The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay

by Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi

  ‘You seem to care a lot about this Tara Chopra.’ Rupa Mishra suspected that if he was no longer attracted to her it was because he had been spending time with fancy folks from the fashion fraternity.

  ‘No…no…It’s nothing like that…’

  Earlier that week D.K. Mishra had called Tara Chopra in for questioning. After the interrogation, impressed with her tube top and fitted leggings, he had eyeballed her one moment too long and she had stormed off in a huff. He recalled now that a word—WHATEVER—had been emblazoned in tiny letters on the front of her tube top.

  ‘How many times have you questioned Tara Chopra?’ Rupa asked her husband combatively.

  ‘A few times.’

  ‘How many times?’ she thundered.

  ‘Cool it, Rupa. She must have come in two or three times.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve got your answers and you don’t have to call the whore in for questioning again.’

  ‘If you think I’m being defensive about her it’s only because she doesn’t deserve to suffer for no real fault of her own. Picture her in some stinking jail. A butch skinhead Nigerian pedlar hissing at her: Gimme some of that Page 3 pussy!’

  After many weeks, both of them laughed heartily. The tension in their bed lifted for a few minutes.

  When they sobered down a little, D.K. Mishra turned to his wife, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, and said, ‘The minister wants me to get rid of one more piece of evidence.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When the police questioned Malik for the first time they broke him. He had confessed to the murder.’

  ‘So, what more do you need to nail him?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Rupa. For any confession to hold in court it has to be recorded before a magistrate. Only then does it qualify as legal evidence.’

  ‘Are you saying that the CD containing Malik’s confession is not admissible evidence?’

  ‘Yes—because it was not recorded before a magistrate.’

  ‘Why didn’t the police record it before a magistrate, then?’

  ‘I think they forgot.’

  ‘They forgot!’

  He looked at her and curled his lips. Why on earth was she screaming like a witch being burnt at the stake?

  ‘So what will this CD achieve?’ Disappointment tolled through her voice like a church bell; her faith in the weird workings of Indian law was about as strong as her faith in her husband’s dick.

  ‘It could potentially sway the judge in favour of a guilty verdict—even if this CD doesn’t count, per se, as evidence. Besides, can you imagine if the press ever got their hands on it?’

  ‘Will you destroy the CD?’

  ‘That would be wrong.’

  ‘Then what is the right thing to do?’

  The right thing to do. He thought that was the primmest thing he had ever heard. He was silent for a few minutes. He had been in talks with Minister Prasad; initially the interactions had been pleasant but when he had resisted the minister’s offers, the minister had threatened to have him transferred. However, D.K. Mishra was in no mood to tell the resident nymphomaniac a word of this.

  ‘Let’s just go to bed.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course; there’s only sleep for you and me now.’

  ‘Don’t be a bitch!’ he roared.

  She countered in an equally loud voice: ‘Then tell me you’ll share the CD with the prosecution.’

  ‘Probably not…I’m tired now, Rupa. Let’s just sleep.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m not a weak man.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘By the way, Rupa, have you put on some more weight?’

  ‘If anything, I’ve reduced!’ She was outraged. ‘Now, good night and sweet dreams!’

  ‘Good night then,’ he said dejectedly.

  After ten minutes, a whisper lunged at him. ‘I love you, no matter…’

  D.K. Mishra wanted to punch his wife. Instead, he pretended he was asleep. He could not stop marvelling at how easily he could go from loving her to loathing her.

  15

  The instant Mrs Prasad heard her husband put out a call to Judge Kumar, she left the living room. An army of wild green grasshoppers had laid siege to the veranda. Dazed by the almost apocalyptic presence of the insects, she froze. The grasshoppers leapt and whirred around her, on her, leaving behind a sticky deposit on her skin.

  Retreating toward the wall she closed her eyes.

  Her mind slid back to the year after Malik’s birth, when she had discovered she was pregnant again.

  Waking one afternoon from her slumber she had found her young, ambitious husband in a terrific rage; he had lost a round of local elections. Later that day, he beat her black and blue. Early next morning the foetus, six months and nine days old, had left her body in a rush of blood and thick, sticky brown fluid. Unable to deal with the abortion he had caused, the minister had fled the family home and hid for two months in his farmhouse in Haryana. Upon his return, he had been mellow, cajoling, attentive even, and one night, in a hysterical sobbing fit, pleaded for her forgiveness. Just when she had begun to hope her marriage could be saved, he tried to console her saying she should not feel too bad about the loss of the child: It had been a girl. His exact words—it was just as well—had haunted her ever after, and she had pulled back into herself like one of those exotic caged animals that possess all the characteristics for which they are duly prized, but defeated by incarceration and by their captors are no longer truly alive.

  Malik’s trial had brought Mrs Prasad to life again: the blatant lack of interest in her, following her son’s escapade, had reconfirmed her remarkable insignificance. Not a single journalist had asked Mrs Prasad what it was like to be a murderer’s mother; this was just as well because she suspected that her answer would have terrified them. Malik was innocent, she would have said. Of course, she did not think for a moment that Malik had not shot Zaira, but he was innocent in spite of it. A mother, after all, could be senseless with love, and what she would call innocent was a life that could have been chaste but for the violations inflicted upon it. She would never know how Malik would have turned out if he had not been fathered by Minister Prasad; perhaps he would have been a murderer nonetheless, but the idea that he might have had another, cleaner life saddened and thrilled her in equal measure.

