by Anil Menon
‘No, that’s not necessary. We’re here to locate a missing item from Dhasal-ji’s apartment.’ I sat, leaned back against the sofa, glanced at Rathod. He walked over to peer at the framed pictures on the wall. Mystifyingly, he ran an index finger over some of their rims.
‘Durga-ji gave me the painting,’ cried Shabari, looking about her as if the proof lay on the floor. ‘Two years ago! I told him I liked the boy’s rosy cheeks, and he said, then you can admire it at your leisure. I swear it, sir-ji!’
I reassured her she wasn’t suspected of stealing anything, least of all a painting. Perhaps she could start by describing her typical working day.
Yes, of course. She arrived around nine each morning. Durga-ji was very understanding if she was late every now and then. He was a good cook; he didn’t need any help in preparing his meals. She sorted his correspondence, kept track of his appointments, handled calls. She also cleaned Dhasal’s house three times a week, usually on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Dusted, swept, mopped the floors. The bathrooms were cleaned every day.
I was very surprised. Shabari had to be using the term loosely. Why hadn’t he hired a real maid, I asked.
‘Why should he when I was there? I was only a servant for Gujralsahib, but Durga-ji made me much more than a servant, so I refused to let anyone else serve him. I have never cleaned anyone’s bathrooms, except his.’
Shabari daubed at her eyes. I glanced at my hands, gave her a second to recover. Who was Gujral-sahib? And how had a maidservant become a personal assistant?
She gave me a puzzled look. Darting eyes, her striking pupils as black as jamun fruits.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said encouragingly.
‘Sir-ji, don’t you remember? You were the police officer in charge at the Chandni Chowk station. You had called the Mahila Adhikhar people. You listened and believed my story. Because of you the case was dropped.’
‘What case?’ Then I gestured for her to wait. I told Sudhir to go to the kitchen. It would be quieter. His mother and I wanted to talk. When he’d gathered his books and reluctantly left, more on account of his mother’s silent nod than any fear of me, I looked at Shabari inquiringly.
Looking as if she regretted ever bringing up the matter, Shabari confessed she’d been arrested over a decade ago. It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been a simple girl from UP who’d landed in Delhi looking for a job. New city, very frightening. Someone in the bus had mentioned this ladies’ hostel in the Chandni Chowk area. Very cheap, safe. She had gotten a room at the hostel and gone straight to bed without even unpacking first. In the middle of the night, the place had been raided by the police and she’d found herself in a most unfortunate pickle. I had to believe her, please sir-ji, she was completely innocent.
Apparently, I had helped her out. I had no memory of the incident. True, I had spent a few weeks in Chandni Chowk. It had been part of my civil service training. The idea, I believe, had been to give us recruits a taste of real life. I’d handled dozens of civil and criminal cases, the usual farrago of atrocities.
The Mahila people, Shabari continued, had got her a job with Gujral-sahib, a labour leader. Durga-ji used to visit his house in GK-II. When Gujral-sahib had died in 2000, she’d begun to work for Durga-ji. My kindness had saved her. She had often prayed—
‘Life is all about helping one another,’ I interrupted, a little more roughly than was necessary. I reached into my briefcase, withdrew the copy of the letter. Forty-five pages. I leaned across and handed it to her. Since she had handled his correspondence, had she ever seen a similar sheaf in a Lokshakti courier envelope? A few weeks ago? At most, three?
Shabari flipped through the pages, then said timidly that she didn’t remember receiving the letter, but if I said it had been sent, then surely, she must have received it. The only question was when. Surely in the last few weeks, but then she said she couldn’t be sure because Durga-ji got a lot of mail. A lot. It wasn’t easy to remember everything that flitted through her hands. Very often she just gave him a clutch to deal with at a time. People sent him stuff all the time, sometimes multiple copies even. Each morning, she sorted the day’s correspondence into Durga-ji’s IN basket. He liked reading every piece of mail, often working late into the night, writing replies, attaching them, and finally placing the mail in the OUT basket. Her job included mailing the letters, stocking the right-sized envelopes, reminding him of pending mail, that sort of thing, and she simply couldn’t remember any of those actions in regard to this letter. Perhaps the post office… She was very sorry. Shabari returned the pages to me.
I didn’t believe her. She was lying.
