by Vaseem Khan
Poppy remembered the shock she had felt when, a few years earlier, terrorist gunmen had targeted the station, killing fifty-eight luckless souls. She recalled the terrible images of station platforms smeared in blood, platforms that she had navigated countless times in her younger days when she had first arrived in the city, jostling her way through the riotous commuter crowds, the Western tourists, the snack vendors, the coconut-water sellers, the station beggars and bootboys, the gewgaw salesmen and runaways.
And yet, the very next morning, the trains were running again, a testament to the indomitable spirit of the subcontinent’s greatest city.
They sped through the station’s grand concourse, the Panzer-like wheelchair scything a path through the commuters, scattering startled rush-hour refugees in all directions. Poppy wasn’t clear exactly why they had come to the station, but Big Mother was a woman after her own heart, a no-nonsense matriarch who trusted her instincts implicitly.
In short order, they found their way to the station’s administrative offices, where the terminus’s chief superintendent Mayank Kejriwal was just sitting down to lunch.
In the two decades he had worked at the station, Kejriwal, a dark, squat man with a comfortable belly and a bald spot that had only recently begun to bother him, had seen everything. Derailed trains, flooded tracks, marching strikers, fire, accidents, super-dense crush loads and, latterly, the horror of the terrorist attack. Day in and day out for twenty years he had marshalled his team to ensure that the trains kept running, that the blood of the city kept pumping around its glistening copper and steel veins. So adept had he become at navigating the trials and tribulations of managing the station that his days were now distinguished only by the sense of order and contentment that he felt in a job well done.
And yet, as he unscrewed his steel tiffin box and breathed in the heady aroma of his wife’s ladyfinger and potato curry, and subsequently opened his eyes to find himself face to face with a severe-looking woman in a wheelchair, bearing down on him like a runaway Konkan Express, he sensed that his halcyon contemplation of his own good fortune was to be rudely, and possibly terminally, interrupted.
“My name is Shubnam Tejwa Patwardhan, the former maharani of Tejwa. I am looking for my granddaughter. Are you the person in charge of this madhouse?”
Kejriwal slowly lumbered to his feet. For some inexplicable reason he felt unable to remain seated in the woman’s presence. Her general demeanour had the same effect on him as his childhood schoolmistress, the inimitable Mrs. Wadhwa.
“Yes, madam,” he said. “How may I be of assistance?”
“For a man with such big ears you seem to be hard of hearing. I have just told you: my granddaughter is missing.”
Kejriwal blushed. He had always been sensitive about his ears. “Madam, how old is your granddaughter? I will inform my staff immediately. A missing child is our top priority. Rest assured we will find her.”
“She is not a child,” said Big Mother sharply. “Not in the way you seem to believe. She is a young woman.”
Kejriwal’s brow furrowed. “A grown woman has gone missing in the station? Surely, you can simply phone her. Or she will find her way to the exit.”
“She does not wish to be found.”
“But that makes no sense.”
Big Mother moved her wheelchair menacingly closer to the superintendent. “Let me see if I can translate this into sentences simple enough even for you to understand: my granddaughter is due to be married. She has run away. We believe that she may have come to this station to travel to Pondicherry. Yesterday evening. Ergo we have come here to find out if she did indeed board her train.”
Kejriwal’s mouth hung open. “But, madam, there is no system to monitor exactly who does or does not board a train. Our ticket inspectors merely verify that those who are boarding are in possession of a valid ticket.”
Big Mother gave a slow smile.
It reminded Kejriwal of the cobra-like smile of Mrs. Wadhwa when he had provided an incorrect answer in class. This was invariably followed by humiliation and, on occasion, the painful administering of a cane to his rump. He sincerely hoped the old woman was not carrying a length of bamboo with her.
He would not have put it past her to employ it.
“There is another way of determining whether my granddaughter boarded that train,” she said. “I am surprised that you have not thought of it yourself. But then, what else should I expect from a grown man who spends his days playing with trains?”