  During the uproar of the trial the one person she had most wanted to meet was Samar. She had no idea about Samar’s private life; she had assumed him to be Zaira’s lover. As she imagined Samar’s rage and dejection, she was subsumed with awe, not only because he had been brave enough to love but braver still to stand up and fight for what that love now meant. She was desperate to meet Samar, to sit down with him and apologize for what could not be atoned for. She did not feel any less loyal to Malik; if anything, the tired wing of her being could extend over Samar and draw him into its sanctuary. After all, Samar had been vandalized by the same man who had vandalized Malik and her, and although she lacked the sophistication to convey either her guilt or an apology, her hurt was deep enough to give both men shelter.

  Over the last few months Mrs Prasad had heard her husband talk to D.K. Mishra, the investigating officer, on several occasions. She had overheard one particular discussion that had started off cordially but ended in a roar and a holler: her husband had offered D.K. Mishra a ‘gift’, but the investigating officer had declined. The minister had got increasingly upset and as he yelled obscenities into the phone he had threatened not only to have D.K. Mishra transferred but also to get his wife raped. Mrs Prasad felt bad for D.K. Mishra: if he had embarked on the investigation believing he would have the culprit punished, then a single phone call from her husband was good enough to make him change his mind. D.K. Mishra would have gathered from the grapevine why no witness was prepared to come forward, and also of the loot Bunty Oberoi had made for himself. It was wise to side with the minister because the evidence had been skewed from the start, the police had bun
gled on gathering evidence, and the witnesses had been bought over. If D.K. Mishra rallied on, he would go down alone on a sinking ship; in fact, Mrs Prasad was afraid for him, for she knew her husband well enough to believe he would make good on all his threats.

  No wonder she felt she was watching two trials unfold: one public, and publicly discussed, fuelled by the media’s naive fury and the public’s castrated shock; the other private, and privately fought, entirely of her husband’s creation and under his control. In moments of fancy she imagined that she had the guts to reach out to the press or ankle it over to the courthouse and reveal that her husband had rigged the case beyond recall. However, she quickly put such wild thoughts out of her head, knowing that she would pay for such indiscretion with her life.

  As the insects slowly retreated from her body, as the whirring and flapping paled and passed, she overheard her husband talking to the judge.

  ‘What a wonderful day for us to connect!’ Minister Prasad assured Judge Kumar.

  ‘Is it?’ The sessions court judge, who had served as a lawyer for thirteen years before his current tenure, was not used to high-profile ministers calling him at home.

  ‘Our families are connected, you do remember? Your sister’s mother-in-law and my mother were best friends in school.’

  He sighed; was there a point to this Rotary function rubbish? ‘Minister Prasad, I’m about to leave for a family function. How can I help you?’

  The judge’s response raised the minister’s hackles, but he knew it was not yet time to throw his weight around. ‘Oh, Judge-saab, I’m so sorry to have caught you at a bad time.’

  ‘It is not a bad time,’ he said. ‘I’m just, well, busy.’

  ‘I completely understand.’

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Well, as you know the Congress Party has long been in contest with the Hindu People’s Party.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they’ve used every dirty card in the pack to malign the HPP.’

  ‘Mr Prasad, I really don’t have the time for a lecture on the history of the antagonism between the Congress Party and the Hindu People’s Party…’

  ‘This is not a lecture!’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not news to you that the Congress Party has already been blamed for the Partition riots of 1947, the rise in the price of onions, the rings of Saturn and the drought in Kutch. The party has quite a cross to bear, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘The Congress Party is the bane of modern India,’ the minister said, oblivious to the sarcasm dripping from the judge’s voice. ‘But we don’t really need to talk about the Congress Party. I had called to tell you that I feel awful that a man of your excellent calibre should be stuck in a lowly sessions court. However, I understand that you are busy. We shall speak on a better day.’

  ‘No, that’s quite all right,’ Judge Kumar said hurriedly. The minister had sized up his situation perfectly, for few things were more depressing to the judge than the day-to-day drudgery of the trial court. ‘How is it that you know how I feel about working at the trial courts?’

  ‘Word gets around, as you know.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Besides, you’re also looking into the murder case of that item girl.’

  ‘Zaira.’

  ‘And unfortunately…’

  ‘I know, I know.’ The judge smiled to himself; the minister’s pathetic charade was coming apart, his true intention laid bare.

  ‘But I am not calling you about the Zaira case.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not.’

  When he was nervous, Minister Chander Prasad had a habit of scratching his balls so savagely that his pubic lice experienced multiple orgasms. ‘Many of us here in Delhi are concerned about your promotion to your rightful position.’

  ‘Who are these “many” in Delhi?’

  ‘The people in power, who make things happen,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Well, I’m convinced that when they get to know you’re doing an excellent job, a promotion to the high court will be inevitable.’ He continued to scratch himself, though his voice remained even.

