The Miss India Murders

by Gauri Sinh

  There were more shocks to follow. Naïve as we were, and deeply affected by what had happened to one of the brightest stars among us, we had not actually focused on the nature of the crime. And it was revealed to us that evening itself, in the form and voice of Additional Commissioner of Police, Crime, Dipankar Mhatre.

  ‘You are all requested not to leave this room,’ he told us, not wasting words as we gathered in the large hall of the hotel hosting the pageant, a little away from the stage we had been practising on, which was out in the adjoining open air auditorium.

  We had no clue then how much attention this tragedy was being given by the powers that be. Now, in a different place, and so much older, I can say that few first-time transgressions generate the attention of the Addl.CP of the Crime Branch’s personal involvement, that too with such immediacy.

  We only knew that our sugar candy world had split at the seams. And this man before us, curt and business-like, and his equally grim faced constables, were all that stood between us and cruel reality. With his coming, we keenly sensed, I think, that dark and menacing intangibility that hovered, just over the periphery of our comprehension.

  As we are ensconced in a world, a contest, driven primarily by appearance, let me describe Mhatre here. Browned by the sun, severe-looking, and of average height (which means most of the contestants towered above him, though not me) Mhatre looked to in his mid-thirties. Salt-and-pepper hair cut close, military style. Gaunt, all planes and angles his face, sharper seeming than it was because of the severity in his tone. We stared at him, silent as he continued.

  ‘Given what we have learned, this is a murder that could have been committed by anyone.’ He had a knack for understatement, spoke wonderfully good English, but there was only one person other than me who understood his words clearly. Understood the unsaid.

  ‘He means we are all suspects,’ Parvati’s voice chimed out, bell-like and precise in that sepulchral atmosphere. There was a terrific sucking in of collective air, nobody knew quite what to do. There was no wailing or screaming or sobbing, even in protest this time—everybody was utterly spent, all cried out just a while before. There was no more shock left to express.

  We were ostensibly such innocents; sheltered, protected, chaperoned everywhere by minders throughout the contest, our average ages not crossing twenty-three. It didn’t occur to many of us, that despite the enormity of the crime and the public, audacious way it had been carried out, that we too had played a part in the gruesome narrative of Lajjo’s demise. Having all been on stage when Lajjo walked her final walk—we were all suspects now.

  There was more to this. Given the bizarre nature of this ghastly occurrence, there was also a distinct possibility that the contest itself might be cancelled. This, I think, was what was uppermost on our minds then, besides poor Lajjo’s horrific demise. But with lightening quickness, the part about the cancellation was put to rest immediately by Eye India.

  The pageant it seemed, was too big, too overreaching in both commercial and emotional aspects, not just in our minds and ambitions, but in the imagination of the country at large. How could there not be a Miss India contest that year?

  No, calls had already been made at the highest levels—the Eye India organizers, grim-mannered and sombre, were obdurate. The show must go on. The police had to figure out the damage, nab the perpetrator, right this before it spun out of control. There was no other way.

  Mhatre turned to Parvati, and her clear gaze met his levelly. ‘Miss, please state your name. And then, if you could tell us exactly what happened, in your words, please?’Parvati’s eyes held his. Steadfastly, she introduced herself, then began recounting all that had happened that morning.

  Barely thirty minutes had passed between the macabre turn of events and the police’s arrival on the premises, a remarkably quick response time. We were all in gowns of course, not the ones we would be wearing at the finale, but close enough so we could get our walks right. How could any of us have known as we dressed for this rehearsal what was to happen? That we would be seated here, nervy and tear spent in front of the inscrutable, saturnine Mr Mhatre before the day was out?