A SECRET TAKEN TO THE GRAVE
The drive to Ravinder Shastri’s residence took Chopra once again around the curve of Marine Drive, past the bustling promenade of Chowpatty beach, where each year thousands came to submerge clay idols of Lord Ganesh during the annual festival of Ganesh Chaturthi. Shastri lived in the elite district of Malabar Hill, in the exotically named Alexander Graham Bell Tower, a dazzling twenty-storey apartment building that speared up from the landscape like a rocket bound for the moon.
Outside the building Chopra was confronted by a platoon of armed security guards. It was only after he waved his identity card at them that they permitted him into the building.
Shastri’s apartment was on the nineteenth floor.
Chopra rang the buzzer, and stood back.
The door swung aside to reveal a small, emaciated woman in a sari: the housemaid.
Shastri was not at home. The maid informed him that the master of the house was in the nearby Hanging Gardens, where he went each day after his lunch.
Chopra left his van outside the tower, and walked the five minutes to the gardens.
The Hanging Gardens of Malabar Hill—officially the Pherozeshah Metha Gardens—had been built back in the late 1880s. Some said the terraced gardens had been designed to overlay the reservoir that sat beneath them, to protect the water from the potentially contaminating effects of the nearby Towers of Silence where dead Parsee bodies were laid to rest.
Though “rest” was not a term Chopra would have used.
Parsees consigned to the Towers of Silence were left to be disposed of by the city’s carrion birds, in line with Zoroastrian belief. He imagined that, even in the afterlife, being pecked to shreds by vultures was probably not the most restful of experiences.
It was late in the afternoon now, though the sun was still strong and unforgiving. Outside of the van’s air conditioning Chopra found his collar swimming around his neck, sweat stinging his eyes.
The gardens were surprisingly busy.
Indians—mainly older citizens, and determined joggers in Lycra—propelled themselves around the manicured space. There was the occasional foreigner standing about looking lost. Chopra supposed they had been fooled into believing that the gardens were worthy of a visit. If they were expecting some sort of wonder of the world, a modern-day version of the mythical Hanging Gardens of Babylon, they were sorely disappointed. Aside from a few decorative bushes chopped into the shape of animals, there was little to see or do in the gardens other than wait for the sun to set majestically over the Arabian Sea, or contemplate one’s own navel.
He found Shastri sitting on a granite bench, staring out to sea, hands clutched around a polished cane. A book lay beside him: Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy.
“Mr. Shastri?”
The old man—and he was old now, Chopra saw, white-haired and hoary, with sunken cheeks and a dark, volcanic gaze—swivelled his head to look up at him.
“My name is Chopra. I am a detective investigating the death of an American named Hollis Burbank. You may know Burbank by a previous identity—Roger Penzance. It is this that I wish to talk to you about.”
A light flared in Shastri’s eyes, and then he swung his gaze back out to sea. “I have not heard that name in many years.”
Chopra sat down on the bench. “I need to know what happened at Fermi Engineering, back in 1985. I need to understand why Roger Penzance became Hollis Burbank.”
“I cannot speak to you about that.”
“Why?”
“If you have discovered Fermi, then you already know why.”
“Because the records have been sealed by the Indian government,” said Chopra.
Shastri did not respond to this.
“My guess is that all those who had anything to do with whatever happened at Fermi Engineering were forced to sign an official secrecy oath.”
Again, the retired engineer said nothing, but Chopra was sure that his arrow had found its mark. He had suspected that this might be the case. After all, it would have been pointless for the government to seal Fermi’s records if they had not also sealed the lips of those who knew what had taken place there.
“That was thirty years ago,” he continued. “Isn’t it time the truth came out?”
“The truth is overrated,” said Shastri. “And besides, a truth told out of its time is meaningless, can even do more harm than good.”
