He swallowed. Recognizing this was no time for nostalgia, he reassigned his mind to the present situation and resolved to help his son. ‘How many people were present at the bar?’
‘Maybe two hundred or so.’ Malik’s heart was thudding so hard he could barely speak.
‘Did anyone see you shoot her?’
‘Of course, Dad!’
‘Don’t raise your voice, kutta!’
‘How could someone not have seen me?’ Blood had shot out from Zaira’s temple and stained Malik’s shirt.
‘Was someone with Zaira when it happened?’
‘Yes. Bunty Oberoi. He’s her co-star in her new film.’
‘Do you know this Bunty chap?’
Malik had met Bunty Oberoi in passing, and he told his father they were acquaintances.
‘So Bunty saw you shoot her?’
‘He was the one who raised the alarm.’
Bunty Oberoi’s scream had been effete and comical, as if he was auditioning for the role of a widow in a Hindi film.
‘And then you left the bar?’
‘Lucky thought it was the smart thing to do; I just followed him. We ran out. Everyone was looking at me, Dad. Her blood had messed up my clothes. I desperately needed to shower.’
‘Is the gun with you?’
‘Yes, it is.’
As Malik had rushed out of the bar a few models, svelte and glazed-eyed, had shrieked and pranced out of his way like impalas taking on the plains of the savannah. He had just got into his car when he heard Nalini Chopra begin to shriek in panic.
‘Who else was there? Did you see?’
‘Samar Arora. He was out on the deck and rushed in just as Lucky and I were taking off.’
‘Who is Samar?’
‘Zaira’s best friend. He’s a musician or something.’
‘Did Samar see you shoot Zaira?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Okay.’ He sighed, scribbling again in his pad. ‘That’s one more thing in your favour.’
Pushing the notepad away, Minister Prasad sat back on the chair, closed his eyes and reflected on the cast of characters whose hazy figures filed in before him. There was his son, the murderer. Bunty Oberoi, the key witness. Samar Arora, an intimate of the deceased. And he, the minister, was the scribe. Slowly, other characters would latch on to the narrative, fill gaps, embellish bare patches, provide motion. But it was vital to shape the story as it unfolded, deftly manipulate it through inevitable detours and complications and lead it up to its logical conclusion. This story was not only about crime and punishment, it was also a chance to settle scores with the sort of people who had mocked him in his youth and who had now put his son through the same, classic ignominy. Those snobby scoundrels would be served their just deserts. Besides, his own political future needed to be safeguarded.
‘Don’t worry, son. I will handle the situation,’ he assured. ‘But first things first: I want you to take the gun and dispose of it in a lake or a well.’ He made a note to call the forensics expert who would be sent the evidence once the police registered the case and began their investigation.
‘Okay.’
‘Next, burn the clothes you wore to the bar that night.’
‘I will.’
‘See to it that the car you drove is also out of the picture. Burn it. Lose it. But get it out of the way. Understood?’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘No! You ask Lucky to junk it. Don’t go close to that car until this is all wound up.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘And tell Lucky to catch the next flight back to America. He cannot be a party to this case in any way.’
‘I will ask Lucky to go back; no one knows he came with me. And I doubt if anyone saw him leave with me. He was already in the car when I got in.’
‘Good. And then,’ the minister said, clearing his throat, ‘Malik, come to Delhi…Come home to your family, beta.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Malik repeated. ‘To put you through all this.’
‘I will…try my best’—emotion surged up in his chest and clogged his throat—‘to bring you out of this. You just come back home.’
The minister returned to his bedroom. His wife, asleep in their bed, reminded him of a beached whale. He was gripped with the desire to beat her with a stick, break the glass bangles on her wrists, leave a few dark purple bruises on her forehead. But he found age had deflated his will; besides, she would probably cry for hours and then he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
He decided to jack off.
His favourite fantasy involved a day from his childhood. At the age of six the minister had been caught smelling his sister’s soiled tampons. His father had thrashed him with a washerwoman’s mallet; the beating had turned him off women till he was well into his twenties. In the interim, the relief of his uncontainable urges was achieved unusually. When he was twelve years old a buffalo on his father’s farm had caught his eye. Dawn was yet to break as he had tiptoed to the cattle sheds. The buffalo, whose large head was flanked by long curled horns, moaned as he had thrust into her. Quickly, furiously he worked her, his hands slapping her flesh, teeth grinding, flesh taut. As his groin smacked against her, she bellowed wildly, a sound that excited him all the more. The following morning, he walked about the farm with a strut, eyeing the peasant women with a condescending look. I know what your pussy was made for, his eyes said. But before long, his elation was replaced by fear. What if the buffalo were to bear his child, he thought. He was too young to know better, and the prospect of encountering progeny with two legs more than his own proved to be so scary that he returned to the stable that night and poisoned the buffalo. Once the beast was dead, he felt he could breathe again.
As on past occasions, recalling the incident never failed to excite the minister, and he rubbed his messy right hand on his wife’s pillowcase. He had hoped masturbation would relieve him, but he continued to feel ill at ease. He wondered what he would have to do this time—now that his son had shot the nation’s most famous star.
