The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

by Vaseem Khan

  Rangwalla carefully swung back the door, and peered out.

  He was at the rear of the haveli, where it abutted fields. The patter of feet moved away from him through the wheat.

  He set off after the ghostly intruder, navigating through the waist-high stalks. The night swelled around him, starlight glimmering on the nodding heads of wheat.

  Half an hour later he emerged into a clearing.

  Before him was a narrow river, forded by a plank bridge. Beyond the bridge the trail meandered up to a village, hunkered down for the night. A bullock moved in the shadows of a peepal tree. A goat bleated. The smell of dung wafted on the breeze.

  A blur of movement caught Rangwalla’s eye. It was the woman, ducking into a hut on the very outskirts of the village.

  Rangwalla crossed the creaking bridge, then headed towards the hut.

  He hesitated outside the brick-and-thatch dwelling, and considered what he was about to do.

  He could hear the sounds of movement within.

  Overcoming his doubts, he pushed back the wooden door and entered the hut.

  Inside, he was confronted by a scene of rural domesticity.

  The woman was crouched down beside a fire-pit, blowing on hot coals, a blackened pot on the fire, a butterchurn by her side. The woman’s sari was pulled back from her face and Rangwalla could see that she was probably in her early thirties, with dusky skin, and large doe eyes.

  Behind the woman, on a charpoy, lay an old man, wheezing in the glow of a kerosene lantern. Rangwalla recognised him—it was the haveli’s watchman, Shantaram.

  The girl looked up in astonishment. Then her eyes narrowed. She snatched up a knife, and stood, facing Rangwalla. “You followed me!” she hissed.

  “Yes,” said Rangwalla. “I want to know who you are and why you came to the haveli. What game are you playing?”

  “Game?” A burst of blood darkened her cheeks. “You think this is a game, you—you—!” She ran her eyes over Rangwalla’s figure.

  In the heat of the moment he had forgotten that he must seem very strange to these villagers, a eunuch from the big city, materialising in their home in the dead of night.

  He lifted off his plaited wig.

  “I am not a eunuch,” he said. “My name is Rangwalla. I am a detective. I am here to find out why the Master is inviting eunuchs to his home.”

  The girl hesitated, but did not lower the knife.

  “Let him be, Granddaughter.”

  Rangwalla turned to Shantaram, who had raised himself on the bed. The watchman coughed, a hacking, rattling sound. Sweat sparkled on his forehead. Rangwalla realised, for the first time, that the man was sick.

  The watchman’s eyes lingered, filled with an ineffable melancholia. Finally, he spoke: “The Master’s story is a strange one, full of sadness and horror. Are you sure you wish to hear it?”

  “It is why I am here,” said Rangwalla.

  “We can’t trust him, Father,” hissed the girl. “We know nothing about his real intentions. We should go to the authorities, as I have always said.”

  “Perhaps this is for the best, Granddaughter,” said Shantaram. He spoke to Rangwalla: “Listen, friend, listen, and then do what you will. It is time that the truth came out. I don’t have long to live and I do not wish to go to my grave with this burden.” Firelight glinted in the old man’s eyes. “It began when the Master was young…”

  ON THE RUN

  For the first time in his life Inspector Ashwin Chopra (Retd) understood what it meant to be the hunted rather than the hunter.

  A fugitive.

  The word had a strange taste in his mouth. It was as if he had awoken into an alternate reality, one in which everything he knew about himself had been inverted. An upside-down world where good and evil had been turned inside out and back to front.

  How in God’s name had he ended up in this position?

  Following the daring escape from Gouripur Jail, the Bombay Bullet Club had escorted Chopra all the way to Bhiwandi, on the outskirts of Mumbai. Here, on a deserted stretch of road, another member of the Bullet Club awaited, anxiously peering out from behind the wheel of Chopra’s Tata van.

  Chopra dismounted from the rear of Gerry Fernandes’ motorbike.

  He felt exhilarated. And yet, at the same time, there was a surreal quality to the events that had recently engulfed his life, culminating in this wild bike ride through the countryside.

  He stuck out a hand. “Thank you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  Fernandes grasped his hand. “What was it you told me, Chopra? ‘You needed help; I did what I could. That’s what friends do.’”

