The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

by Vaseem Khan

  “He did not expect this, I suppose. He thought she would simply vanish, like so many others before her. But not my daughter.” A note of pride entered the old man’s voice. “The confrontation turned ugly. He ended up strangling her.” Chopra was astounded at the flatness with which the revelation was delivered. “But he was the collector’s son. I knew long before the verdict came down that the court would clear him. The judge said he had acted in self-defence. The boy walked free with his blessings, grinning from ear to ear.” Yusuf stared at the wall. “Two days later I caught up with him. I stabbed him forty-five times as he sat in his car. And then I walked into a police station, and told them what I had done. I was at peace.”

  Chopra was stunned by the terrible tale.

  Morality was a spectrum, and the judgements human beings raised against one another could never be explained or understood unless viewed through the prism of context. Chopra had always been a scrupulously moral man. He believed in the ideal of justice while recognising that it was often unattainable, particularly in India with its ineffectual judicial system.

  And yet he could not bring himself to condone Yusuf’s actions.

  Murder was murder. Besides, had Yusuf’s terrible revenge solved anything? He had spent his whole life inside these barren walls with the ghost of his murdered daughter. What had happened to his wife in that time? Revenge had its consequences, not just on those it was exacted upon.

  Yusuf asked about Chopra, then. The former policeman explained the circumstances that had brought him to Gouripur Jail.

  Yusuf scratched his grizzled beard, evaluating Chopra with a thoughtful expression. “I have had more cellmates than I can remember,” he said eventually. “Most have claimed to be innocent in one way or another. Yours is the first story I might actually believe.” His brow furrowed. “If what the warden said to you is true then you are in big trouble. It is easy for a man to disappear in our prisons. Even if Rastogi, or someone else, doesn’t kill you, they may simply transfer you elsewhere. They’ll keep moving you around until you become another statistic. They have the power. In here we are corn before their sickle.”

  “I have a wife. I have friends. They will look for me. A man cannot simply vanish.”

  Yusuf burst out in cynical laughter. “I am living proof, my friend, that when the forces of wealth and power are ranged against you, anything can happen in this great country of ours.”

  Chopra considered his words. “In that case the only option I have is to escape.”

  “No one escapes from Gouripur.”

  “Are you telling me no one has ever tried?”

  “Many have tried. Most have died. That brute Singh is merciless. But he is not the one you must fear. Do you recall the guard above the quarry, with the rifle?”

  Chopra nodded.

  “His name is Tiwari. He is a former sharpshooter from the army. They discharged him years ago. I believe they thought he was mentally unstable. Hah! Imagine that. Too unstable for the army! They sent him back to his village. A few weeks later he climbed the water tower and started shooting people. He killed five of his neighbours before the tower collapsed on him. He had spent years on the Line of Control up in Kashmir and I suppose he couldn’t stop seeing enemies each time he opened his eyes.

  “Because he was a soldier they wouldn’t give him the death penalty. They didn’t want to execute a man who had worn the uniform. And so they gave him to us instead, one more madman for the asylum. And then they put a rifle in his hands.

  “He has shot dead twelve men since he arrived. Every once in a while someone thinks they can make a run for it. But Tiwari never misses. That murderer could shoot the wings off a fly. He sits up there all day, smoking, waiting. You think he’s half asleep, and some poor idiot sees a flash of freedom. But it’s an illusion. You know, if he wanted to, he could probably escape himself. But he never will. He likes being up there, waiting, like a hawk, for the next man foolish enough to run.”

  A mouse crawled out from under Yusuf’s bunk. Chopra watched as the old man allowed it to climb up into his palm and nibble on a piece of stale chapatti.

  He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  It was becoming clear that his predicament was worse than he had imagined. In his heart, he had believed that Rao’s outrageous duplicity would swiftly be discovered and that he would be returned to Mumbai. But now he remembered what Rao had said to him when Chopra had bested him in the Koh-i-noor diamond case. The investigation had discomfited many high-ranking parties in the city. Rao had warned him, through a face suffused with rage, “You have made enemies of some of the most powerful men in the country. Worse, you have made them look foolish. They will not forget. And they will never forgive.”

