by Salil Desai
“Well, do something about it! I have paid you many times over. You are supposed to be one of the best in your field, so what happened? What went wrong with me? Fix it, damn you! You better fix it!” Anushka Doshi demanded, her voice shrill with rage.
“Calm down, Anushka,” Dr. Dhingra said gently, rubbing one of his hooded eyelids. “Tell me exactly what symptoms you are experiencing. Let me examine you. I’m here to help you see this through.”
Anushka Doshi’s eyes glowered as if the doctor’s words were having exactly the opposite effect on her, enraging her rather than calming her down. Then without a word she got up in a huff and began stripping away her clothes, as the horrified doctor looked on. A moment later she stood before him stark naked, without a stitch of cloth on her.
“Look . . . look at your bloody handiwork,” Anushka Doshi screamed. “It doesn’t work one bit! It’s useless! None of it makes me feel like a woman. Either make it work top class or give me back what I had, otherwise I’ll ruin you, Dhingra. I swear I will kill you.”
Dr. Dhingra went cold with fear. He had been threatened before in his life, by unfortunate human beings driven to despair and misery. But never had those threats been more than pathetic outbursts. Anushka Doshi’s eyes and tone conveyed a different, sinister menace.
“But we have done everything that can be done . . . there’s really nothing more.”
Anushka Doshi appeared beyond the power of reason. “I don’t care. Fix it one way or the other or I’ll make you pay!”
Dr. Dhingra felt a sweat break out all over him. “Let me examine you, please,” he pleaded.
Anushka Doshi continued staring at him with hate and fury, then moved towards the curtained partition which screened the examination table. She lay down on the table, still fully naked.
Dr. Dhingra composed himself, walked over, and began examining her. He had done a good job. Even after four years, the three procedures he had performed were fault free. As always in such cases, the problem lay elsewhere—in the patient’s mind, in the unpredictability and inherent contradictions of the human psyche, and the anatomical eccentricities and peculiarities of individual human bodies.
“Have you been taking the oestrogen hormone injections and medication regularly?” he asked nervously.
“Of course I have!” Anushka Doshi hissed back. “And now I suppose you’ll ask whether I am doing the vaginal dilation exercises adequately. How many times to do that in a day? Twice? Thrice? No bloody sensation; nothing, you bastard. I feel like a raving, throbbing lunatic.”
“Anushka . . . please understand, there is really nothing wrong with the surgical outcomes. There is nothing more that can be done physically; it now depends entirely on lifelong oestrogen therapy and . . . and psychiatric counselling. You know in many cases it takes up to seven or eight years for the person . . . to make the physical, mental and emotional adjustments to the profound changes . . . to become the individual you wanted to become.”
“When . . . when . . .? I don’t believe you anymore, Dhingra,” Anushka Doshi exploded and sat up on the examination table.
Dr. Dhingra recoiled, but before he could take any rearguard action, she had grabbed him by his collar. He let out a little gasp, his hooded eyelids doing a backflip, while his beady eyes popped out, as he felt the frightening strength of the naked woman’s grip. He was about to scream but instead only a croak emerged from his lips. “Look, Anushka!”
“You listen, you bastard. You’ve not made me the person I wanted to be, so give me back what you have taken. Return me what I had, what I was.”
“But, Anushka, you know it’s irreversible. I had told you repeatedly,” Dr. Dhingra whimpered, now almost debilitated by fear.
Anushka Doshi’s eyes bored into his, filled with bitter loathing. She said in a vicious rasp, “I don’t care what you do but if you don’t get me out of this condition, I’ll do something terribly irreversible to you and someone you love, do you understand?”
What she told him next made his blood run cold. Dr. Dhingra wished he’d never set eyes on Anushka Doshi.
Inspector Hegde had shown no signs of hesitation or stalling when Saralkar had spoken to him about ASI Murgud. He had called back an hour later with some details. ASI Murgud had been taking frequent leave for two to three days in the past two weeks under the pretext of court appearances for personal property related cases. Policemen rarely got frequent leave but sometimes they managed to use accumulated leave on critical or compassionate grounds. Murgud had claimed having to travel to Mangalore, his hometown.