That chutiya has poisoned the buffalo, the minister contemplated bitterly. Now I’m going to have to clean up the remains.
10
‘I was with her the night before,’ Samar said, his voice quivering like a candle flame, ‘at her apartment.’
Leo said, ‘I know.’ He noticed a half-eaten sandwich on the piano, before which Samar was seated, his feet on the rung of the stool. Mr Ward-Davies sat next to him, his head resting on the floor, tail between his legs.
‘We were together until almost one in the morning.’
‘Why haven’t you eaten lunch?’ Leo asked gently.
‘She was wearing her long blue dress. She looked beautiful, wounded, a little lost.’
‘Stop, baby. You can’t…’
Samar wiped his cheeks. ‘She was on my lap in the ambulance, Leo. She was clutching on to my hand.’
‘You were there for her.’
‘And then she said something to me.’
‘What did she say?’ Leo leaned forward.
‘She was in unbearable pain…She was writhing as if she wanted to fling her life out of her.’
‘What did she say to you, baby?’
Samar clasped and unclasped his hands. ‘Who am I going to steal flowers with?’ He buried his face in his palms.
‘Huh?’ Leo looked on helplessly, suddenly feeling excluded and small.
‘Who am I going to steal flowers with?’
‘What’re you talking about, Samar?’
‘The garden in Dubash House…’
Leo looked at Mr Ward-Davies who had now pressed his head between his paws. Although the dog could not understand the severity of the situation Leo knew he could feel Samar’s pain deep in his bones.
After a week Zaira’s body was released for the last rites. Her head had been picked for the bullet. Her flesh was cold and dehydrated from the days in the morgue freezer.
Karan accompanied Samar to the morg
ue. Zaira was shown to Samar one last time; then her coffin was closed and carted off to the van. On the way to the burial ground Samar threw up in the car. Karan had never seen such violent retching: it was as if Samar’s elemental principle, the composite of his instinct, memory and emotion, had been forced out. Karan reached for his handkerchief to clean the mess on Samar’s trousers. Leo, who was driving, looked stricken, and discreetly shielded his nose with his hand. Karan asked if they could stop for a drink of water but Samar was keen to get to the cemetery where he expected chaos.
Thousands of fans had gathered outside the cemetery.
Outdoor broadcasting vans and photographers had laid siege to the entrance to record the arrival of celebrities. An anonymous wail sporadically struck the hot air like a spear. It would take an hour, at the least, to reach the entrance to the cemetery. Much to Samar’s dismay the police officer on duty asked him who he was. When he said he was Zaira’s friend the police officer refused to believe him and pushed him to the side. Luckily, Karan caught the eye of the editor of India Chronicle, who knew enough people to get them entry into the grounds.
Karan stood next to Samar, who stared fixedly at Zaira’s grave; rage had now come to occupy the dark chasm of his grief. Leo noticed an endless entourage of mourners—actors, producers, directors, editors of magazines, journalists, socialites—all nattily turned out. Most conspicuously, in a corner, clad in cool white salwar-kameezes and black shades, were Tara and Nalini Chopra, crying softly, inviting sympathy from bystanders and provoking shutterbug mania. Journalists who knew of Samar’s friendship with Zaira asked him incessant, moronic questions: ‘Sir, how do you feel?’ ‘How’re you taking her murder, sir?’ ‘How did you feel when you heard she had been shot?’ Samar did not utter a word and maintained an even, icy expression, though Karan could tell that he was seething inside.
‘It was such an ugly burial,’ Samar told Leo in the car on the way back from the funeral.
‘I agree; it was too public, too noisy.’
‘Journalists kept asking me how I was coping. I was tempted to say that I was fine, and that like many of the mourners I was going back to a film set. Or to a party.’
‘I’m glad you maintained a dignified silence.’
‘But I’m not going to maintain a “dignified silence” for long, Leo. I’m not going to let Malik get away.’
Leo could hear Samar’s teeth grind against each other. ‘Yes, Malik has to be punished. A cold-blooded murderer cannot be allowed to walk the streets.’
‘I’m going to fight this case to the end.’ Samar’s face was tight with determination.
‘I’m with you all the way.’
‘You know this might mess up your schedule? You may have to stay on in India longer than you’d like to, Leo.’
‘I couldn’t leave you alone, Samar. We’re gonna come through this. Zaira was my buddy too, remember?’
‘We met because of her.’
‘I remember the day she mentioned she knew you well. We were at a party in Delhi. She was eager for me to meet you…I had no idea she was setting us up…’
Samar’s eyes filled up.
‘I’ll stay on with you, Samar; I’m in it for the long haul.’
‘Thanks, Leo.’ Samar felt angry, and he was exhausted. He had not slept properly since the murder, and when he did sleep gruesome visions of Zaira’s last moments mangled his slumber.
‘You don’t have to thank me, baby; I’m with you each step of the way.’ Leo looked out of the window, snatched gasps of air; he was glad to be outside the stuffy cemetery, away from the crowds, the clamour. ‘Karan is a decent chap,’ he remarked.
Samar nodded. He would never forget the warm feel of Karan’s steady hand on his back after he had thrown up, the consolation and affirmation of that simple, profound gesture; something deep had opened up between them. ‘Karan will miss Zaira more than he knows now; the wound is not upon him yet.’
