The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

by Vaseem Khan

As the fan whirred lazily above him, he heard a gecko slither across the wall, and the rasp of a corncrake drifting in from the fields. Sleep stole over him, even as he wondered what the following day would bring.

  RANSOM EXCHANGE AT THE MADH FORT

  It took Chopra almost two hours to drive to the Madh Fort.

  The fort was situated on the western flank of the city, on the southern tip of the coastal region known as Madh Island. To get there Chopra had to drive all the way up to Kandivali, circling around the Malad creek, and then back down again to the bottom of the promontory.

  At this time of night the area was deserted, the fishing boats that trawled the Arabian Sea beneath the fort’s sombre gaze beached, their pilots retired to the cluster of nearby villages.

  In the rear of the van Ganesha peered out to the east where the lights of Juhu Beach—with its Ferris wheels, ice-candy stalls, horse-buggy rides, acrobats, and courting couples—shone brightly a few kilometres away across the open water.

  Chopra parked beneath the fort’s imposing stone walls, then let Ganesha out.

  The little elephant stood in the darkness, craning his head up at the towering edifice. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea and ruffled the short hairs on the top of his skull.

  Chopra checked his watch. It was 11:50 p.m.

  Clutching the flight bags he strode briskly towards the nearest bastion. His instincts told him the kidnappers would be up on the fort’s ramparts.

  Worn stone steps led upwards.

  Ganesha hesitated momentarily, one foot on the bottommost step, peering up into the darkness. Then he clumsily followed his guardian.

  They emerged into a rectangular courtyard at the fort’s northern tip.

  Chopra squinted into the moonlit gloom, but could see nothing. The fort was laid out oddly, a seven-sided polygon with bastions at each corner, and a larger, circular bastion at the very centre. The walls were crumbling, broken at regular intervals, and threaded with vegetation.

  He headed towards the fort’s southern end.

  They moved across the courtyard, skirting around a deep rectangular water tank and a row of eerie doorways leading into stone chambers in which, it was rumoured, the ghosts of ancient Portuguese soldiers still prowled.

  They picked their way through the central bastion and emerged into a smaller courtyard at the southern tip.

  As they entered the space, a dazzling beam of light erupted from the darkness ahead, blinding them.

  “That’s far enough.”

  The voice was deep and rasping and instantly arrested Chopra in his tracks, Ganesha stumbling to a halt behind him. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out the figure holding the high-powered torch. A man, tall, with a slight stoop, and wearing a Muslim skullcap. He could make out a beard, but the face was wreathed in shadow.

  “I told Bijli Verma to come alone.”

  “I am alone,” confirmed Chopra.

  “Then what is that behind you? A ghost?”

  “This is my elephant. He goes everywhere with me.”

  The man hesitated, momentarily derailed from the script that he had prepared.

  “Why do you have an elephant?” he asked, his voice tinged with incredulity.

  “Is that relevant?”

  The kidnapper shook himself back to the matter at hand. “Is the money in the bags?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put them down and step back.”

  “Where is Vicky?”

  “I said put the bags down.”

  “No Vicky, no money,” said Chopra firmly. “That was the deal.”

  “When I am safely away from here, I will call Bijli Verma and tell her where to find him.”

  “No deal.”

  “You’re in no position to bargain,” said the man. His other hand rose up and Chopra saw that it held a gun. Fear brushed the walls of his heart, the heart that even now was thundering inside his chest. Once again he heard Poppy’s voice, admonishing him for his recklessness. How did a man with a heart condition keep ending up in these situations? she was saying.

  Chopra was beginning to wonder this himself.

  He willed himself to calm, remembering that he had taken the precaution of bringing along his own revolver, tucked into the back of his trousers. He always carried it with him in the van, but hoped never to have to use it since becoming a private detective. Now he weighed the risk of going for his gun.

  “I made Bijli Verma a promise,” he said finally. “I cannot return without her son.”

