Samar had no choice but to watch Leo storm off. He looked at Mr Ward-Davies, who was staring up at him curiously. ‘Let’s go hunt out the Arnica,’ he told his dog. ‘I hear it’s the best thing for shock.’
12
Minister Chander Prasad was fuming.
Every newspaper was on his case about the ‘Zaira Murder Trial’. Television anchors were trailing him like a pack of bloodthirsty piranhas. To top it all, pressure was mounting from several leaders of the HPP. They had conveyed their collective displeasure at his involvement, not on moral grounds but from fear that the opposition would use the scandal to bring the party down. If Malik was tried and sentenced, Minister Prasad would pretty much have to kiss his career goodbye. After all, how seriously would they take him in Parliament if his son was doing time in Tihar? Perturbed by the public resentment toward Malik, he grew desperate to see his son—and himself—emerge from the tamasha without a scratch.
The minister had an astute grasp of the Indian legal machinery, a colonial beast drenched in archaic colours. The legal system was principally adversarial in nature; the prosecution had to prove the guilt of the accused beyond all reasonable doubt. The accused was innocent until proven guilty. In theory, the Indian court system was unconcerned with detecting and punishing Zaira’s killer: what was at stake here was proving that Malik was not the guilty party. So it was vital for the defence to plant seeds of doubt wherever possible so that suspicion was diverted from the accused: to achieve this, certain steps had to be in place. Without wasting another moment the minister called Ram Dube, head of the forensics laboratory to which the evidence in Zaira’s murder case had been assigned.
Over the years, Ram Dube had helped the minister out in several cases—strategic assistance that had eventually led to successful acquittals. And Ram Dube would never forget the minister’s generosity: for helping out with one key acquittal a few years earlier, he had been rewarded with twenty-five acres of land in Haryana.
Minister Prasad was aware that Ram Dube’s daughter, all of eighteen, aspired to attend medical school. So he followed up the initial pleasantries with the gambit of a little harmless banter on educational matters.
‘So, what has come of Lata’s admissions, then?’
‘Lata?’
‘Lata—your daughter.’
‘You mean Shabnam.’
‘Didn’t you have a daughter called Lata?’ His voice was stern, like a headmaster interrogating a particularly doltish student.
‘No, I have only one daughter, Minister-saab. She is called Shabnam.’
‘Are you sure?’ The minister sounded exasperated.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, what about her admissions?’
‘It is all very difficult, Minister-saab. She is super-brilliant, of course, but none of the universities are prepared to see this.’ The minister remembered that Shabnam Dube had inherited her father’s mousy appearance: dark and hirsute, with tombstone teeth and a dank, musky odour. She also had a flourishing moustache. ‘These days the competition is mind-boggling.’
‘What would La—, er, Shabnam like to specialize in?’
‘We expect nothing fancy,’ Ram Dube said bashfully. ‘Just for her to be the greatest pathologist in the history of modern India.’
‘Pathologist?’ the minister repeated. ‘Shabnam will study shit for a living?’
‘She is,’ Dube said in a flood of loyalty, ‘clever, kind-hearted, charming, muscular’—he paused—‘and a very highly exciting girl.’
The minister hiked his eyebrows. A very highly exciting girl? What did that mean? But he decided not to probe. ‘What if she doesn’t get into medical school?’
‘We’ll get her married off if she fails.’
‘Don’t lose hope so easily, Ram.’
‘But if none of the good universities will…’
‘In which university do you want admission for the girl? Why haven’t you called me till now?’
‘It is a small matter. I feared I would be disturbing you.’
‘But we have known each other for years. I am like her uncle. Now tell me, which university does she hope to attend?’
Ram Dube rattled off a list of high-ranking medical colleges, and reminded the minister again that none of them had been particularly taken with his daughter’s ‘super-brilliance’.
‘Just send me a letter with the name of the university she wishes to attend. Let me see what I can do.’
‘Sir…you are too kind.’ Ram Dube’s pulse quickened, sweat streamed down his cheeks. He could picture his daughter on her graduation day, standing in a flowing black robe and funny hat, a scroll of papers in her hand; he could picture her bent over a microscope in a lab. Her future appeared so blazingly bright, he was tempted to shield his eyes.
‘What is there, Ram,’ said the minister benevolently. ‘We are bum chums, no?’
‘Sir, I will be forever in your debt.’ Ram Dube wiped his underarm with his fist.
‘Send me a letter with all the details.’
‘I will.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sir, is there anything I can do for you?’
‘I hate to trouble you…’
‘Just tell me, sir.’
‘You know this whole dead actress situation has got out of hand.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The news channels covered nothing other than Zaira’s murder; the trial had become a national obsession.
‘And you know my son has been named key accused in the matter of this dead item?’
‘This is most unfortunate.’
‘It is only a conspiracy of the opposition to bring me down.’
‘I have been sensing it from day one.’
‘They’re trying to get my son because I am much too powerful to touch.’
‘They will go to any lengths, these people.’
‘And my poor boy…’
‘…is the victim of political crossfire.’
‘You’ve really managed to take in the situation, Ram.’
