by Salil Desai
Motkar crossed the small 15 x 10 hall and walked left into the even smaller bedroom. A shudder passed through him as he regarded the conspicuous signs of violence done to the unfortunate woman’s body. She had been assaulted and choked—her throat and right temple bearing the marks of the brutality perpetrated on her. But what turned even Motkar’s gutsy stomach was the horrible disfigurement of her face with some sort of acid. It had left behind a lumpy, grotesque mask of raw, bloody flesh of what had once been a human face.
“Oh, my God!” Motkar said, averting his eyes involuntarily then forcing himself to look at the body again. “Did you find the bottle containing the acid used?” he asked.
“No. Maybe forensics will find it,” PSI Sarode replied. “The man’s left a suicide cum confession note. It says he killed his wife because she was having an affair and that he was also taking his own life.” He beckoned a forensic assistant who came over with the note.
PSI Motkar quickly read it. His mobile rang just as he finished. It was Saralkar. “Where is this damn Aparna Society? Nobody seems to know it.”
“Not Aparna Society, sir. I had said Atharva Apartments,” Motkar clarified. “You probably heard wrongly . . .”
“Nonsense. Aparna Society does not in the least sound like Atharva Apartments.”
Motkar refrained from arguing with his boss and quickly gave directions after checking where exactly the senior inspector was.
“Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes,” Saralkar said.
“I’ll come down to meet you, sir,” Motkar replied then hesitated before putting his foot in his mouth. “Actually it’s a ghastly sight and the stench is terrible. You need not come up if you don’t wish to . . .”
His clumsy effort to protect his boss was greeted with typical Saralkar disdain. “Don’t be cheeky, Motkar. I’ve seen more dead bodies than you have, so don’t worry, I’m not going to vomit all over you.”
He hung up and PSI Motkar wished his boss wasn’t forever touchy and looking for malice in every spoken word. But then he wouldn’t remain Saralkar, would he.
Although he wouldn’t admit it, Senior Inspector Saralkar always had to brace himself for the ordeal of seeing dead bodies of victims of violence and crime. He had sufficient experience as a homicide officer to make do with photos of the corpses and visit the crime scene after the bodies had been removed.
But it wasn’t just a sense of duty or the need not to appear weak that prompted him to put himself through the ritual again and again. Nor was it a sleuthing imperative for him as if it would provide greater illumination in cracking the crime.
Saralkar actually chose to do so because seeing victims in the state they were found gave a personal edge to his professional motivation to solve the crime. It made the senior inspector feel a higher responsibility because at a deeper level the tragedy touched him first-hand.
He clicked his tongue now with irritation, realising that Atharva Apartments had no lift. The smell caught up with him on the second floor and by the time he reached the top, Saralkar already knew it was going to require enormous will power not to throw up.
PSI Motkar was waiting outside the flat along with Sarode and the constables, as if Saralkar were a visiting dignitary about to be shown around. The expression on Motkar’s face was almost like an advisory to him: ‘Don’t do it, big mouth! You might regret it.’
Saralkar felt an urge to snap at Motkar but dared not open his mouth. Chances were words wouldn’t be the only things that would fly out.
The next two minutes were probably the longest of Saralkar’s life, as they stepped into the flat. The stench was like a sharp weapon that penetrated straight into his innards. At any moment, Saralkar knew, he was in danger of making a fool of himself in the presence of junior officers. He reached into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief and pressed it against his nose and mouth, biting back the bile that was threatening to surge up from his stomach. His eyes desperately tried to take in the gruesome scene and his ears the words of Motkar and Sarode, wondering if the acute distress he was experiencing due to the appalling odour had made his blood pressure shoot up even further.
By some miracle Saralkar got through the cursory inspection and swiftly walked out of the flat. “Let’s go to the terrace and talk,” he said to Motkar and Sarode through clenched teeth and fled up the stairs.