  They watched the swarm of motorcycles roar away down the road, Ganesha peering disconsolately after them as they veered around a curve and out of sight. Then Chopra loaded up the van and drove back to Sahar, and home.

  On the way he dropped off Chef Lucknowwallah. “When I employed you I didn’t envisage asking you to do anything like this. This is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “You’d be surprised the things I’ve been asked to do, Chopra,” muttered Lucknowwallah. “The Nawab of Oudh once asked me to baste his naked body in white chocolate. He wanted to leap out from a specially constructed cake at his son’s wedding pretending to be a snowman. But the chocolate melted off him while he was in there.” The chef shuddered. “It took me months to recover from the experience.”

  They arrived at the restaurant, unnaturally quiet in the early hours, a marked contrast from the clamour and din of the daytime. Ganesha trotted into his rear compound, plopping down under the mango tree, and helping himself to a piece of fallen fruit. Poppy wiped down Irfan’s dusty face, then ordered him to change into his shorts and vest. She warmed him a glass of milk, and a similar bucket for Ganesha laced with his favourite Dairy Milk chocolate.

  Finally, she turned to her husband, who had been quietly sitting on the veranda, staring into space. She approached him hesitantly. Now that the surreal drama of the escape was behind them, it began to dawn on Poppy that Chopra had been through an ordeal that she could not hope to truly comprehend. She could tell this from the grim set of his mouth, the shadows around his eyes.

  “Time to go home,” she said, with a forced brightness.

  “I’m not going home,” said Chopra, still staring straight ahead.

  Poppy’s voice split the humid night air in alarm. “What do you mean?” she protested. “I have only just found you. If you think I am letting you out of my sight, mister, you are sorely mistaken!”

  “Poppy,” said Chopra gently, “believe me, there’s nothing I would rather do than come home with you and forget this whole sordid business. But you must see that I have to finish this. And I cannot keep you with me while I do that. It is that simple.”

  Poppy bit her lip. “Have you any idea what it was like for me? Discovering that you were in that place? Locked up? I was terrified. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again. But how can you understand? You are a man. The big macho hero. You have no idea what a wife goes through.”

  “That’s unfair,” said Chopra gently. “We have always been a team. I could not be who I am without your support.” He stood, and swept his wife into an unexpected embrace. Poppy stiffened, then gradually melted into him. Finally, she looked up at him. “Must you really go? What if your enemies are still looking for you?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely. Rao must have kept everything off the books, if only to hide his own actions in illegally packing me off to Gouripur Jail. Of course, he couldn’t have done that without help, possibly from those same enemies. Which means he’s not likely to bring attention to the fact that I’ve escaped. He wouldn’t wish to highlight his own failure. After all these years I know exactly how he thinks.” Chopra sighed. “Trust me, Poppy, it’s not the police or political enemies that are worrying me. No. What really bothers me is that Bijli Verma might think that I vanished with her son’s ransom; or worse, botched the whole thing entirely a
nd got Vicky killed.” Chopra did not need to add that this sat uneasily with his professional pride. Poppy knew her husband well enough.

  “Why don’t you go to her and explain?”

  “Without the money? My explanation will sound hollow. I need to find Vicky, or at least determine what may have happened to him. I cannot go to her empty-handed.”

  “Well, if you’re so determined to go off into danger again, at least take me with you.”

  “That would be impractical, Poppy,” said Chopra. “And there is also Irfan to think about.”

  Poppy’s mouth opened to protest, but then closed again. She realised her husband was right. As much as it horrified her to know that he was going to be out there, getting into God only knew what trouble, she understood that it would be even more difficult for him if she were with him. And who would look after little Irfan? Without either of them around the boy would inevitably get into the sort of scrapes that seemed to follow him around. “Then at least take Ganesha,” she pleaded.

  Chopra hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

  “You’re going to need some supplies,” said Poppy, drawing herself up. “But first and foremost: a good meal. I can’t imagine what they’ve been feeding you in that jail. You’ve practically wasted away. Go and wash.”