‘Political rivalry is full of such dirty tactics, Minister-saab. It is kalyug, the age when evil will win and good must suffer.’
‘I know, I know. Such is life…’ The minister sighed. ‘I don’t want to fail my son.’
‘You shouldn’t have to. No parent should fail their children’s expectations.’
‘I believe the bullets found at that bar have come to your department for investigation?’ The investigating teams had recovered two bullets—one from the ceiling at Maya Bar, the other from Zaira’s temple—both of which had made their way to the forensics department.
‘Yes sir.’
‘These bullets have been traced to the gun for which my son owns a licence?’
‘That is correct.’
‘This is a terrible coincidence! It will only suggest that my son has shot that dirty Bollywood whore. I need help to sort out this lafda, Ram.’
‘By all means, Minister-saab. It is just a set-up to sully your honour and disgrace the Hindu People’s Party. That will not happen as long as I am here.’
The minister shared his scheme with Ram Dube: What if the ballistic report to be made under Ram Dube’s supervision to serve as evidence in court were to imply that the bullets, although identical in model, had been shot from two different guns? Could it not be that after Malik had shot at the ceiling, someone else present at the bar, who possessed the very same model, had shot Zaira?
‘Do you get what I am saying, Ram?’
‘Yes, that there were two persons with two guns at Maya Bar. But, Minister-saab, where is the other man and his gun?’
‘I have been wondering the same thing myself.’
‘The police are taking your son for a ride, sir, because they cannot find the real murderer.’
‘The police…’ The minister shuddered. ‘The less said of those corrupt bastards, the better.’
‘But it is essential to establish your point early on in the investigation.’
‘I agree completel
y! So you shall look into this matter?’
‘Consider it already looked into.’
‘This is very good of you, Ram.’
‘Thank you, Minister-saab. So I will send the letter of request to your house?’
‘Letter?’
‘For the medical college admission.’
‘College admission?’
‘For Shabnam.’
‘Shabnam?’
‘My daughter, sir. We talked about her pathology degree. She is super…’
‘Of course, of course,’ the minister said distractedly as he wiped his damp palms over his trademark white kurta. ‘Send it to my house.’
13
Bombay, morning.
Sunlight pushed through the silver sheath at the horizon. The hot industrial night wore off into the slothful green of the rain trees. Muscular rat trappers emerged from filthy narrow sewers, slaughtered vermin strung over their shoulders. The rattle of aluminium canisters, milkmen on their early shift, competed with the diabolic, throaty rasp of rooks perched on jacaranda trees. Little children stood in indolent clusters under leafy canopies, waiting for school buses that would come hurtling towards them like demons in the great myths. At this blessed hour, one man struggled to disengage himself from his wife, a task that was not without its sweet agony. He slid back and propped himself up against the headboard, then turned to look again at the sleeping form next to him.
Adi’s eyes fell on the button of flesh on Rhea’s forearm, a childhood vaccination mark, a private hieroglyph that instantly took him back to the day he had gifted his wife fireflies in a jam jar.
At fifteen, Adi was not of the legal age to drive, but one evening, when his father was out of town, he got into the family car and made a beeline for the national park. He had resolved to bring Rhea fireflies after she had complained of dreaming about the peculiar insects; she said she was unable to fall asleep afterwards. But, she added brightly, her father, Dr Thacker, had given her a meaningful analysis of her dream. When Adi asked her for the gist of Dr Thacker’s analysis she refused to divulge the details. Feeling incompetent before her father’s skills at unravelling the intricate knots of Rhea’s inner life he decided that if he helped her confront her dream it might somehow arrest its troubling recurrence. And so he was on his way to the national park, humming along to the Ellington ditty jamming on his stereo.
When he reached the national park he parked his car by a dense grove of bamboos, then ventured into the dim, cool forest with its rarefied monsoonal air. As he walked into a grove of kadam trees near the Kanheri Caves he heard the piercing shrieks of bright parakeets soaring overhead. A little way into the forest he saw a furry brown animal, rather like a civet, snarl and then scurry for cover; the hair on his arms grew erect with dread. The burnt cobalt sky turned scarlet and, before long, the thick smoke of dusk had shrouded the day. Against such a mysterious sylvan canvas fireflies made their appearance, shimmering like embers. Finding it tricky to capture the insects, which were soon floating all around him, Adi decided to go after the ones lurking under leaves high up on the trees. As he ascended the first tree he felt its weak branches crack under his weight, and nearly came crashing to the ground. He tried again, succeeding on this attempt. Half an hour later he returned to his car with a jar full of fireflies sparkling like the sighing of comets.
He drove up to Rhea’s house.
She opened the door, a physics textbook in her hand; she looked a little flustered. ‘Adi…what a surprise.’
‘This is for you.’
As Rhea extended her hands to receive the jar Adi’s eyes fell on the scar on her upper arm.
‘Why are your arms and legs grazed?’ she asked.
‘It’s nothing, Rhea. I should get going.’
‘And there are leaves in your hair.’
‘Keep the jar by your bedside,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps now the fireflies won’t haunt your dreams.’
‘Your hands are bleeding. Should I get some Dettol?’