  Listening to Parvati, voice firm, gaze straight, I couldn’t help but feel a genuine stab of admiration. How composed she appeared, speaking so clearly, as if for us all, yet with respect for poor dead Lajjo. The reserved, if not ugly duckling, turned into a sanguine swan by devastating, unalterable circumstance. ‘How did I not notice you before, Ms Samant?’ I thought to myself. ‘You are a person worth getting to know …’

  Addl.CP Mhatre was just getting started. It was initially conveyed to Avi that the police would want to speak to me first. But Parvati’s out of turn outburst had tweaked the proceedings. Once she was done, he requested we speak to him individually. His men were already vetting the scene of crime. The blade, as murder weapon, had been sealed, on its way to Forensics by now, to be dusted for fingerprints. Record time for an investigation of this nature, but we didn’t know that then either.

  Mhatre went into a corner room, adjacent to the hall we were congregated in. We were to go in one by one to narrate our version of that morning. And answer any other questions the Addl.CP might choose to ask.

  ‘I want to get it over with,’ stated Myra, the girl who had lost control at the sight of Lajjo’s blood earlier on. Even though the police had specifically asked for me to go in, she wanted to be first so she could go lie down. The police officer asked for her name, for the record. To us, meanwhile, Myra didn’t have a last name. Here’s why.

  Though we were all winners of regional contests, or representatives of the smaller states, once we were at this level i.e. the national competition, we dropped our regional titles. It was deemed politically incorrect that year to highlight our regional origins, even our religion for that matter.

  There was a grim reason for this, and it had to do with events beyond the cossetted reality of our contest. This was the 1995 pageant, barely a couple of years post the 1992-early 1993 Mumbai communal riots. The resulting army lockdown over the city, followed by the March 1993 bomb blasts were still fresh in people’s minds circa 1995. As a safeguard, even in a beauty contest with no evident political agenda, the CEO of Eye India that year had decreed that the contestants be known only by their first names. Nothing would give away what religion we practised, not even the region we represented. Thus the sashes we would wear through-out the contest as identification for judges marking us, only revealed our birth name—no surname. And our contest number, naturally.

  Recounting what happened, I find it necessary now to give certain full names—of those who were anyway established on the fashion circuit, like Lajjo or Avi or I, or those who mattered to the story, like Addl.CP Mhatre, or simply those I got to know better, like Parvati.

  Also, in 1995, India had fewer states than it does now. At the regional-level pre-contests, some states and union territories had been clubbed together into areas, with an overall winner selected. So despite the actual number of states and territories, the total number of contestants on this, the national stage stood at twenty-one and now an even twenty without Lajjo. Twenty bewildered beauty contest hopefuls, each wishing this nightmare wasn’t real.

  Myra was granted leave to speak first. The rest of the girls, silent till now, burst into nervous twitter once the Addl.CP vacated the hall and she shut the door behind her, following him and his small unit in.

  ‘My God, what’ll happen now?’ one of the gathered contestants, Samantha, tittered. Breathless seeming, because she spoke all in a rush.

  ‘Everyone’s doing what is necessary,’ Parvati’s dry tone in sharp contrast to Samantha’s, lowered the intensity in the room a notch. ‘We just need to tell them all we know.’

  ‘But they’re saying we’re all suspects,’ Anuradha, a fair girl with really long hair chimed in worriedly.

  ‘They think one of us killed Lajjo!’ Nina, one of the girls who had fainted earlier, whispered. ‘Why would we? Who could think of d
oing such a thing?’ She looked at each of us in turn, her eyes suddenly fearful as the true import of what she had just uttered hit her. ‘They’re saying they think one of us could be a murderer …’

  3

  Akruti

  Before long, Myra was out. Our nerves were so strained we didn’t know if she was questioned by the police for a long time or not. It was my turn to meet the dour Mr Mhatre.

  ‘Ms Rai,’ he addressed me as I stepped into the room. It must have been a mini conference room of some sort, either that or he had requested the hotel to add the table and chairs that were now facing me. Addl.CP Mhatre gestured to me to sit down. He sat behind the table, his officers behind him, like a wall. They had seemed so many when they arrived, but now, in the room itself, there were four, apart from Mhatre. The rest had obviously fanned out on the premises, possibly collecting statements or evidence.