Hegde said he would have it checked whether Murgud had really been travelling to Mangalore or elsewhere. He had also intimated Murgud’s superior at Belgaum Crime Branch, who had agreed to ensure that Murgud would not hear about the arrest of the impersonators either officially or unofficially.
ASI Murgud was due back on duty the next day so Hegde decided against recalling him under the pretext of urgent official work to avoid arousing his suspicions. A colleague of Murgud in the Crime Branch would instead just casually call him up to ask some minor assistance in a case and double-check whether he was coming back the next day.
“You know, Saralkar, while interrogating Bhupathi at that time sometimes I would get the feeling he knew exactly what leads we had,” Hegde reflected. “Once or twice I wondered how uncannily he called my bluffs. As you know this does not usually happen, except with really hardened criminals, which Bhupathi wasn’t. Now it makes sense, if Murgud was helping. In fact Murgud was on my team because he had also assisted during the investigation of the recruitment scam. So I thought he would be useful to have because he’d dealt with Sodhi and Bhupathi before. Anyway, I’ll do everything to nail Murgud personally, if he’s been helping these fugitives all these years.”
“Thanks, Inspector Hegde. One more thing, is it possible for you to grill Sherly Fernandes again on one point? She was not forthcoming with me about what kind of torture and suffering her husband Rahul Fernandes subjected her to. She kept saying she’d told you everything, mostly to ASI Murgud, and was not interested in repeating it. There was nothing much I could do officially to force her to reveal it, but I’ve not found anything in her testimony or statements in the case documents. Perhaps if you speak to her?”
“Sherly Fernandes? But what’s her testimony got to do with Bhupathi or Murgud?” Hegde asked. “What bearing will it have on the case?”
“Just indulge me, please. It’s a wild theory, a possibility my mind has conjured up.”
“Well, I am a bit tied up with some important cases. Tell you what, I’ll call Sherly Fernandes to my office, warn her she must co-operate with you, and then you can question her on phone. How’s that?”
“Suits me,” Saralkar replied and thanked him.
His eyes strayed towards the lab reports on the vials found in the Doshi refrigerator which he had sent for testing. Hormone dosages. Oestrogens and anti-androgens. The pieces of the bizarre jigsaw which had been floating around in his brain for some time were actually beginning to fit into the slots, even if he was nowhere near sure what exact picture was emerging. He had to look harder, closer, check the patterns, and the pieces. He needed to think, to look for other pieces in places that needed more careful scrutiny.
“Sir,” Motkar said walking into his room, “Akhandanath’s identity has been confirmed. He’s Shivappa Goud as he says and he really did serve his sentence in Bangalore for rape. Most of what he’s told us is true.”
For Saralkar it had been a foregone conclusion. He’d long abandoned the theory that Akhandanath was the elusive Shaunak Sodhi. “Okay, so let’s get to work on Rangdev now. Summon him right away.”
“Yes, sir. One more thing, Meenakshi Rao hasn’t turned up. Her mobile is switched off and she’s untraceable. But the facial re-construction on the corpse will take some time so we can’t right away make any judgement that it wasn’t the body of Anushka Doshi or that it is definitely Meenakshi Rao’s body either.”
“Never mind,” Saralkar said. “It’s Meenakshi Rao, all right. There’s a simpler way to ascertain. Check the size of the undergarments found on the corpse. Chances are they’ll match with samples found in Rao’s house and be different from the size of Anushka Doshi’s undergarments, even if they were roughly of the same build.”
Motkar was surprised by how the common sense methods of policing had so quickly been taken over by an excessive focus on technology and forensics, that even policemen like him needed to be reminded of simpler methods of testing suspicions and doubts. “Should’ve thought of that myself, sir,” he said.
For once Saralkar was gracious enough not to take another dig at him, possibly because he was too preoccupied.
ASI Dharmesh Murgud was a man of few words and even fewer scruples. Policing was the perfect vocation for him. He could catch crooks, while also allow full play to the essential crookedness of his own nature—enjoy the best of both worlds. That’s just the way he was made. The black in his nature had always coexisted alongside the white. In fact the white nurtured the black, as if all his vices were legitimized by the single virtue of sometimes discharging his duties as a policeman.