After the burial Karan had seen off Samar and Leo to their car and made his way straight to Rhea’s. She opened the door and in her eyes he saw the smouldering pain cleaving his heart. Quietly, she took Karan up the stairs and into her studio. For almost twenty minutes they sat in silence. He looked around, picking up a pot or an urn; she studied him cautiously, concerned. She did not probe by asking about the funeral.
He leaned against the door of her kiln. ‘I was with her and Samar in the ambulance.’
She came up to his side and stroked his hair.
‘You know what they say about death?’
‘They say a lot of things, Karan.’
‘They say that you leave peacefully. That there’s a glow on your face. Calm all around, angels, harps…white light…’
‘Karan…’
‘Behenchod!’
She had never heard him swear before; the word was raw, sheathed in tremendous rage. ‘Please…’
‘Zaira’s death was nothing like that. It was huge and angry. Like a demon or something.’ A loud, garbled sob rose from deep inside him and shook her. ‘You couldn’t comfort her even if you wanted to. She was staring at Samar like she was drinking him up.’
‘And Samar?’ she hesitated even as she asked.
‘Samar…he was…’ Karan’s face said it all. Samar was cored like an apple. ‘I couldn’t bear to go with him to the morgue.’
‘But you went?’
‘Yes; Leo said he was too nervous. Samar just stared at Zaira’s face; I could see a lifetime of memories in his eyes. He was so dignified, so contained in his grief.’
‘It must have been his greatest nightmare coming true—if you can have nightmares like that.’
‘Until that moment in the morgue, when I saw him standing before Zaira’s coffin, I had not seen him as a person. I saw him as a failed pianist, a tap dancer, a poser. But I did not see him for a man who had loved, and who could be dismantled by the loss of that love.’
‘I’m glad Samar did not have to go into the morgue alone.’
‘I had to see him hurt so badly to see him whole.’
Rhea was silent; she had not expected such a transformation in Karan. After a few moments, as she stroked his forehead tenderly, she asked, ‘What next?’
Drawing a deep breath Karan exhaled slowly. ‘The police will take over. Let’s see how the investigation goes.’
‘Samar is going to need all your help, Karan.’
‘I know.’
‘And don’t forget Zaira.’
‘Her, yes. But also Samar—particularly him.’
She enfolded him in her arms and together they wept, quietly, afraid of the world but united as never before.
A few days after the funeral, the investigating officer called Samar in for questioning.
An hour later Samar left the police station, disgusted.
The force with which Samar slammed the door of the car alarmed Leo. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They asked me about her. They asked me how much blood she had lost.’
Leo looked on, unable to say anything.
‘They asked me where I thought the bullet had entered her.’
‘Oh God!’ Leo started the car.
‘They asked me if I had seen Malik on the premises.’
‘You said yes, naturally.’
‘I did. Then they asked me if I had seen him shoot her. But I had not.’
‘You came clean.’
‘Of course.’
‘They asked me all manner of things.’ He shook his head. ‘They asked me if she and I had been having it off…if she lost consciousness before or after the ambulance came…if I could have done anything to prevent her death…’
They drove forward in silence. There were few cars on the street. At the traffic light, a man in an outlandish turban walked around selling strawberries and a leprous beggar was soliciting cash from a woman in a BMW.
‘Did you speak with your editor?’ Samar asked.
‘Yes,’ Leo said. ‘I talked with Sally, and she said I could
stay on in India as long as I continued to send her pieces from here.’
‘I’m glad you’ll be here, Leo; it means the world to me.’ He caressed Leo’s shoulder. ‘You have been such a brick throughout.’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t dream of being any place else.’ They were on Worli Seaface when Leo added, ‘Sally also suggested I write about what we’re all going through.’
‘Really?’ Samar cocked him a look.
‘She said I could send dispatches on the murder trial.’
‘She actually suggested that?’
‘And as I’m on the inside—so to speak—I could write from a vantage point that nobody else would have on the subject,’ he said excitedly. ‘Sally said it’s a subject worthy of investigation, and that my pieces could ultimately add up to a book!’
‘A book.’ Samar sounded incredulous.
‘You know, kind of a subcontinental In Cold Blood.’ He paused, wondering if Samar was familiar with the title he had mentioned. ‘It’s a book by Truman Capote,’ he said helpfully.
‘I read In Cold Blood when I was fourteen,’ Samar said sharply. ‘Are you just scrambling for a nice way to tell me Zaira’s death is “material”?’
‘I…wouldn’t phrase it quite like that.’ Leo looked out of the car window; the veins on his neck throbbed. His eyes relaxed on the topography, buildings melting into each other, billboards splashing colour on the cement blur.
‘I guess I’m asking you if her murder is just another book for you.’
‘That’s a shoddy thing to say, Samar; I take offence to that.’
‘You take offence?’ He shook his head.
‘Look, I’m only trying to find my sanity in this calamity. You think this hasn’t taken me apart? Writing will give me perspective on the entire incident. I want,’ he said with a gulp, ‘closure.’
The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay Page 13