But Adi was already backing away.
In the car, Adi sensed something had changed between them; she was no longer her father’s daughter, she was no longer exclusive. What cemented this impression was the image of the inoculation scar on her arm—it was as if she had revealed to him her deepest secret. Adi returned home lifted by the delectable possibility of their life together.
Now, years later, lying in bed beside Rhea, he thought of the first time he had seen the scar, how it had solidified an unspoken pact between them. He leaned to kiss her naked arm.
She woke to the touch of his lips. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Ssh…go back to sleep.’
‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes were heavy with sleep.
‘Remembering the fireflies I got you.’
‘How come?’
He kissed her arm again, as though anointing the scar. ‘What a long way we’ve come from that day,’ he said, so softly she could not hear him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, rising. ‘I should get ready.’
‘I’ll meet you at the breakfast table,’ she said, pulling the white sheets up to her neck. ‘Let me grab a few more minutes of sleep.’
‘Sure,’ he said before making his way to the bathroom to shower. ‘Take all the time you need.’
At the table, tucking into the breakfast Lila-bai had laid out for him, Adi set about reading the Times of India. Presently, Rhea entered the room; before settling on the chair beside him she stretched and muffled a yawn, then glanced at the newspaper in his hand. ‘Are the papers still at it about the murder?’ she asked, her brow pinched.
‘There have been way too many slip-ups during the investigation.’ He added that the report in the Times of India said the dress Zaira had worn on the night she was shot dead—currently the subject of vicious censure by the Hindu People’s Party—was missing from the collage of evidence. None of the officers who had been interrogated could explain where or how it had gone missing.
‘Obviously Minister Prasad got to it.’ She poured herself a cup of black tea.
‘You think?’
‘He’s bent on destroying all the evidence; he’ll do anything to weaken the case against his son.’
‘Malik Prasad intrigues me.’
‘How odd.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is odd to not only be intrigued by a murderer but to also sympathize with him.’
‘You sympathize with Malik?’ A muscle in her neck tightened.
‘I feel Malik has got lost in a maze of the media’s glib clichés: the spoilt rich kid, the spurned lover, the bad guy.’
Rhea drank her tea without further comment.
Adi feared he had said too much. In the last few weeks he had come to feel a great deal of pity for Malik. In fact, he remembered the instance when he started to feel sorry for Malik. It was on a moonless night in Singapore, when he had been missing Rhea terribly. He had called her several times but she had not answered the phone. A thick, viscous dread had congealed in his chest; her unavailability had implied she was either in her studio or was otherwise occupied, and it hurt him to have to explore the various venal possibilities. Where was she? Had she stepped out of the house? Had she unplugged the phone? Was she entertaining someone he did not know? Panicking, Adi’s mind spiralled toward a cluster of impractical and illogical thoughts. If they were ever to be separated, he thought, he would not be able to bear the loss. Her death, if that was the cause of separation, would leave him inconsolable, but her defection from their marriage would earn his cyclonic wrath. Now, at the breakfast table, he recalled the widely public stories of Zaira spurning Malik, and he thought of Malik not simply as a murderer but also as the subject of unrequited love; his sympathy, he realized, would be deemed obscene by any standards.
Rhea said, ‘Well, I hear a lot of people have been gutted by Zaira’s demise.’
‘Samar Arora, for starters.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, thinking of Karan in her stu
dio, crying in her arms. ‘Among others. It’s a real pity…She was an awful actress, though.’
‘She was getting better with each film.’
‘She was way over-hyped, Adi.’
‘Her last film was pretty good. She had talent.’
‘Are you joking? She was drop-dead sexy—that was her only talent.’ Rhea shook her head and poured herself some more tea.
Adi flinched. ‘Well, I liked her work.’
‘More so after she died?’
He glared at her.
She proceeded to butter his toast idly. ‘Long day?’ she asked.
His day would start with an appointment at the Oberoi, he said, followed by a teleconference with the team in Singapore, and it would wind up with a board meeting back at the office. Munching on his toast, he asked what she had planned for the day.
Rhea had to be at the animal shelter at ten-thirty. ‘Rekha’s getting married,’ she said, referring to one of her co-workers. ‘I’ll have to fill in for her.’
‘Don’t you ever get fed up of the shelter?’ Adi had been to the shelter only once, when he had gone to pick her up after her car had broken down. He had never wanted to go back: the rank odour of excreta, the premises teeming with sick animals, groaning, barking, looking balefully out of their dirty cages—he had found it repugnant.
‘It’s mind-numbing on most mornings,’ she admitted, ‘heartbreaking on others. But you need to take a deep breath and chug right along.’
‘You’re a real trooper, you know.’
‘I’ve got the skin of a rhino, jaan.’
‘And what are you doing in the afternoon?’
‘After I cover Rekha’s shift, I’m back for a late lunch.’
‘And then pottery?’
‘Yes, although I might step out at three.’
He stood up, opened his attaché and began rummaging through it. ‘What gives?’
‘Oh—’ For a moment she looked like someone who had missed a step on a ladder. ‘I have…I have…to buy some clay, from Kumbharwada.’
The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay Page 15