Money was, of course, the big reason why he had helped two absconding murderers for the last seven years. He had helped in every possible way, even extraordinary, unimaginable ways, using his position and contacts as a policeman officially and unofficially to enable the fugitives to forge new identities, documents, conduct legal and illegal activities, and remain undiscovered for so long.
Money was also the reason he was abetting Anushka Doshi even now in yet another murky crime and in making a final bid to escape justice. But there was another motive beside money—the sheer thrill of criminality that coursed through his veins in doing something ugly, something wicked, something that gave the black in his nature a massive kick. It was almost as if he couldn’t help doing it, as if some inner part of him gained terrific pleasure in doing acts decent human beings would dare not do.
Anushka Doshi—Murgud reflected with amusement—had been known to him by another name in another avatar. A killer then, a killer now, he was sure she could kill again if Dr. Dhingra did not resolve her problem. Murgud, of course, would have nothing to do with murder, just as he had nothing to do with the other murders committed by Anushka Doshi in this or any other name. His task was limited to assisting before and after the act to the extent possible with resources, resource persons, logistics, and information. This time he had agreed to provide supervisory services too. He had played his part in helping Anushka Doshi lure and ensnare Dr. Dhingra’s buxom mistress, Geeta Chaudhari, at Tirupati. Anushka Doshi had bumped into and befriended her, then baited her with her ‘past life regression’ trap about her liaison vis-a-vis Dr. Dhingra.
The end result was the poor woman lay abducted and drugged at a farmhouse near Dharwad. A couple had been entrusted to look over her and Murgud had agreed to visit every alternate day to make sure everything was all right. He was at the farmhouse now because Anushka Doshi was to meet Dr. Dhingra and to arrange for Geeta to scream into a phone when Anushka called, in case the doctor showed any scepticism about his mistress’s abduction.
But that had not been necessary. Anushka had not called. Perhaps Dhingra did not require convincing. Instead another call came through now on his official cell phone from a colleague. Murgud had half a mind not to take the call. He was on leave, he could ignore it. But much of police work depended on networking and when a colleague called, it was always better to respond.
“Yes, Naik!” Murgud said. “Anything I can do?”
“Arre, Murgud, wanted your help, yaar! Where are you?”
“I am on leave today, Naik,” Murgud said cautiously. He couldn’t think of any immediate assistance Naik might want from him. “What’s it you require?”
“Leave? Long leave or what? I just needed your help on an extortion case. Thought you’d be the right guy. When are you back?”
“I’ll be in office tomorrow. Just came to Mangalore for my property case court date.”
“Perfect. So what time can I drop by tomorrow morning? Ten?” Naik asked.
“Okay. At ten in my office.”
“Great. Thanks. See you,” Naik said and disconnected.
Minutes later Inspector Hegde was informed of the conversation with Murgud and that he could be detained the next day. Hegde in turn lost no time in informing Saralkar.
“Want to go down to Belgaum, Motkar, to grill Murgud? No drama practice excuses now,” Saralkar asked his subordinate.
Motkar flushed red. “Raring to go, sir.”
“Good,” Saralkar said, then looked at the wall clock. “Where’s Rangdev?”
“Already in the interrogation cell, sir. I had just come to call you.”
Two minutes later they were face to face with a visibly jittery Rangdev Baba. His face was drawn tight, the veins lining his forehead puffed up like tubes about to burst through the skin.
“Saralkar, sir, I heard Akhandanath was arrested. Did he . . . er . . . admit he was involved in all the illegal activities at my ashram?” the god-man asked at once.
Saralkar ignored his question and stared him down in silence. “What is it you charlatans possess that makes blind devotees out of otherwise sensible people?” he asked.
Rangdev Baba had the grace to blush with shame and look away. He was hardly going to attempt to answer the question. In any case Saralkar knew the answer—the terribly scarce commodities of hope, compassion, support, and guidance in the garb of blessed spirituality. That’s what the likes of Rangdev supplied—the most basic of human nourishments—which is why withering, despairing souls got drawn to them.