  The kidnapper did not reply, but instead moved forwards, lowering the torch and revealing himself fully. Chopra noted the man’s grave, dark face, the expression of determination. So this was the man who had entered the Andheri Sports Stadium and nonchalantly walked out with Vicky Verma bundled inside a costume chest.

  The elusive Ali.

  “You are a stubborn man,” rasped Ali, finally.

  “My name is Chopra. I used to be a policeman. Now I help people like Bijli Verma. She just wants her son back safe and sound. Is Vicky alive?”

  A silence unspooled in the darkness. “Yes,” said Ali finally. “Though he is a great deal less arrogant these days.” He laughed grimly.

  “Why did you cut off his ear?”

  “It was only a part of his ear,” snapped Ali. “Perhaps he’ll listen better now.”

  “Who are you working for?” asked Chopra. “Is it P. K. Das?”

  Ali’s eyes narrowed. “You ask too many questions, Chopra. Now… throw me the bags. I won’t ask again.”

  “How do I know you’ll return Vicky once you have the money?”

  “How do you know I won’t shoot you where you stand!” exploded Ali.

  Chopra made a decision.

  He stepped forward and dropped the bags. Then he backed away, allowing his hands to drop to his sides, his thoughts leaping ahead. In order to lift the bags Ali would have to lower his gun. As soon as he did this Chopra would go for his own revolver. Then the tables would be turned and he would be the one demanding answers. He could not simply allow Ali to walk away with the ransom, not without proof that Vicky was alive.

  A lifetime of policing had taught him that the word of a criminal was worth nothing.

  Ali moved towards the bags.

  He knelt down, put the torch on the floor and, with one hand, undid the buckle on one of the bags, while keeping his gun trained on Chopra. He glanced down at the bundles of cash. A grim smile compressed his lips.

  He closed the bag, then straightened.

  The night breeze whistled around the ramparts.

  Chopra suspected that Ali was finally confronting the problem that he had foreseen: how to lift both bags and still handle a gun.

  The awkward silence was shattered by the sound of raised voices and booted feet clattering through the darkness.

  “You broke the rules!” hissed Ali, his dark features twisting into a snarl.

  Chopra turned and peered in confusion behind him.

  As he watched, a pair of police constables came bounding out into the courtyard. The first man ran straight into Ganesha, tumbling head over heels over the little elephant, his flailing feet catching the man behind. The second constable tripped and stumbled to the ground, accidentally discharging the rifle that he had been carrying. The gunshot exploded into the night, ringing out over the fort’s ramparts.

  “Who’s firing? Who ordered you to fire? I want him alive, I tell you!”

  That voice! Chopra froze.

  And in that instant another figure tumbled into the courtyard, the last person on earth that Chopra expected to see… Assistant Commissioner of Police Suresh Rao,Chopra’s former commanding officer and long-time nemesis.

  For a surreal moment the ground swayed beneath Chopra’s feet… What the hell was Rao doing here?

  And then Rao was barking again. “Get up, you dolts! Arrest him!”

  Chopra looked behind him, but Ali had vanished, taking the bags with him. He assumed he had fled down the southern
bastion. “He’s gone down the steps,” he said urgently, moving towards the bastion.

  “Freeze right there, Chopra! You’re not going anywhere.”

  It finally dawned on Chopra that Rao intended to arrest him.

  “Have you lost your mind, Rao? The kidnapper is getting away!”

  “What kidnapper? The only person up here is you.”

  Chopra gaped at the two constables training their rifles on him. “I always knew you were an egomaniac, Rao,” he finally ground out. “But this time you’ve gone too far. A man’s life is at stake, goddammit!”

  Rao moved forward and pushed his round, moustachioed face up towards Chopra’s. “We received a tip-off. Kidnapper at Madh Fort. And look who I find when I get here! As far as I’m concerned, I have the right man. This is the end of the line for you, my friend.”

  “Even you can’t possibly think you could get away with something this preposterous.”

  “You have no idea what I can get away with,” Rao hissed under his breath. “Take him away!”

  He stormed back through the entranceway.

  The two constables exchanged looks. “What about the elephant?” said one. “Do we arrest it too?”