  Chopra cleaned himself up as best he could in the restaurant’s washroom, and then changed into the spare set of clothes he always kept in the office: a clean shirt, trousers and comfortable shoes. He stripped off his prison uniform and threw it into the pedal bin under his desk. As he dressed, he began to feel the return of normality, or at least the illusion of it.

  Even that was a welcome relief.

  Before leaving the office he took his spare revolver from the locked drawer of his desk and checked it, before tucking it into his trousers; he had lost his trusty Anmol at the Madh Fort when Rao had arrested him.

  He returned to the veranda to find that Poppy, with Irfan’s help, had laid out a meal.

  Investigating the various dishes he discovered three different kinds of curry—potato and bottle gourd, spicy chicken korma, and red lentils—together with saffron rice and chapatti. The image of Poppy fixing him a meal just after she had broken him out of prison seemed ludicrous at first, but then that was Poppy all over. A lump arose in his throat as he acknowledged, once again, the great bond between them. Not for the first time he wished he had the words to express his feelings, but he had never claimed to be a poet. He liked to believe that Poppy knew, in her heart, how much he thought of her.

  It was not always necessary, he felt, to spell things out.

  “Here,” said Poppy as he ate, handing him her mobile phone. “Keep this. You will need it.”

  Ganesha had joined them, sitting below the veranda, watching Chopra with round eyes as he wolfed the food.

  The little elephant had had a thrilling day.

  Not only had he helped his beloved guardian escape from a terrible place, but now here he was with all the people he loved most in the world as they shared a midnight meal. Happiness inflated the little elephant’s ears, and he trumpeted a gentle note of satisfaction.

  As he ate Chopra considered his next move.

  The kidnappers had taken the ransom two nights ago. According to Poppy—who slavishly followed the goings-on in Bollywood—there had been no updates to suggest that Vicky had recovered from his mystery “illness.” Indeed, the news was agog with the delayed “mega-shoot” on The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva. The consensus was that if Vicky didn’t materialise soon and finish off the cursed movie, he could kiss his fledgling career goodbye.

  Chopra went over the case details.

  Vicky Verma had been abducted from the dressing room beneath the stage at the Andheri Sports Stadium. His kidnapper, Ali, had made his way in through the stadium’s delivery car park while the actor was onstage, incapacitated Vicky in the dressing room when he came down for his quick costume change, then nonchalantly wheeled him out bundled inside the young star’s own costume chest.

  Chopra had two leads to follow.

  The first was the bracelet Ganesha had discovered at the scene of the kidnapping. Before his arrest, the bracelet had taken Chopra to a ramshackle home in the Mira Road district. In the home he had found a drunken old man and the woman, Aaliya Ghazi—Ali’s cousin. He was not yet certain whether Aaliya was involved, or of Ali’s ultimate motive in kidnapping Vicky. Could it be linked to the furore Bijli had caused with her outspoken views years ago?

  Possibly.

  But Chopra had always believed in following the balance of probability during an investigation, and it was his second lead, he felt, that would take him to the heart of the conspiracy. The film’s producer P. K. Das, in hock to gangsters, and seeking an insurance payout by derailing his own production, seemed the most likely mastermind behind the kidnapping. Ali was merely a tool used to carry out the deed.

  If Chopra wished to unravel the plot his first port of call must be the home of the feted producer.

  With the impromptu meal over, he prepared to leave. Irfan had fallen asleep in his chair, and so Chopra carried him to his cot on the veranda, laying him down, and kissing him gently on the forehead. Then he led Ganesha out to the van.

  Quickly, he drove Poppy home.

  The guard Bahadur awoke blearily and watched as Chopra got out of the van and put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. Chopra could see that Poppy was holding back tears. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “If you’re not, I’ll find you and break both your legs,” promised Poppy groggily.

  Chopra got back into the van. “Let’s get to work, boy,” he muttered, as Ganesha huddled closer to the front seats.

  He switched on the van’s engine and slowly edged the vehicle out from the side of the road.

  HIMALAYAN STUDIOS REDUX

  Chopra was led inside the palatial home of P. K. Das by a burly manservant, down into an expansive basement where he discovered the producer sitting in his private viewing theatre watching a black-and-white movie.

  Das looked up as he entered. “Isn’t it a bit late for visiting, Chopra?” he said.