“Akhandanath says all the illegal activities at the ashram had your sanction and in fact you forced Sanjay Doshi to continue multiplying the money for you,” Saralkar spoke.
“I-I deny it, completely. I am a man of God—”
“Spare us that crap,” Saralkar interrupted him. “Just ten minutes with two of my constables using old-fashioned methods and you’ll admit to just about everything, Rangdev. That’s a guarantee. I don’t have time to humour you so you better start spitting out the truth.”
Rangdev Baba’s face was now dark and scrunched with fear. He was ready to capitulate.
Saralkar charged at him. “Did Sanjay Doshi ask for your help in getting rid of his wife Anushka Doshi?”
Rangdev Baba flinched and went ashen-faced. “People ask me for help with all kinds of difficulties. It doesn’t mean I oblige.”
If it hadn’t been so pathetic and defensive, it would’ve been cheeky and funny.
“Are you telling me people often seek your help to kill? They think you are some kind of Killer Baba?” Saralkar asked.
“No, no. I mean there are people, you know, who think a god-man can use some kind of black magic to help them get rid of a spouse or a brother or a mistress or a tormentor.”
“Is that what Sanjay Doshi approached you for?”
Rangdev Baba took his time before nodding tentatively.
“You expect us to believe a criminal like Sanjay Doshi asked you to perform black magic to bring about his wife’s death?” Saralkar scoffed.
“Yes, believe me, Saralkar sahib. You don’t know how deep superstitions run. Whether it’s ordinary people or criminals or the highly educated,” Rangdev said, sounding almost like a lamenting rationalist.
“What exactly did he say? Why did he want you to perform black magic on his wife?” Motkar asked.
Rangdev Baba pulled at his robe, on the crest of his shoulder, then smoothed it down his chest self-consciously. “He . . . he uhh said his wife . . . he said his marriage was living hell, that his wife was a sexual pervert, that she tortured him, and made him do sick things he didn’t want to because of her impulses. He said he was afraid he would never be free from her clutches and that he was terrified she might kill him some day,” Rangdev Baba paused and clasped his shaking hands together. “He . . . he said he
would lose his mind one day and go mad. He then pleaded with me . . . asking if I could do some puja or ritual or anything that would end his suffering, that could lead to her death, otherwise she would kill him one way or the other.”
“Did he specify what kind of sexual perversion or why he thought she would kill him?”
“No. He just said he could no longer take it; her sleazy demands. He said he had committed terrible sins and that guilt and fear and shame and disgust was driving him crazy. He said she would kill him because he’d been her partner-in-crime,” Rangdev Baba replied reluctantly, like a man afraid of being sucked into deeper waters.
“So you knew very well he was an absconding criminal, probably guilty of heinous crimes,” Saralkar said pointedly.
“But I never denied that, sir. I-I told you being a god-man I can’t turn anyone away, even sinners, criminals,” Rangdev Baba croaked.
“Even when a criminal comes and asks your help in getting rid of his wife? What a true saint you must be, Rangdev! What was he going to give you in return?” Saralkar’s tone had suddenly shifted to a higher gear.
“He . . . he offered money for me to perform black magic. I immediately turned him down and told him to leave. Believe me, sir.”
“You are bluffing, Rangdev! Doshi didn’t ask you to perform any silly black magic to do away his wife. He asked your help to actually eliminate her physically. In return he said he would launder and multiply all your money for free. So you arranged for a contract killer to get Anushka Doshi killed. But something went wrong and Sanjay Doshi got killed too. Isn’t that what happened, you bastard?” Saralkar said turning the screws on as Rangdev Baba seemed to become speechless with fear, his face and expressions doing all the talking.
“Speak up, you scum,” Saralkar bellowed at him again and Motkar was aghast to see his hand rise up with lightning speed and strike Rangdev across the face. Once, then again, in quick succession. “Or was it the other way round? Did you team up with Anushka Doshi to stage a double murder—of Sanjay Doshi and an innocent woman to pass off as Anushka Doshi?”
