by Salil Desai
“Where did you hear that the Homicide squad suspects Rangdev Baba’s involvement in the Doshi case?” PSI Motkar asked him bluntly without beating around the bush.
Dulange was clearly discomfited, passing his tongue over his lips while throwing an uneasy glace at Constable Shewale out of the corner of his eye. “Departmental grapevine,” he replied tentatively.
“There is nothing on the grapevine to that effect,” Motkar said tersely. “Look, were you making inquiries on behalf of Rangdev Baba?”
PSI Dulange went pale and tried to look offended. “Bullshit! How can you—?”
“We know you go to his ashram with your son, that you are his devotee,” Motkar cut in.
Dulange swallowed the words of angry denial coming out of his mouth, clearly flustered. “So-so what?” he finally stammered.
“Look, Dulange, this does not have to go any further. Just tell us what you know of Rangdev Baba’s involvement in this matter. Why exactly has he asked you to find out why his name figures in the investigations?” Motkar said in a matter-of-fact tone.
PSI Dulange regarded him with a cornered expression then gave Constable Shewale an injured look as if he had betrayed his confidence. Inwardly, he was cursing his indiscretion. He knew the Homicide Squad could get an internal inquiry ordered about his conduct and even if nothing came of it, it would unnecessarily create complications for him and blot his record. Wisdom lay in telling Motkar everything. None of what he knew implicated him seriously in trying to help Rangdev so far.
“So what is it going to be? Are you going to speak or do I have to do this officially?” Motkar asked, inserting a bit of impatience into his tone.
“Will you promise this won’t go any further? No internal inquiry if I tell you?”
“Can’t promise. But if there is no criminality involved or there was no intention to help Rangdev escape the law, there is no reason for us to report you. Depends on how serious it is and whether you come clean. Complete disclosure.”
PSI Dulange cleared his throat and began talking. “Look, this Rangdev Baba has been good for my son Anand. There is great improvement in his condition . . . and I-I felt obliged to him. Believe me, Rangdev Baba is not like other god-men. That’s why when he asked me to check if your investigations pointed towards him, his ashram, I agreed to try and find out. That’s all.”
He paused, looking at both Motkar and Shewale nervously.
“But what’s the story behind Rangdev’s discomfiture? How did he know Sanjay Doshi?” Motkar asked.
“Well, apparently Doshi used to visit the ashram as a devotee. But then he and two of Baba Rangdev’s disciples started some unsavoury racket together. When Baba found out, he immediately put an end to it and debarred Doshi from visiting the ashram. He was also going to throw out the two disciples but said he had to forgive them and give another chance, when they repented and begged him to condone their behaviour,” Dulange explained anxiously. “Baba was worried that given the circumstances of Doshi’s death, his links to the ashram may surface and the police might start probing the angle. He felt such an investigation may tarnish his and his ashram’s image . . . that’s why he wanted me to try and find out.”
PSI Motkar was appalled. He frowned. “As a police officer, didn’t you find all this fishy? Didn’t you smell a rat? How could you even think of helping him?”
“Look, look, of course I asked him to give me details and only after I was convinced what he said was genuine, did I agree. I could not say no to him, after all that he had done for my son. He’s a good man,” PSI Dulange said wretchedly.
“So what was this racket that Doshi ran with Rangdev’s disciples?”
“Apparently Sanjay Doshi and Baba’s two disciples had started a racket of siphoning off a portion of the donation cash and using it for betting purposes. The two disciples also used inside information of various devotees for blackmailing them. Rangdev Baba conducts these sessions where devotees confess to their sins and misdeeds in strict confidence. One of those two disciples was sometimes privy to such secrets which were then misused by Doshi.”
Dulange paused again. “That’s all I know; that’s what Baba told me.”
“I see,” Motkar said thoughtfully.
This information added a whole new dimension to the mystery of Sanjay and Anushka Doshi’s deaths. If Sanjay Doshi was indeed using donation money for betting and had also been blackmailing some of Rangdev’s devotees, then the field of suspects would be far wider. It also gave enough cause for Rangdev Baba to be worried if the nefarious activities of his devotees and Sanjay Doshi were linked to Doshi’s death.