I gestured with my head to Rathod. He got up with gusto and disappeared into the intimate interior of the house. Shabari’s eyes darted in the direction of her sanctum, her thumb disappeared deeper into her fist. I imagined Tanaz forced to endure such a violation. Her jewellery inspected, her bras groped, her panties fingered.
‘Wait! Can I see the pages again, sir-ji?’ Shabari took the sheaf from me and began mouthing the words aloud. ‘My dar-ling chi-kli, it is ra—’
‘Chakli,’ I said shortly. ‘My darling chakli, it’s raining here and I’m thinking perhaps the Earth is missing someone too. There’s no need to read the whole letter.’
Her eyes bugged out, she jumped to her feet in excitement. Yes. Yes! Now she remembered.
‘Chakli! Sparrow in Gujarati, no? Now I have memory.’ Shabari had decided to try English on me. ‘Sir-ji, that rascal Dodda Gowda stolen your letter, I’m hundred percent sure. Sorry sir-ji, my English is still very improving, that is why, some difficulty.’
‘Calm down, Shabari,’ I said, in Hindi. ‘Who’s Dodda Gowda and where is the letter?’
Shabari said she’d only read the first line, didn’t really understand it and since it was from the Lokshakti, she’d automatically placed it on top of Dhasal’s IN pile.
I grunted. Go on. Who was Gowda? Why was she sure he’d taken the letter?
Gowda was a film director, producer and every rat in between. Durga-ji had liked Gowda, respected him; she had never understood why. Gowda came over every now and then. He was always ducking some summons or the Income tax or his many ex-wives. A few weeks before Durga-ji got—hurt—he had come wanting to spend the weekend. At such times, Durga-ji let her leave earlier or take the weekend off. She had gone to her boss’s office to ask if he wanted anything done before she left, and Durga-ji had held up my letter and asked when it had been delivered. The day before, she’d replied. Durga-ji then gave the letter to Gowda, saying: Dodda, here’s a pair of lovebirds slain by time’s arrow. Perhaps he’ll like our movie.
‘What happened next?’ I asked, casually.
‘They joked and laughed, sir-ji.’
‘Laughed?’
‘Yes sir-ji. Durga-ji said, Gowda, doesn’t this joker realize his wife wants to hear these words, not read them?’ She smiled timidly, and my face must have frightened her, because the smile disappeared. ‘Gowda took the letter sir-ji, but I don’t remember him giving it back. I’m sure he stole it. He stole it.’
Shabari sat down again, trembling with relief. A scapegoat had been found; she was safe. She absentmindedly smoothed the pages of the letter. The woman seemed to have a need to nurture. On the other hand: the demure stillness, the eye-contact held for a fraction longer than necessary, the way she now sat with her chest thrust out, ever so slightly. She began to ramble. Gowda was straight from the gutter. Durga-ji had asked him to get the Omnipod System for Sudhir—case, pods, Glycogen kit, software—from America and because of that she’d been grateful. Initially. Later, she began to avoid him. She hadn’t liked his manner. He was always pestering her to do a role in his movies. He had only one thing on his mind, that was obvious. Always staring, rubbing, not decent at all, bringing gifts she didn’t want. She had complained to Durga-ji about him, but for some reason, Durga-ji was very fond of the cockroach and he told her to ignore it.
> ‘One minute, sir-ji.’ Shabari again jumped up, hurried to the cabinet, brought out a case and opened it with over-cooperative fingers. Shabari held out the Omnipod’s case by its open mouth. ‘This is the Omnipod. Please check it if you like. Please see. This is what Dodda Gowda brought Sudhir from America.’ I waved it aside, irritated. What was I, an idol to be appeased with evidence?
‘How long did they know each other? Dhasal and Gowda?’
‘From the days they made the movie together.’
‘What movie?’
‘Ajaya,’ she replied, sounding surprised that I wasn’t omniscient. I stared at her. She repeated the name, thinking I hadn’t heard, and I thought: Durga Dhasal made a documentary based on my book!
But as she described the circumstances, my self-congratulatary feeling dissolved. Only the names were the same. Dhasal’s Ajaya was an honest-to-god Hindi movie. His movie had been made ten or twelve years ago. Durga had acted in the lead role. Mir Alam Mir and Saya had been part of the project as well. The story was about a man of principle who discovers his wife had cheated on him. Past tense.