  The words seemed prophetic now.

  Chopra thought about Poppy, about what must be going through her mind. He had promised to stay out of trouble, and yet fate seemed determined to undermine his good intentions. And to vanish without so much as a goodbye! He cringed at the thought of what she would do to him if she ever got hold of him again.

  Perhaps he was safest in here, he thought, ruefully, far from her wrath.

  His thoughts lingered on the life he had so recently left behind. Already it seemed unreal, a shimmering veil beyond which lay another man’s cosseted existence. Mornings at the restaurant, the smell of Chef’s carrot-and-onion bhajis, Rangwalla arriving in a breathless rush, Irfan slipping into the office to give him a hug, Ganesha rooting with his trunk in Chopra’s pocket for the bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate he always brought along for the little elephant.

  Karma, he thought. Once again, it all boiled down to fate.

  To wrest his mind from his seemingly hopeless situation he turned his thoughts to the Verma case, reviewing what he had learned before his investigations had been so unceremoniously cut short.

  Chopra had long been a devotee of Sherlock Holmes—particularly as played by Basil Rathbone in the forties—and wished that he had his calabash pipe with him. He did not smoke, but he liked to chew on the pipe while he pondered.

  He cast his mind back to the ransom drop at the Madh Fort.

  Firstly, he considered how Rao might have found out about the exchange. Who had informed him? Why? Who gained by sabotaging the safe recovery of Vicky Verma?

  He had too few facts to attempt an answer.

  Meanwhile, Ali had slipped away from the fort and vanished into the night while Rao had been engaged in arresting Chopra. The ransom had vanished with him… But what had happened next? Had Ali released Vicky? Or had Chopra’s worst fears been realised? Was Bijli Verma even now being summoned to the morgue to identify the body of her son? It depressed him bitterly to realise that she would blame Chopra for such a turn of events. He hated the thought of letting Bijli down.

  Meanwhile, the kidnapper was still out there, somewhere.

  Ali.

  But how was Ali connected to P. K. Das? It made sense to Chopra that Das’s organised-crime backers would use low-rung operatives to carry out the actual kidnapping. It was their usual modus operandi. After all, it was well documented that Mumbai’s ganglords routinely employed impressionable villagers to carry out assassinations, paying what was to them a king’s ransom to enter the city, commit their ghastly crime, then vanish once again into the vast hinterlands. It was almost impossible for the authorities to locate such “day-rate” killers.

  Had something similar happened here?

  Was Ali a hired gun, a low-level cog in the insurance scam orchestrated by Das and those he had inadvisably got into bed with?

  Or did Ali have absolutely nothing to do with Das?

  An earlier thought now resurfaced in Chopra’s mind. Something Poppy’s colleague Malhotra had said at dinner, about Bijli receiving death threats after she had decried right-wing groups in the city following the 2008 terror attacks that had shocked the world. The rogue radical who had made the threats had vanished—could he have returned to make good on his dire promises
by kidnapping Vicky? Was Ali that same man?

  It seemed a far-fetched scenario, Chopra thought, though he was not yet ready to dismiss it entirely.

  At least he had one lead. The girl from Mira Road, Aaliya Ghazi, Ali’s cousin.

  If he could have found a way to make a phone call he would have asked Rangwalla to follow the girl. Perhaps she would lead them to Ali. And if Chopra could find him, then he was certain he could uncover the truth.

  A couple of other things were bothering him too.

  Two insignificant details that circled his brain like a pair of troublesome mosquitoes.

  Firstly, the CCTV images of Ali entering and leaving the stadium on the night of the kidnapping. Something had nagged at him at the time, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was, or why it should be important. Secondly, his thoughts kept returning to the faded film poster he had seen in Aaliya Ghazi’s home. There had been a woman in the poster, an actress from yesteryear whose face had seemed familiar. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out why this memory troubled him. What possible bearing could it have on the case? And yet it was like an itch he could not scratch. There was something incongruous about the poster itself. In a house where the paint was peeling from the walls, where there were no other photographs, paintings, or posters, why had this one been put up? Why this movie, and not another?