And yet, Motkar felt a sliver of doubt as if the information did not quite fit in with what they had got to know about Sanjay and Anushka Doshi so far. Given Doshi’s criminal background of fraud, employment rackets, land scamming, Motkar had no problems accepting that he could’ve been involved in siphoning off donation money for betting with Rangdev’s disciples. But somehow the blackmailing racket hit a false note. Even criminals had comfort zones of the kind of crimes they could attempt and commit. He very much doubted if blackmail would fall into Doshi’s comfort zone. It required a different set of skills and more importantly, temperament.
But then so did murder and suicide, Motkar’s mind immediately countered. So if Doshi could’ve committed murder, then why not blackmail.
“Did Rangdev give you the names of his two disciples who had joined hands with Sanjay Doshi?” he asked PSI Dulange who was fidgeting anxiously.
“No, no . . . actually I asked him . . . but he said, he would rather not tell me their names.”
“And that’s all you know? You are not keeping anything at all from us, Dulange?” PSI Motkar asked with a warning note in his voice.
“I swear on my son,” PSI Dulange said, sounding suddenly desperate, “that’s all I know, Motkar. Believe me. I-I know I made a mistake . . . I didn’t want to do it. I wouldn’t have done it if I suspected Baba’s involvement for a minute. I still think Baba is innocent. He was just worried. Believe me, I did it because he’s been a miracle for my son . . . You don’t know how Baba’s changed our lives. After all these years of sheer frustration and desperation . . .” He stopped, almost embarrassed by his emotional outburst, but Motkar could see it was genuine. He believed the man had only done it out of a misplaced sense of obligation to Baba Rangdev, who had provided him an enormous relief in life.
“Please . . . I’ve told you the truth, Motkar. Don’t foist an internal inquiry on me,” Dulange pleaded.
PSI Motkar nodded. “The final decision will be that of my boss, Senior Inspector Saralkar. But I’ll try my best,” he said. “Better pray that Rangdev Baba hasn’t been fooling you too and isn’t more deeply involved in Doshi’s case. And yes, you dare not let Rangdev Baba know about this conversation. If you breathe a word, I can’t save you.”
Dulange nodded and then shook his head vehemently as if to say he’d never open his mouth again.
Sherly Fernandes directed a hostile, unpleasant gaze at Senior Inspector Saralkar. Her green eyes were icy. The first incongruity that struck Saralkar was that she was wearing a saree, whereas given her name the senior inspector had simply expected someone in western attire. Another stereotypical, stupid assumption, Saralkar realized sheepishly.
Secondly, she hardly looked like someone who had once been a model—neither good features or charm or curvaceousness. In fact her appearance was gaunt and hard-edged, utterly lacking in softness. Maybe the years and events had taken their toll, but could they have completely erased any hint of the original spark? A fleeting thought crossed his mind. Could it be that model was a euphemism and that Sherly Fernandes had actually been a part of the escort services that the three partners had invested in before becoming Rahul Fernandes’ wife?
“Why did you want to meet me?” she asked in a sharp, throaty voice. “It’s been seven years. Can’t the police leave me in peace? For God’s sake I’ve moved on! Don’t I have a right to
put all that behind me now?”
Her greenish grey eyes were full of resentment and her teeth dug into her lower lip, as if she were biting back the urge to attack Saralkar physically.
“I’m going to smoke,” she declared defiantly and dipped into her purse.
“Do you think Krishna Bhupathi and Shaunak Sodhi killed your husband Rahul Fernandes?” Saralkar asked evenly.
“Of course. Who else?” she replied tersely, taking the first puff of the cigarette she had lit.
“I understand Rahul had told you earlier that he feared for his life?” Saralkar asked, shifting slightly away to get out of the path of her smoke.
A bitter smile appeared on her face, happy perhaps that her cigarette smoke was affecting Saralkar.
“Yes. Rahul told me he was afraid Bhupathi and Sodhi would try and kill him.”
“Why?”