  His partner scanned the courtyard. But there was no sign of Ganesha. “What elephant? There was no elephant. Don’t ever mention that elephant again.” He advanced on Chopra with his rifle and jabbed him in the back. “Come on. Get moving.”

  Chopra glanced back over the courtyard. Where had Ganesha gone? Wherever it was, he hoped the little elephant was safe. As for Vicky Verma… there was nothing he could do for him now. Vicky’s fate was out of his hands.

  It was his own fate that had begun to worry him.

  He knew, from long experience, that ACP Rao was a vindictive man. They had clashed too often in the past, most recently on the Koh-i-noor diamond case, where Rao had blamed Chopra for humiliating him.

  It seemed that the ACP had finally stumbled across the opportunity to take his revenge.

  Chopra could only pray that the man would come to his senses soon.

  But he doubted it.

  DANCING FOR THE MASTER

  Rangwalla woke to the sound of a cockerel crowing.

  For a moment he lay there, listening for the soft noises of his wife. He was a light sleeper and usually awoke before her, savouring the predawn hours before his children would begin their day in a clatter of unseemly energy. And then memory snapped back and he recalled where he was.

  Stifling his incipient panic, he arose, washed, then wrapped himself in the detestable sari.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror, and once again shook his bewigged head. “Insane,” he muttered.

  He found the other eunuchs gathered together in a large, brightly lit room that looked out onto ornate gardens. The watchman, Shantaram, was wandering among the shrubbery with a steel watering can. A refectory table had been set up in the centre of the room and a magnificent breakfast had been laid out on silver swan platters.

  Rangwalla fell into a seat and poured himself a glass of pomegranate juice.

  “I’ll say this much for the Master,” mumbled Parvati to his right, “he knows how to put on a good spread.”

  “You tell him that when he’s throttling the life out of you in one of his kinky games,” muttered Rupa.

  “I’ll bet he’s a virgin,” rumbled Mamta, chewing on a freshly baked parotta liberally smeared with ghee. “I knew a man once. Fifty years old and never so much as looked at a woman. But once I coaxed him out of his cage he was like a tiger with its tail on fire.”

  “What if he’s not a man?” said Rangwalla.

  The conversation stopped, and they all looked at him. “Here, you don’t think… ?” said Rupa.

  “I merely point out that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. A good investigator keeps an open mind,” said Rangwalla, quoting Chopra.

  Parvati squinted at him curiously. “Sonali dear, you sound like Byomkesh Bakshi.”

  Rangwalla coloured at the reference to a popular fictional detective. He had almost given the game away. “I read a lot,” he said gruffly.

  At that moment Premchand materialised in the room.

  “That man walks like a ghost,” muttered Rupa, under her breath.

  “After breakfast it is the Master’s pleasure that you dance for him,” announced the munshi.

  “Well, at least that doesn’t sound too taxing,” said Parvati. She picked up a slice of watermelon and sank her teeth into it with succulent relish.

  Premchand led them out into the gardens.

  Fruit trees filled the air with a melange of scents. Birdsong resonated from the branches. Occasionally, Parvati stopped to pick mangoes and lychees, wrapping them into a knot at the tip of her sari. “For later,” she winked.

  The sun felt strange on Rangwalla’s raw cheeks. He noticed that peacocks strolled everywhere among the trees. The Master clearly had a penchant for the beautiful birds.

  On a wide lawn backing up against the western face of the great haveli, a musical troupe had set up their instruments—tabla drums, a sitar, a double-reeded sundari, a harmonium, an alghoza double-flute.

  Premchand clapped his hands. “Whenever you are ready.”

  “But where is the Master?” asked Mamta.

  “The Master is watching,” said Premchand primly. He nodded up at the haveli.

  Rangwalla panned his gaze around the façade. There were any number of openings through which the Master could peer down without being seen at the strange tableau he had commanded.

  “I suppose it’s up to me to show this Master what his money has purchased,” said Rupa, striding purposefully into the centre of the lawn. “Out of the way, ladies.”