Even the fresh air on the terrace was not totally free of the stench, but Saralkar felt like collapsing with relief. It had been a close call. Motkar and Sarode were watching him. Saralkar pretended to be lost in thought as his stomach and senses took a few moments to normalize.
“Who found them and how?” he asked eventually.
“The society secretary Shailendra Vyas had called a person to remove a beehive on the third floor chhajja. The hive remover climbed down from this terrace to inspect the hive. When he began climbing back up, he opened the window of the Doshi family flat slightly to gain a foothold on the window grill and happened to see the man hanging from the fan.”
“The hive remover opened the window or was it already open?” Saralkar asked.
“No, sir, all windows of the flat were shut as you must’ve noticed. The lights and TV were on,” Sarode said.
“I see. What does the suicide note say? Read it out.”
Motkar took the letter and began reading.
"I am ending my miserable life today after killing my wife Anushka. She has been repeatedly unfaithful to me in the past but I forgave her because I loved her. She promised not to cheat on me again but over the last several months she’s again been having an affair with Shaunak Sodhi. I couldn’t take it any more and told her to stop. She refused and said she had decided to go away with him. She mocked my impotence and so I lost my temper and decided to kill her and destroy her deceitful face. My business has also suffered considerable losses and my debtors are not going to leave me in peace. That’s why this is the best solution . . . to kill Anushka for her betrayal and commit suicide because my life is not worth living.
Sanjay Doshi"
Saralkar had seen many suicide notes in life. Many were rambling—pages of poignant attempts to articulate the pain and injustice suffered, almost begging an understanding of the decision, pathetically pin-pointing blame. Some had been abrupt and brief as if the person were scared that if he paused to write, he would lose the courage to commit the act.
This one seemed lucid and almost functional, as if Sanjay Doshi didn’t want anyone to puzzle over the event, briefly summarising the what, when, why, who, and how of his actions.
“Hmm . . . sad, familiar story. Cuckolded husband kills wife and self. Can’t say I haven’t seen that before,” Saralkar said. “No children, I presume?”
“Don’t think so, sir. But still haven’t checked.”
“Any idea when the couple was last seen?”
“We’ve managed to speak only to the secretary and the beehive remover so far, sir,” PSI Sarode said.
Saralkar grunted, now feeling himself again, although he could feel a headache coming on, courtesy the stench. “Okay. Speak to all the neighbours and gather as much background information about the couple as you can. We need to talk to family and friends, if any. I want to know when Mr. and Mrs. Doshi were last seen, together or alone. Did anyone hear anything, because if he strangled her or threw acid on her face, there’s got to be some screaming and sounds of the struggle. Is there anyone who works for them? And find out who this fellow Shaunak Sodhi is and get hold of him.”
“Yes, sir,” Motkar replied. “I’ll also get the house thoroughly searched once the forensic team is through and will brief you first thing tomorrow morning.”
Saralkar nodded then walked towards the terrace parapet and leaned over.
“What, sir?’
The senior inspector raised a restraining hand as if concentrating on looking for or listening to something carefully. He turned around finally and said, “Just making sure there is a real beehive.” He began walking towards the terr
ace exit then stopped and asked Motkar, “How’s the drama practice going?”
“Okay, sir,” Motkar replied, taken aback.
“What role are you playing?”
“It’s a minor role, sir. A couple of dialogues,” Motkar said awkwardly.
“Well, let’s hope you don’t go blank on stage, Motkar,” the senior inspector said ominously as he left the terrace.
“Why has Dr. Kanade called you again?” Jyoti Saralkar asked her husband, still suspicious of his claim that the doctor had not issued a medical certificate right away.
Saralkar had not yet told her about the blood pressure and the pills. “Big rush at his clinic,” he deadpanned.
“So?”
“So, he didn’t have time to fill the entire medical fitness form,” Saralkar improvised gruffly. “Said I should collect it later.”
“Today?”
Quite uncharacteristically, Saralkar held his peace. “He said he’ll call.”
“Want me to collect it from his clinic?” Jyoti offered cunningly.