  ‘You believe that, do you?’

  ‘I am certain of it! And from the high court, who can stop you from rising?’

  ‘One can only hope,’ the judge said shyly.

  ‘But if you don’t speed up a verdict in the Zaira case…’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I understand your position,’ Minister Prasad consoled. ‘The police are dragging their heels. The media is having a field day because some starlet had her brains blown up. But the burden is on you to smoothen the course of justice. Because,’ he added, his voice suddenly taking on a menacing tone, ‘the longer this case drags on, the longer you’ll be stuck in trial court. Zaira’s murder trial could turn into the millstone around your neck. And there are still two witnesses left to take the stand…’

  ‘Well, a logical conclusion is likely to come about in due course.’

  ‘Before that happens I must warn you about Samar Arora.’

  Judge Kumar’s ears perked up. ‘The pianist? Zaira’s close friend. One of the witnesses. What about him?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not as innocent as he seems.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Minister Prasad sighed. ‘How can we have this conversation without compromising on our basic human decency? What I’m about to tell you, Judge-saab, is perverse…perhaps we should let it go…’

  ‘No, no, do go on. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s sickening! An insult to Indian culture, an abomination of our values.’

  ‘Please, Minister Prasad, just speak your mind!’

  ‘Well, it’s best to tell it like it is. I understand Samar Arora is having it off with a man.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘An affair.’

  ‘Say nothing further, Minister Prasad.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have spoiled your evening with such news.’

  ‘But you were quite right to tell me.’

  ‘I had to; it was my moral duty.’

  In a quiet voice, the judge asked, ‘But how can you be so sure that once I do expedite a verdict in this case, the high court bench will come through?’

  ‘Oh, Judge Kumar!’ The minister felt triumphant almost, confident that his latest victim had bitten the bait. ‘Didn’t I tell you we’re family friends? Let me remind you that in Delhi we are admiring your progress as a judge. A great man like you, of such a high calibre, has to go up to the next level. Why don’t you call on us when you are in town again, Judge Kumar.’

  ‘It’s unlikely I’ll be in Delhi any time soon.’

  ‘It’s equally unlikely I will be in Bombay,’ Minister Prasad snapped, ‘but that hasn’t stopped me from helping you.’

  ‘You’ve helped me?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let me give you my mobile number,’ the judge said quickly. It seemed foolish to give grief to the man who could give his career one of its biggest boosts.

  ‘I’d be glad to have it.’

  ‘Next time, please call me on my mobile.’

  ‘Discretion is my middle name, Judge Kumar. Once you are promoted to the high court, it will be a suitable occasion for me—a humble servant of the Indian masses—to come to Bombay and congratulate you in person.’

  ‘I look forward to that very much.’ The words escaped the judge’s mouth involuntarily, like a premature ejaculation.

  16

  A week before she was to testify in court, Nalini Chopra’s phone rang just as she was leaving for a direly needed touch-up job to keep the blonde streaks in her hair intact.

  She did not make it for her salon appointment. Instead, twenty minutes later, she was on her way to meet her daughter at the Taj Mahal Hotel’s Library Bar, a hastily arranged rendezvous to confer on the latest development in her life.

  ‘How did that slimeball get hold of you?’ Tara Chopra, thin as a rail, with her mother’s bedroom eyes, looked stunning in a calf-length denim skirt and
a beige leather jacket.

  ‘He was quite clever; he rang on my cellphone.’ Their landlines were under police scrutiny.

  Tara sipped at the double Scotch she had ordered. ‘I hear he’s pure evil.’

  ‘He was actually quite polite, beta.’

  ‘But he’s, like, this politician. And he’s from Delhi or something!’

  Nalini Chopra gazed philosophically into her brandy snifter. The minister had said that if she denied in court that Malik had been present at Maya Bar on the night of the murder, he could help her by making the police forget about the bar’s missing liquor licence.

  This was no small matter. If they were convicted, mother and daughter would end up in the slammer themselves, giving a whole new twist to the term ‘jailbird’.

  ‘I can’t believe the hell we’re going through!’ Tara twirled her hair with her fingers. ‘All because some chick was shot in my bar.’

  ‘I know, baby,’ her mother purred. ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, it was a party, for God’s sake. People get drunk. Stuff happens, y’know what I mean? This is life. And life is beautiful and twisted. You gotta take the good with the bad.’

  ‘Of course.’ Nalini Chopra toyed nervously with the bead necklace around her haggard neck.

  ‘It’s so unfair for the police to go after us. And not one person has come forward to defend us!’

  ‘Now it’s you and me against the whole cruel world, Mummy!’

  ‘These two-faced high society scumbags give brown trash a bad name! As for that scoundrel Bunty Oberoi…’

  ‘Oh, don’t say a word about Bunty…’

  ‘If he’d stuck to his statement, we wouldn’t be in this mess. His word would have been enough to carry the case through and we would not be in such a vulnerable position.’

  ‘Well, maybe not…’ Tara had quite a crush on him. He had walked the ramp for one of her shows and she had gone down on him only a few months ago, during the Delhi Fashion Week. ‘But he’s kinda cute.’