  And then it came to him.

  There was something intensely personal about the poster. Which meant that the actress was important to Aaliya Ghazi. If Chopra could discover who she was, he might learn more about Aaliya, which would bring him one step closer to Ali.

  Perhaps, when he returned to the land of the living, he would find the answers he needed… If he returned.

  POPPY AND SHOOT-’EM-UP SHERIWAL GO HEAD-TO-HEAD

  Poppy was worried; more worried than she had been in a long time. Throughout his career in the police service her husband had placed himself in harm’s way on numerous occasions. And yet she had always maintained a quiet belief that he would return home each evening unscathed. This belief had settled like a core of iron at the very centre of her being. She had fashioned it from Chopra’s own self-confidence, his calm demeanour, his resolute determination. It was as if his innate goodness served to throw a cloak of invulnerability about him, one that, as the years passed, only grew more impregnable.

  And then had come the heart attack.

  Ever since Chopra’s diagnosis—as a sufferer of something called “unstable angina,” two loathsome words that continued to fill Poppy with dread each time she heard them—she had become overly anxious for his safety.

  The doctors had been unequivocal in their advice.

  No stress. No excitement.

  And yet her duffer of a husband continued to race around town, neck deep in conspiracy. He was like a boy playing with fire who simply would not listen to common sense.

  Now, having learned of his bid to procure Vicky Verma’s release—a bid that appeared to have gone terribly wrong—fear petrified her.

  Ever since the events of the previous summer she had believed implicitly that little Ganesha was more than he seemed. She believed, too, that he shared a special bond with her husband, a bond that went beyond affection or explanation. And she knew that Ganesha would not have returned to the compound alone unless something awful had happened.

  Panic had settled like a dragon around her heart.

  That evening Poppy called everyone she knew, but no one had seen or heard from her husband.

  Finally, she did the only other thing she could think of.

  She went to the police station.

  The Sahar station lay a short rickshaw ride away from the restaurant.

  As Poppy entered the tiled courtyard with its terracotta bricks and steel gate, she reflected on just how few times she had visited in the twenty-odd years her husband had been posted here. Chopra had always been stuffy about procedure and had made it clear that he didn’t appreciate “personal visits” while on duty. At first she had bristled at his attitude and then she realised that this too was a part of who he was, as integral to him as his magnificent moustache and his aversion to ginger.

  She stepped through the saloon-style front doors, and found herself confronting a scene of quiet efficiency.

  Four desks were laid out in the reception area, each with its own stack of files. At two of the desks officers were taking down statements. At a third an officer drank tea from a glass while talking earnestly into the phone tucked under his chin. Behind him a garlanded portrait of Lord Ganesh looked down benignly.

  At the fourth desk Poppy found a familiar face.

  Young Sub-Inspector Surat was stamping an official document. Having applied the rubber seal, he picked up a pen and painstakingly inscribed his name across the bottom. He admired his handiwork, and then noticed the visitor. “Poppy Madam!” he exclaimed in obvious delight. “How lovely to see you!”

  “Lovely to see you too, Udhay,” said Poppy. “How handsome you look in your new uniform.”

  Surat blushed.

  He had recently been promoted to sub-inspector, and with rank had come the long-dreamed-of privilege of wearing full trousers.

  Quickly, Poppy explained her errand, omitting any mention of Vicky Verma’s kidnapping. She said simply that her husband, last known to have been on his way to Madh Fort, had vanished. Bijli had impressed on her the need to keep further details a secret—both Chopra and Vicky’s lives could depend on it. There was no telling how the kidnappers would react if the kidnapping became public, particularly if the police got involved.

  Yet Poppy couldn’t simply sit around and do nothing.