“Obviously because he had double-crossed them while they were imprisoned in the job racket case. He had got rid of all properties, raked in the cash, and was cheating them of their fair shares,” Sherly Fernandes replied succinctly. She ran her tongue over the coat of lipstick on her lips, making it glossy, then took another puff. Unlike many women who smoked, she appeared to inhale deeply.
“You knew he had actually double-crossed them?” Saralkar asked.
“I didn’t know it for a fact. I just knew Rahul well. He was a crook out and out.”
“So if he was feeling threatened, why did he go out with them that evening, all alone?”
“To try and come to a settlement, of course.”
“And what exactly did he tell you before leaving?”
Sherly Fernandes scowled at him for a second, then took two puffs before replying, “You are just making me repeat everything. Rahul said I should file a police complaint if he didn’t turn up by next morning. I did exactly that.”
“But it says here you lodged a complaint only the following late night.”
“They shooed me away when I went in the morning. Only after I went back with a lawyer did they file the FIR late at night,” she replied.
“Why didn’t you go to Bhupathi or Sodhi’s house and confront them?”
“And get killed just like Rahul? No thanks. I called their numbers but there was no response. Look, what’s the point of all this?”
She threw down her cigarette and crushed it with her sandals. “Are you just trying to tally what I said then and now?” she gave him a challenging look. “Rahul’s dead, Sodhi disappeared, Bhupathi confessed to the police and then he too fled. How does any of this change the facts? And why ask me?”
Saralkar regarded the woman in front of him and an idea suddenly began to form in his mind. “So what happened to all the money that Rahul had?” he asked.
Sherly Fernandes blinked. “Money . . . I-uhh-I . . . what do you mean? Sodhi and Bhupathi made Rahul reveal where he had stacked the cash . . . before killing him . . . that’s what he said in his confession. I don’t have any of it if that’s what you are implying.”
“You mean you didn’t know where your husband had hidden the money or that he had no other alternate hiding place where he left something behind for you?” Saralkar said in a tone loaded with deliberate disbelief.
The expressions on her face became more cunning and her mouth twisted. “You think I would’ve remained in India if Rahul had left me money or I knew where he had hidden the rest of it? All I got was the flat we were staying in and what was in his bank, which was peanuts. All the rest of his money had disappeared, taken by the other two, that’s the reason they have never been found, have they?”
“I see,” Saralkar observed, searching her face for the slightest of signs she was hiding something. “If Rahul was scared for his life, didn’t he take any precautions to protect himself? No bodyguards or at least a gun for self-defence?”
“Rahul always carried a small gun,” Sherly replied, a trifle ruffled by Saralkar’s questions. “Even on that night . . .”
Saralkar couldn’t recollect any mention of a gun in the police report by Bangalore Homicide Squad that he had read. This bit of news had come as a surprise. He made a mental note to check when he finally met Inspector Hegde.
“Okay. I’ve heard a contract was placed by Rahul’s family to get Sodhi and Bhupathi eliminated. Do you know anything about that?” Saralkar asked, watching her closely.
Sherly Fernandes stared at him. “Contract to kill! By Rahul’s family? I-I have no idea what you are talking about . . . I mean Rahul had no family other than me . . . and I didn’t place any such contract.”
“You mean he had no family whatsoever?”
“No. Why don’t you read my statements to the police? I have told all this to that officer. ASI Murgud, I think. Rahul was orphaned when he was still a kid; his father died first and then his mother, in Goa. He came to Bangalore after that.” She paused and gave him an uneasy glance. “Can you leave me in peace now?”
Saralkar nodded but made no effort to go. “How long were you and Rahul married?”
“Three years.”
“Were you aware he was a criminal before you married him?”
She considered the question, running her tongue over her lips again. “Well, I knew he was no saint, but I thought he was more like a normal, dishonest businessman, not a criminal.”
“I see. How happy was your marriage with Rahul Fernandes?”