In other words, Effi Briest. As I tried to wrap my head around the image of a fat, hairy Dhasal cavorting around trees, Rathod returned from the bedroom. Instantly, the tension in the room increased ten fold as if his presence now made certain unthinkable events feasible. Shabari’s body acquired an alert rigidity. She cast her eyes down, but I wasn’t fooled.
Had she seen the movie, I asked. Rathod seated himself heavily in a chair just behind her.
‘Yes sir-ji. The movie was never released; even with Saya-ji in it, no distributor wanted it. Sometimes Gowda and Durga-ji quarrelled about the movie. Durga-ji was a heart patient but Gowda didn’t care. I have the CDs! If you want it, I have the CDs.’
Without waiting for my answer, she jumped up, went to the cabinet and extracted a CD wallet. She opened the zip—it stuck—she tugged, frantically. The wallet splayed open; fortunately the CDs didn’t fall out. Once again, she held out an offering.
I took the wallet from her. I had already decided I would tell the General about Dodda Gowda. The movie sounded like a scandal waiting to happen. It would also give me cover to extend my search. Still, I chafed at having to continue with my quest, and the black feeling slowly coiled into a helpless rage.
‘Sir-ji,’ asked Rathod, ‘should I question her?’
I was fairly certain Shabari had told me the entire truth about the letter. Rathod could help me become certain. Unbidden, Sudhir had darted back into the room, sat next to his mother. I studied the pair. She seemed frightened. No, she was terrified. She opened her mouth but the disorder in her head wouldn’t let her speak. Shabari lifted her hands, folded them in a namaste.
She shamed me, shamed her beloved Durga. Couldn’t she see I wasn’t that kind of man? I got up, handed Shabari my business card.
‘You’re a good mother, a good woman. I can see that. This letter that Gowda took, it wasn’t his to take. I want it back. Dodda Gowda will call you. You know he will. Agree to a meeting. Remember all the times Gowda abused Durga-ji’s hospitality, took advantage of your silence. Agree to meet him and we’ll do the rest. You’ll be doing all womankind a service. Now, please forgive us for the inconvenience we have caused. We are only doing our duty.’
We would tap her phone of course. But people these days watched too much crime TV; they knew all the policeman’s tricks. It would be easier with her cooperation. It occurred to me I had carried this thing too far. I had my manuscript. Like the movie, it would not be distributed. Why was I wasting my time trying to determine what, if anything, Dhasal had thought of it? Yet I knew I would not stop. Later, as I walked back to the jeep with Rathod, he summarized his findings: ‘Sexy bitch, no sir-ji? Very housewifely. I’m sorry I found nothing.’
‘She’s innocent, that’s why.’ I told him we had to find Dodda Gowda, almost certainly the man behind the pornos. ‘Gowda will call her again, I’m certain of it. He won’t be able to resist trying his luck with her now that Dhasal is not around. We must be ready.’
‘Yes, sir-ji.’ Rathod heaved into the driver’s seat. Then he sat still, thinking. ‘Now I know why.’
‘Know what?’
‘Those DVDs. The sluts Gowda likes, there’s a reason. His stick rises for women who look like Indian actresses. Kinzie Kenner, Mia Rose, Risa Murakami, Kaci Starr, Nina Rosales, Flower Tucci, Tabatha Cash. They’re all lookalikes. This secretary, she looks like Saya. Now Gowda wants to fuck Saya also.’ He laughed appreciatively.
‘That is interesting,’ I said, after some reflection. ‘I was misled by her black eyes. Saya’s eyes are a different colour.’
‘All the same in the dark.’ Rathod was still thrilled with himself. ‘Dirty bastard. We will find him, sir-ji. We have a saying in Rajasthan: a man who has an erection shouldn’t hide himself in a sand dune.’
‘Then you’d better keep an eye out for erections, Rathod. But I want Dodda with or without an erection. He’ll try to contact her; we should be ready.’
‘Is this all for a letter, sir-ji?’
‘No, not just for a letter. Also because of a laugh.’ I eased my briefcase onto the floor. ‘Do you believe in accidents, Rathod?’
‘No sir-ji, everything happens for a reason.’
‘Exactly. Or for none. Good man.’ I glanced at my Watson, pleased. ‘Pukka detective’s spirit.’