  I sat where he indicated. He didn’t ask for my name, as he had of Parvati earlier. Obviously, given my celebrity status, it wasn’t necessary. ‘You knew the victim well?’ was his first question.

  ‘Lajjo used to model with me, so I suppose I knew her longer than the others,’ I acquiesced. ‘Better? I don’t know. We were the only two professional models in this contest, but we weren’t friendly.’

  ‘She was your rival, professionally, I take it,’ Mhatre probed. I was wrung out by all that had occurred, though the time lapse between occurrence and interrogation hadn’t been long drawn out at all. But I knew I had to keep my head, not break down and babble, out of stupid panic, or shock, or just abject emotional fatigue.

  ‘Professionally? I don’t think so. As you know, though I am a Mumbai girl, I’m well established in fashion circles,’ I said more coolly than I felt. For good measure, I smiled a cursory half-smile at his team. In the few and far between moments I had interacted with police people—at a traffic signal, at a parking space—I had always got a gratifying response at flashing my smile. Most knew me from television or ads and were vocal in expressing admiration, all else aside.

  But Mhatre and his team remained unimpressed with my effort to charm them, this I realised straightaway. Their faces stayed inscrutable. The Crime Branch, as is the sobering nature of their job, tend to ignore surface appearances. Or at least, this team did. Who I was didn’t matter. What I might have done most certainly did.

  I decided to be as honest as I possibly could, with all the forthrightness of my character that had served me well thus far. ‘Addl.CP Mhatre? If you’re asking me whether I disliked Lajjo, the answer is no. I didn’t know her well enough. She wasn’t as successful as me, you know that already, I’m sure. If you’re asking whether I was afraid she would win the crown over me, I’d say sure, as any contestant would be. A healthy anxiety, because she was beautiful and confident and had experience catwalking in front of actual audiences, unlike the rest. If you’re asking whether I have reason to hate her or hurt her for that, the answer is no, because it isn’t something a sane person, which I definitely am, would think of doing. I happen to believe competition, especially from a worthy rival, makes any victory sweeter. I have great faith in my own abilities, and you will know, from my career so far, this has served me well. So if you’re asking if I killed her, the answer, Addl.CP Mhatre is absolutely not.’

  For the first time in this awful day, I saw a glimmer of what looked like the ghost of a smile appear on Mhatre’s face, but it was replaced almost instantly by the familiar stony appearance.

  ‘Where were you exactly? Can you draw a map for me, please? And describe precisely what you saw. Take your time, give me any detail, anything you felt was different or amiss as well.’

  But after my monologue, I sensed there was a subtle change in the atmosphere in the room. This astute team of sleuths had made a judgement call, no doubt based on their extensive experience. They said nothing, showed nothing. But long hours of working with the hyper-perceptive Avi had taught me a little about picking up nuances, recognizing the hidden in the unsaid. I understood there and then, that somehow, though it wasn’t ever voiced or even evident in any tangible manner—I was not really a strong suspect in their minds.

  ‘I had just finished posing at the top of the ramp, in fashion terminology it is called head ramp,’ I began, taking his pencil and drawing a rough sketch of all our positions as I spoke. ‘I was waiting for Lajjo to join me. The rest of the girls were on either side of ramp, also waiting. Lajjo was at base ramp and walking towards me.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual in that?’ Mhatre asked.

  ‘No, it was all part of the finale sequence, as Avi had choreographed it. But …’ I paused. ‘I noticed two things.’ I had suddenly remembered my surprise at Lajjo’s behaviour. ‘Lajjo had started walking towards me before the music began. Her cue was the music starting, she had never pre-empted it before. None of us overstep Avi’s choreography. He has a temper, demands perfection. And Lajjo was too much of a professional to defy him at any point. I remember thinking it was strange she had started walking so early. In fact, when Avi called the cue over the mic, she was already at midpoint on ramp. She never made mistakes, unless she did it on purpose this time.’

  ‘I see,’ Mhatre was looking at me intently. ‘And do you think there might have been a reason for her commencing early?’