Her eyes flashed. “How’s that your business? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, three people stood to benefit from Rahul’s death— Sodhi, Bhupathi, and you. I don’t see you having done any follow up with the Bangalore Police to solve the case. You didn’t even ask me if I had found his killers,” Saralkar said in a mean, mocking tone. “It makes me wonder. Not exactly the picture of a grieving wife who cared about her husband, especially one who met a gruesome fate.”
Sherly Fernandes’ eyes had become as big as saucers and blazed with a seething sadness. “Marrying Rahul was the biggest mistake of my life. Not only was he a criminal, he made life hell for me . . . in ways you can’t imagine, Inspector. Sodhi and Bhupathi did me a big favour by killing him, although I was not involved in his death. I filed the police complaint only because Rahul had warned me to, but no one was happier than me to know when it was confirmed he was murdered. Why? Because I got my life back. I escaped from hell,” she paused and gave a harsh, mirthless laugh, before continuing, “Why should I want to follow up for justice? Rahul wasn’t a man I loved or cared for. He was a horrid pervert and a criminal who was murdered by two other criminals. What’s it to me if you bring them to justice or don’t?”
Sherly Fernandes stood up, shaking with anger and indignation.
Saralkar remained seated. “Looks like you’ve undergone a lot. Can you tell me what hellish treatment Rahul subjected you to, to earn such hatred?”
“Are you just pretending you don’t know what I have told Bangalore police already?” she shouted at him, completely livid now as if he had kept touching an already raw nerve. “Just get lost from here, Inspector. I have nothing more to say to you.”
Saralkar was stung. Never before had he been told to ‘get lost’ so peremptorily. No one would have dared to dismiss him like that in Pune. But this was Bangalore, where he could wield little authority as a Maharashtra police officer. There wasn’t much he could do.
“Didn’t you hear me? Get out!” Sherly Fernandes said once again. Her green eyes were glistening with scorn and bitterness.
Saralkar reddened and got up. Swallowing the insult, he tried his final gambit. “Krishna Bhupathi was found hanging in his Pune home last week . . .”
He left the sentence hanging to watch her reaction as he opened the door to let himself out.
Sherly Fernandes’ belligerent expression didn’t change. “So? I hope you don’t have some stupid, fancy theory that I had him hunted down and killed after seven years to avenge my dear ex-hubby Rahul Fernandes!”
She gave another sudden, grim
laugh, strode to the door, glared at Inspector Saralkar as he stepped out of her house, and slammed the door shut on his face.
“You are drunk!” Surekhabai couldn’t hide her disgust even as relief swept over her to see her son Hrithik at the door. She’d been worried sick, as his absence had stretched into the fourth day.
Her son gave her a glazed look as he stumbled into the house. “Serve me dinner,” he ordered his mother.
Surekhabai wrinkled her nose as the stink of liquor and her son’s unwashed self filled the two room tenement. “I’m not your servant. Where have you been?” she said flaring up. Her alcoholic husband had blighted her youth and middle age. The idea of her remaining years being cursed by a drunkard son was insufferable.
“I’m hungry!” her son screamed back. “Stop blabbering and give me food.”
“I asked you where you’ve been all this time. Answer me first.”
“None of your bloody business,” Hrithik replied cockily. “Don’t ask questions, you stupid old hag. Serve dinner before I count up to three.”
“Is that so? Well, you aren’t getting any food till you answer my questions,” Surekhabai replied, anger and anxiety raging in her mind.
With a sudden movement, Hrithik lunged at her, one hand grabbing her left arm and the other wrapping itself around her throat. “How dare you! I’ll kill you!” he cried out in his drunken rage and began choking her.
Surekhabai was stunned, debilitated momentarily by fear and the shock of her son attacking her. His grip was strong and it was hurting her. Surekhabai’s survival instinct kicked in a moment later and she began clawing at Hrithik’s face. She had staved off many such attacks from her husband. But that had been when she was younger. Age had weakened her now. As she gasped for breath, she knew she had to use her legs. With a surge of strength she kicked with all her might at her son’s abdomen.
It probably hit the perfect spot, because his grip on her neck broke and he collapsed on the floor, clutching his stomach in pain, then retched and vomited.
