleating about this grand tradition to somebody. Whom?’
‘General Mehra,’ Srivastava admits sulkily. ‘He came to me and said he had heard of our er … little system, but was quite happy to turn a deaf ear to it – he has quite a sense of humour, General Mehra! If he became president. He said, however, that Mrs Urvashi Khurana was not similarly hearing impaired. When I pointed that she would never find out about the system, he told me that it would be his duty to inform her of this highly irregular practice if she won.’
‘He threatened you.’ Mukesh laughs coarsely. ‘Serves you right.’
Club You to Death Page 25