  “This can’t wait.”

  Das stared at him, then returned his gaze to the screen. “The Legend of Devdas. The first picture I ever made,” he said. “It was never released. The actor I had cast as Devdas got so carried away with his performance that he drank himself to death.” Devdas was the legendary tale of the jilted lover who drowned his woes in alcohol. “I thought my career had ended before it had begun, but Raj Kapoor bailed me out, and my next picture went on to become a hit.”

  Das stood and faced his visitor. His face was haggard, a deep weariness evident on his avuncular features. “Tell me you have good news, Chopra. Tell me you have found our friend.”

  “That would be difficult,” said Chopra stonily. “Given that your friends have him.”

  “My friends?” Das’s eyebrows leapt in astonishment. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know that you are in debt. You took money from gangsters to finish your movie. But the gamble failed, and now they have kidnapped Vicky so that you can claim the insurance.”

  Das stared at Chopra.

  Then he sat down heavily, whisky spilling from the tumbler in his hand.

  Finally, he spoke, his gaze hollow. “All I’ve ever wanted is to make movies. My father came over from Lahore on the Frontier Mail in the thirties—just as all the greats did: Prithviraj, Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar. All he had was the clothes on his back and a dream in his eye. He joined the Zarko Circus—that’s where he fell in love with Fearless Nadia, do you remember her? No? Before your time, I suppose. She was the daughter of a British army Scot posted to Bombay. After his death she toured the country as part of the Zarko, before joining Wadia Movietone, the Wadia Brothers’ production house. They turned her into a star—she was tremendous in Hunterwali; she wore tight leather shorts and a mask, and she did all her own stunts! My father followed her into th
e business—he worked his way up, starting as a clapper boy. People remember him now as a great producer, but he cut his teeth on adverts. ‘Sweetheart Toothpaste makes your smile sweeter than sweet for your sweet.’’’ Das chuckled. “That was the golden age. Real actors, real plots. Brylcreemed heroes, and monsoon goddesses. Even the tantrums were better. I remember once Vyjayanthimala threw her poodle at her leading man because he kept fluffing his lines. She knocked him off the balcony of the Centaur Hotel. He fell three floors and broke both legs. But he never fluffed his lines again… What is Bollywood, Chopra? Show me where it is on a map. It was men like my father who made this industry.” Das rose from his seat and walked to the wall. He pushed aside a framed photo of Raj Kapoor to reveal a small wall safe.

  He unlocked the safe and removed something from inside.

  When he turned back he was holding a revolver.

  “The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva was supposed to be my magnum opus. I’ve won six Filmfare statuettes, but never for Best Film. I poured everything into this production, Chopra. You’re right, I sold my soul to the Devil. What else could I do? The banks wouldn’t give me another rupee. I saw everything I had spent a lifetime building sinking into the sand. I panicked.”

  As Chopra listened, his mind raced ahead. His spare revolver had been taken from him by the security guards at the gates. Now he weighed his chances of rushing Das.

  The producer stared down at the gun. “This belonged to my friend, Sammy Sarwan. He made a number of low-budget action flicks in the eighties. Then he lost his shirt on a vanity project, Camel Blood Feud in Rajasthan. After the bailiffs took everything he owned, and his wife left him, he went back to the ruins of his set, sat down on the floor, and shot himself. This industry gives you the stars, but it takes its pound of flesh.” Das locked eyes with Chopra. “I swear to you that I—or the people I have borrowed from—have nothing to do with Vicky’s kidnapping. In fact, Pyarelal and his men have been scouring the city for him. We need Vicky back to complete this picture. I’ve managed to gain a couple of days since his vanishing act by intimidating, bullying, and pleading with our creditors, but we are hanging on by our fingernails. If Vicky doesn’t materialise by tomorrow they will call in their markers and we all lose. So you see, I couldn’t have kidnapped him. I’m guilty of many things—arrogance, hubris—but not of that. I admit I was forced to discipline the boy, more than once, but I never harmed him.” He turned back to the safe. “You’re right that I took out insurance on the picture. But the problem is that insurance is only valid if you can afford to keep up the premiums.” He removed a letter, and handed it over.