  She peered haughtily at the musicians then bade them begin.

  As the melody took hold, Rupa began to dance.

  Rangwalla had to admit, the prickly eunuch was very good. She appeared to have been classically trained. As she whirled around, occasionally stamping a foot to the rhythm of the music, or snapping her wrists together, her belled anklets jingled and her sari whipped about in a riot of colour. The other eunuchs began to clap in time and yelled encouragement.

  When the dance finished, Rupa strutted back to the others, a preening look on her gaunt features.

  One by one the eunuchs danced.

  Eventually, it was Rangwalla’s turn. He blanched. “Not me!” he protested. “I can’t dance.”

  “What do you mean you can’t dance?” said Mamta in astonishment.

  “I mean that I can not dance,” repeated Rangwalla.

  “But you are a eunuch. All eunuchs can dance. It is what we do.”

  “Not this eunuch,” said Rangwalla, through gritted teeth.

  “What is the delay?” came Premchand’s voice.

  “Look, I don’t care if you don’t know how to dance,” growled Mamta. “You have no choice. Now get out there!” She gave Rangwalla a push.

  Sweating with panic, Rangwalla stumbled out onto the lawn. He tried to recall the last time he had attempted anything so sordid as a dance. He would rather be charging into a warehouse full of armed gangsters than doing what he was doing now.

  “Come on, you idiot!” hissed Rupa.

  Rangwalla closed his eyes and began to move around in a circle. He kicked out a leg, then an arm. He clapped. He jiggled in a horrendous parody of something he had seen on television, stumbled, righted himself, and turned the movement into a farcical about-face with his arms stuck out for balance.

  He continued in this vein for ten excruciating minutes before finally staggering back to the others.

  “You’re the worst dancer I have ever seen,” declared Rupa.

  “Never mind,” said Kavita, giving his arm an encouraging squeeze. “We all have different talents.”

  Rangwalla noticed that Parvati was staring at him strangely. But before she had a chance to say anything Premchand spoke again. “Now the Master wishes to hear you sing.”

 
Rangwalla groaned.

  It seemed that his ordeal had only just begun.

  WELCOME TO HELL

  Chopra stared at the ceiling. Above him a fly staggered along a crack in the grey stone. Suddenly, a gecko darted in from the corner and snapped up the fly. Its head swivelled down to fix Chopra with two baleful eyes.

  Chopra shivered.

  He hated the creatures, had done since he’d been a boy.

  He sat up, slid off his bunk, and began pacing the cold flagstones of his cell. On the cell’s other bunk the second occupant of the room snored on, occasionally mumbling incoherently under his breath.

  Chopra resisted the urge to pinch himself.

  He knew only too well that he was not dreaming.

  The events of the previous night tumbled around his mind, but no matter how many times he reviewed them, he could still make no sense of his predicament.

  After Rao had arrested him he had been bundled into the back of a police truck and taken to a police station where, having confiscated his phone, Rao left him locked in the truck while he had disappeared for over an hour. Chopra’s constitutional rights were irrelevant. This was India and he was neither famous nor wealthy. His rights as a prisoner were exactly those his captors deemed them to be.

  Eventually, Rao had returned.

  He gazed at Chopra through the bars of the truck. “I told you one day you would pay for your arrogance,” he finally said. “I have made arrangements for you, Chopra. You have troubled me for the last time. Goodbye.”

  He turned and stalked away.

  Chopra could only sit helplessly as he was driven out of the city.

  Four hours later, the lights of Mumbai long vanished in the darkness behind them, the truck pulled into the lee of a forbidding stone building surrounded by dusty fields. Chopra recognised the bleak fortress instantly.

  He had been here twice before, both times escorting a prisoner.

  For this was Gouripur Jail, a rural prison where hardened criminals were sent to serve lengthy sentences under the eyes of prison guards whose brutality had become legend. Gouripur Jail was where the scum of the earth ended up; the gutter into which the worst inmates of the Indian penal system were eventually swept, far away from the civilisation whose rules they had chosen to forsake.