Saralkar ground his teeth. He knew why his BP was up now—twenty years of spousal nagging.
“What you are hinting is that you don’t believe I went to Dr. Kanade yesterday, don’t you?” he retorted.
“Nothing of that sort,” Jyoti backtracked. “His clinic is on my way, that’s all.”
Saralkar decided it was the perfect moment to make a haughty exit without replying, even though he normally left for work fifteen minutes later.
His thoughts as he rode to office were about marriage in general. Was marriage an artificial and unnatural state to be in? What made men and women stay together for life? Was it love? passion? habit? companionship? social convention? Or was it simply convenience—the convenience of hard-earned emotional, psychological, and physical equilibrium that couples were loathe to disturb or jettison despite all its attendant negatives? The same reason why people didn’t change jobs or houses or cities—too scared to leave the comfort zone of familiarity.
Or maybe, as was often said in Indian society, it was the children more than any other factor that kept couples together. But then what about childless couples like Jyoti and he? What had been their glue? He realized he hadn’t a clue. On the other hand, it was rather evident what had gone so wrong with the marriage of the Doshis, for example, the consequence of which had been so bloody.
PSI Motkar would probably have gathered all the facts that could piece together the whole wretched, sordid, commonplace story that culminated in the pathetic ending of two lives.
“Good morning, sir.” Motkar had been waiting for him.
“Did your teachers ever have to scold you, Motkar?” Saralkar couldn’t resist asking.
“About what, sir?”
“About doing your homework in time or such things?”
Motkar realized his boss was being fatuous. He just shrugged.
“Well I’m sure you were too good a boy to ever give them a chance,” Saralkar continued his pinpricking. “But do you know the dangers of denying teachers the simple, legitimate pleasure of scolding a student?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never been a teacher,” PSI Motkar said dryly.
Saralkar chuckled, aware that he was getting under Motkar’s skin. “The fact is teachers start itching for an opportunity to spank good boys.”
For once, PSI Motkar thought he had the perfect comeback and hoped he wouldn’t fumble while delivering it. “You sound . . . as if you speak from experience, sir,” he said with a clumsy suaveness, which nevertheless packed enough punch.
Motkar was pleased to see a slightly miffed expression on Saralkar’s face, itching for a good rejoinder. But he didn’t give his boss that chance. He swiftly changed the topic back to work. “Sanjay and Anushka Doshi had been staying in Atharva Apartments for slightly longer than a year, sir. Most of the building’s residents said they were a cordial couple, although they kept mostly to themselves. Sanjay was apparently a corporate consultant of some sort though no one seems to know exactly what. Mrs. Doshi had told neighbours she was an interior designer. We’ve found a couple of their business cards but need to confirm.”
“Does the flat belong to them or were they tenants?” Saralkar queried, still annoyed he had been stumped by his otherwise meek assistant.
“Tenants, sir. The flat belongs to a person called Pardeshi, who shifted to a bigger flat about five years ago. He runs a small fabrication unit. We’ve spoken to him. He says the Doshi couple approached him through some broker. He’s had no problem with them—rent’s paid on time and no issues,” Motkar replied.
“What about rent agreement and police verification?”
Motkar shook his head. “The rent agreement is notarized, not registered, and no police verification was done. Pardeshi gave the usual lame excuses saying he didn’t know it was mandatory, that there was nothing suspicious about the Doshis—a normal, middle-aged, middle-class couple. Neither were they minority community or foreigners and thus hardly the kind who could be terrorists.”
Saralkar grunted with disdain. “Bloody stupid, wretched citizens who’ll never improve! What about the deposit and rent? Cash or cheque?”
“Everything in cash, sir. It suited Pardeshi. Said the Doshis also never asked for a rent receipt.”
“Does he at least know where they were originally from? Pune itself or some other place?”
“Apparently they told Pardeshi that they were from Mumbai and had just shifted to Pune,” Motkar replied. “But, sir, one of the neighbours, Mrs. Tambe, said that she got the impression that the Doshis originally hailed from Bangalore.”