  I drew a deep breath. Better to come clean here, better he heard it from me than others. No doubt he would be told, anyway. ‘I had not entered the sequence from where I was supposed to,’ I addressed him. ‘I was experimenting. As Avi had too, by changing the track abruptly just today, for that very scene. I was to enter from the wings after Lajjo, as at every rehearsal. But I didn’t—I entered from the audience, using the stairs connecting the front seating to ramp. It was unplanned, I did it on the spur of the moment, on whim. Perhaps Lajjo might have felt pressured to up her game too? Maybe she started earlier than her cue thinking she too would experiment? But there was a difference—I had already alerted Avi just seconds before I entered, asked him to watch me as I changed the flow of his choreography. Lajjo took the decision without his knowledge. She isn’t as senior in the fraternity as I am, and the finale was a vital sequence. I knew then, I’m sure the others did too, that it would not be taken well. Besides, something tells me there’s more to it. She was not an impulsive person, and she always wanted to please Avi. This was not the way, we all knew it. It was a strange thing to do.’

  Mhatre’s eyes told me that he was paying very close attention. So was his team.

  ‘You said there was a second thing?’ He continued.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Lajjo is very graceful on stage. But there was a moment this time that she faltered in her walk. I was at a distance, way up the long ramp, but I still saw her stumble. Could’ve been nothing, it happens to the best of us. But Lajjo had never ever tripped during rehearsal before.’

  ‘When was this?’ Mhatre wanted to know. ‘And could you also write down the names of all the girls and where exactly each one was standing, please? Also, where exactly did she stumble? Who was standing next to her when she did?’

  ‘We’ve been practising so long I could give you each girl’s placement in a heartbeat. But I cannot tell you exactly where Lajjo stumbled,’ I told him. ‘The lights had dimmed by then, we only saw Lajjo. She was in the spot, you see. And when that happens, you tend to see only the person the spot is on, even if the others aren’t always hidden on the sides.’

  ‘Did she stumble again, or only once?’ Mhatre persisted.

  ‘I saw it happen once, roughly as she neared midpoint of ramp,’ I said. ‘After that, after she reached midway, the choreography changed for me. I had to turn to face the audience rather than the stage and the girls on ramp. With my back to them, I had to wait for Lajjo to reach me; sense her rather than see her. So I couldn’t tell if she stumbled again, because I didn’t see. But yes, her steps were not the same as at every rehearsal. I did notice that.’ I added sombrely.

  Suddenly I remembered the lone red light, b
linking as I waited for Lajjo to join me.

  ‘But the camera would tell you all this better,’ I told Mhatre. He leaped at the opening, as I had known he would.

  ‘What camera?’ he asked sharply. A low buzz was suddenly audible among his team as well, so far silent. No one had bothered to inform them about the lone camera recording the rehearsal.

  I enlightened him and he immediately, curtly, requested two men to go secure the recordings.

  ‘When did she fall?’ Mhatre continued, laser-attentive, after his men had left to search for the camera. Maybe he realized then, that my powers of observation and of retention were not ordinary. Avi, as star choreographer, was familiar with this ability of mine, used to reserve the most complicated ramp sequences for me alone, knowing I would come through, and magnificently so. Addl.CP Mhatre was just waking up to the fact that the fashion celebrity in front of him had more to her credit and character than mere outward appearances.

  ‘When I turned to face her,’ I said, utterly weary now, but determined to appear otherwise. I would not show my mind numbing exhaustion to this impassive stranger, my pride would not allow for it. ‘According to Avi’s choreography we both had to do a double turn—she, as she approached from stage, and me turning from the audience. Upon finishing, we would end up standing shoulder to shoulder facing the audience and begin peeling off on opposite sides of ramp for the final bow, all the others following us. She was to pirouette with me, but when I turned, I found her standing still, facing me. Her expression was vacant, as if she wasn’t really present. The front of her gown looked damp, I thought she was sweating under the lights. Then she toppled onto me, and I caught her. And I realized it was actually blood, the gown’s wine colour masking the red …’