  In the end she had decided to approach the new chief at Chopra’s old station, someone who might help without requiring too much in the way of detail.

  Alarm fluttered over Surat’s plump features. Poppy knew that Surat idolised her husband, and would be genuinely fearful for his safety.

  He led her briskly to Chopra’s old office, and rapped on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Poppy entered to find a tall dusky woman in a khaki police inspector’s uniform standing behind Chopra’s old desk scrutinising a map on the wall. Poppy saw that she was a handsome woman. Not exactly pretty, but regal in a tough-looking sort of way.

  She had, of course, heard from her husband that a woman had taken over at Sahar. The news had delighted her. Poppy held strong views about women being in charge. And when she had learned that the woman was none other than Malini Sheriwal—better known in the media as Shoot-’em-Up Sheriwal, notorious Encounter Squad specialist and pre-eminent dispatcher of underworld gangsters—she had been thrilled. She had been meaning to visit the celebrity police officer, although not under the circumstances that had brought her here today.

  “Yes?” said Sheriwal. She seemed annoyed to have been disturbed from her contemplation of the map.

  Breathlessly, Surat explained the situation. Sheriwal listened, then examined Poppy with a critical eye. “Leave us, Surat.”

  Surat looked from Poppy to his boss, then saluted, and left the office.

  “What makes you think your husband is in trouble?” asked Sheriwal. She did not offer Poppy a seat.

  “He hasn’t called. No one has seen or heard from him since yesterday evening.”

  “What does that prove? Perhaps he is busy.”

  “He would have called me.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself.”

  “I know my husband.”

  Sheriwal raised an eyebrow. “He is a man. They are not known for their consideration.”

  “You don’t know my husband.”

  “You are wrong. Since I have been working here I have heard a great deal about him.”

  She said nothing more, leaving Poppy to decide whether this was intended as a compliment or otherwise.

  “Well, I am certain he is missing.”

  “What if he has simply decided to take off?”

  Poppy’s brow furrowed. “
What do you mean… take off? He is not an aeroplane.”

  “I am sure you understand what I mean. How long have you been married? What if he has decided to move to where the grass is greener?”

  Poppy coloured. She drew herself up angrily. “Now you listen here,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

  “You know exactly what I’m implying,” interrupted Sheriwal calmly. “He wouldn’t be the first husband to run out on his wife.”

  Poppy was aghast.

  She had come to the station fully expecting to find a sympathetic ear, that a female officer would surely appreciate her predicament. Instead, here she was, listening to garbage about a man she had trusted for twenty-four years. “My husband has not run out on me,” she hissed. “He has vanished. I am requesting police assistance. Now, either you will provide it or you will not. If not, then you can go to hell.”

  It was Sheriwal’s turn to frown.

  Clearly, she was not used to being spoken to in this way. “There’s no point in becoming hysterical. Your husband has been missing for barely twenty-four hours. If you’ve still had no contact from him in the morning I suggest you return and file an FIR. Then we will see what we can do.”

  But Poppy had stopped listening.

  “Hysterical? Hysterical!” Her face had darkened, and her slender frame quivered with rage. “I have no idea what sort of man you are married to, but I know my husband. He is worth a dozen of you. I will find him on my own. And if anything happens to him in the meantime, then I will show you the meaning of hysterical!”

  Poppy turned to storm from the office. She stopped at the door, and turned back. “And there is no greener grass!”

  She slammed the door on her way out.

  Malini Sheriwal sat down heavily in her chair.

  She knew she should have handled the encounter differently. But she had been in a bad mood. Lately, she seemed always to be in a bad mood.

  She hated the political kowtowing that had necessitated her transfer from the Encounter Squad to this backwater station where literally nothing seemed to happen. In the Encounter Squad she had lived on adrenalin. Each day brought fresh challenges and the very real threat of injury to life and limb—invariably someone else’s life and limb, but that was beside the point. But here, in the middle of nowhere, she was confronted by matters of such sublime unimportance she felt her brains would turn to slush and dribble out from her ears.