“Did she say whether Anushka Doshi told her that or her husband?” Saralkar asked.
“Mrs. Tambe said she faintly remembers a conversation with Anushka Doshi which left her with the impression that Bangalore was her hometown,” Motkar explained.
“Have you found any identification in the house? PAN card, driving licence, passport, Aadhaar card, or election card?” Saralkar asked.
“We’ve found their driving licenses but no other IDs so far.”
“Hmmm . . . That’s a little odd. Everybody has at least one or two of these IDs. Have you searched everywhere?”
“No, sir. A thorough search is still going on. We should know by this afternoon,” Motkar asserted.
“So when was the couple last seen alive?”
“Sir, no one is quite sure, but Mrs. Tambe said she spoke to Mrs. Doshi on Saturday morning. No other neighbour remembers seeing the couple on Saturday or thereafter. Mrs. Tambe also said she and Mrs. Doshi share the same cook, Surekhabai, who had mentioned that she had cooked at the Doshis on Saturday afternoon. But we haven’t been able to speak to Surekhabai so far.”
“If that’s true then as of Saturday afternoon the Doshis were alive. Their bodies were found on Sunday late afternoon, which means no one saw them again for nearly twenty-four hours. Right?” Saralkar calculated.
“Yes, sir, but there seems to have been a pizza delivery at their flat, which happened on Saturday night. We’ve still not been able to speak to the delivery boy but the outlet has confirmed the delivery was done at 9:37 p.m. Strangely though, the pizza was not consumed by the couple. It was just lying there on the table, unopened,” Motkar said.
“Which narrows it down even further. That means Sanjay Doshi killed his wife and hung himself some time on Saturday night after 9:37 p.m. What do the doctors say?”
“Non-committal so far, but they think both died just before midnight.”
Saralkar chewed his lips. “So did any neighbour hear sounds of a scuffle or thumps or a scream or any noise at all?”
PSI Motkar paused and consulted his notes. “The Tambe family on the third floor were out for dinner on Saturday night followed by a late night movie show. The family in the flat immediately below the Doshis is very fuzzy about it. The husband and children say they heard nothing, but the wife says she was cooking in the kitchen and thinks she heard a heavy thud f
rom upstairs and a scream, but she thought it was from someone’s television.”
Saralkar clicked his tongue. “Why can’t witnesses and neighbours be sharp and alert like in books, damn it? Isn’t there another flat on the third floor landing?”
“Yes, sir. But no one’s being staying there for the last couple of weeks.”
“What about any next of kin, family, or friends of the Doshis?”
“I’ve given Constable Shewale the task of checking contacts on the cell phones of the Doshis, recent call records and texts. We should have the information by mid-day. None of the neighbours seem to know about relatives or friends of the Doshi couple,” PSI Motkar said a little apologetically.
“Any news from forensics?” Saralkar asked grimly.
“They’ve dusted the flat for fingerprints, the suicide note has gone for analysis, and they’ve taken the bottle which contained the acid for tests,” Motkar summed up.
Saralkar brightened up. “The acid bottle should get us somewhere. Any idea where Sanjay Doshi procured it and when?”
Motkar shook his head slightly. “The acid was in a used liquor bottle, sir. Either Doshi purchased it illegally through the black market or transferred it from the original container into the liquor bottle. And the funny thing was that it was kept in a cabinet among other half empty liquor bottles.”
Saralkar frowned. “Among other half empty bottles? Did he expect his wife to consume it by mistake or something, assuming she had alcohol? And when that didn’t happen, he threw it on her face?”
Motkar’s eyebrows had risen. “Didn’t really think of that possibility, sir, but it sounds quite probable. That would mean Sanjay Doshi was planning to kill her for some time.”
Saralkar’s expression had remained unchanged. “But after using the acid on his wife and killing her, why would he take the trouble of putting it back in the cabinet among other bottles, as if he wanted to hide it? I mean he was about to hang himself, so why not leave the bottle where it was?”