#
‘I don’t know Sawai,’ said Kannagi. ‘I haven’t read Mir’s novel yet. I totally forgot about it.’
Sawai had called to say Mir was in Delhi, that he had invited the two of them to join him for a relaxing weekend at his spacious South Delhi farmhouse and that Mir was aching for khapat and kababs. Mir would send his driver around four in the evening. They didn’t have to stay the weekend—though Mir of course hoped they would—but dinner with him was a must. Sawai launched into a lengthy rebuttal of various anticipated objections. She’d already decided to accept but she let Sawai believe he was persuading her into accepting.
‘Don’t worry about the novel,’ said Sawai. ‘Just read the first chapter and last chapter.’
‘Does he have wireless?’ she inquired.
‘It’s a quiet romantic weekend. Why do you need wireless?’
‘Don’t forget to bring condoms or I’ll need a separate bed too.’
The acceptance meant she would have to read Mir’s novel. It was a small price to pay for a nice weekend. Kannagi started work on a small Perl program that would take her calendar and her expected reading speed, and then optimally allocate slices of her available time to various chapters. It made sense to wrap the program into an app, which meant adding some features, giving it a decent interface, blah blah, and by the time she got Sawai’s SMS saying that he’d arrived and was waiting outside, she’d have finished the program, and it correctly predicted that she, Kannagi, had no time left whatsoever to read the novel.
As she left the apartment building, the driver of a Tata Indigo with darkened windows jumped out and opened the door for her. She lobbed her knapsack in, hitting Sawai, already ensconced in the back. She slid in, kissed him. He didn’t have to say anything; his bugged-out peepers were a couple of Shakespeares.
Sawai debated with the driver about the best way to get to Mir’s place. He cracked jokes, made the driver laugh. For Sawai it wasn’t enough that people would do what he wanted. It was also necessary that they want to do it. When Sawai was done flirting with the driver, he turned to her.
‘How’s my queen?’
‘Very happy.’ She breathed deeply, sniffing him all over like an animal until he laughed. That was for the eye-sex earlier but Sawai just smelled wonderful too. ‘Isn’t life awesome?’
‘Yes. With you.’ Sawai drew her closer. ‘I’m thinking we should get married.’
‘I’m thinking you need your head examined.’
‘We’re totally wrong for each other. I’m a mistake for you. You’re a mistake for me. Two negatives is a pos
itive, am I right? Let us cancel our mistakes, I’m thinking.’
‘What is Mir Alam Mir doing in Delhi?’
He wagged his finger at her. ‘Okay, change the topic this time. Later, it will be more difficult. What is Mir Alam Mir doing? He’s come to comfort the woman he loves. Saya now has to spend much of her time in Delhi. Rumour is Dorabjee is fucking her. Saya has no choice, Mir-ji has no choice. They’re both wrong. There is always a choice.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘They could leave India. They could kill themselves. They could bleed for what they believe. Or they can live in this sad movie they’ve made for themselves. You see, there’s always a choice.’
‘You are right,’ she said, after some thought.
He smiled. ‘Chalo, I have won one argument at least.’ Then his expression turned serious. ‘But this is the problem. We’re fatalistic. My Aayi wanted to go to college. Her father didn’t think it was necessary. All her life, she’s had this regret, I couldn’t go to college, I couldn’t go to college. So I told her, Aayi, I’ll pay for it. I’ll get you the admission. I’ll sit with you in the classroom. No one will laugh, guaranteed.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. She doesn’t want to accept she’s partly responsible for the way her life turned out. It’s her father’s fault. It’s the government’s fault. It’s her fate’s fault. That is our country’s mentality.’
‘You’re wrong. People have mentalities, not countries. And even with people, it’s usually the situation. Research shows—’ ‘That’s the American mentality. You’re an American, so you don’t understand how deep this fatalism sickness is rooted in us.’
‘A, I’m not an American and B, you’re underestimating how long it takes for things to change. Things are changing for the better in India. Okay, the Lokshakti is a giant-ass step backwards but we’ll get rid of them sooner or later. Every development index you can think of—literacy, infant mortality, crime—its all good news. Don’t go by anecdotes, personal feelings or stupid ideas like mentalities. Reality is too big for all that. You have to look at statistical trends. Did you check out the Hans Rosling link I sent you?’