“Something happened at Fermi Engineering,” persisted Chopra. “Something that led to a government cover-up, and to Roger Penzance changing his identity. Now Penzance—Burbank—has been murdered. I cannot be certain but it may be that his death is linked to his past. The truth can only help.” He took out the photograph and held it out to Shastri, tapping it with his finger. “That’s you. And that is Narayan Murthi and Jared Faulkner. Who is the woman?”
Shastri’s hands seemed to shake on the handle of his cane. “You found Murthi?”
“Yes. He passed away some years ago.”
Shastri blinked. “He was… my friend. My mentor. He recommended me for the position at Fermi.”
“As a chemical engineer?”
“Yes. Without Murthi’s recommendation I would never have got the job. I had a few years’ experience, but this was a plum posting, working on a major government project.”
“What was the project?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
Chopra shifted on the warm stone seat. “Then tell me about Faulkner.”
“He is dead,” said Shastri flatly.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw him die.”
Time seemed to waver and shrink around the two men. An overweight jogger panted past them, a look of panic wobbling over his face, faint music streaming from his headphones.
“How did he die?” said Chopra eventually.
“I cannot tell you.”
Chopra tried another tack. “Tell me about him then.”
“He was a charming man. Smart, handsome, outgoing. He made friends easily. He was an American, but there was nothing brash about him. He immersed himself in India—it was his first time here. He took an interest in everything, our culture, our history, our food—he even learned to play cricket, after a fashion.” A smile played over Shastri’s lips as the past replayed on a screen in his mind. “He was a man of integrity. We all looked up to him.”
“And the woman in the picture? I assume her name is Sen. Did she work for Fermi too?”
Shastri became still, the shadows of his face deepening. “No. She was never an employee of Fermi. She was a doctor. Her practice was close by Fermi’s base of operations, and so they hired her, on a part-time basis. She administered to us. That’s how she and Faulkner met. I suppose you could say they fell in love, though neither came out and said it. But we knew. Frankly, at the time, it was a source of angst for a number of us. Radhika Sen was a handsome, intelligent woman. It wasn’t just Faulkner who was captivated by her charms. The strange thing was that none of us begrudged them their happiness. They were both good, honest people.”
“Where can I find her?”
“You cannot,” said Shastri. “She is dead.” And abruptly, as if struck by a bolt of lightning, the old man bowed his head and began to weep. His shoulders shook, and tears fell onto his gnarled hands, curved around the head of his cane.
Chopra sat there, momentarily stunned.
He realised that the old man was helpless before the tide of memory engulfing him.
When he finally recovered himself, Chopra asked: “You obviously cared for this woman. Tell me about her.”
“She was one of the bravest human beings I have ever met,” said Shastri. “She stood up for what she believed in. Humanity, goodness, charity, truth. She didn’t deserve to die. Not like that.”
“How did she die?”
Shastri shook his head mournfully. “I cannot,” he said, the words hitching in his throat. “I have already said too much.”
“What are you afraid of? These events are thirty years in the past. Surely, it is now time to reveal what really took place at Fermi.”
“The past is a country no one wishes to visit,” said Shastri sadly. “It is a land that contains only regret and sorrow.”
Chopra changed course. “Tell me about Roger Penzance.”
Shastri stiffened, as if he had been bitten by a snake. An expression of loathing had overtaken him. “Penzance was the polar opposite of Faulkner. If Faulkner was Lord Ram, then Penzance was evil Ravana. It is not often in life that people are so black and white, but, in this instance, it was true. Penzance was arrogant, rude, stand-offish. Yes, he was a brilliant engineer—the most brilliant among us—but he had no skill in dealing with people. He was a driven man, furiously ambitious. For him everything led back to his own advancement. Achieving our goals was important to him only insofar as they tied in with his own agenda.”
“You hated him,” said Chopra softly.
“We all hated him.”
A short silence passed. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“Only that if he is just now dead, as you say, then he has lived thirty years too long.”
“What does that mean?”
But Shastri would say no more.
Realising this, Chopra swung himself to his feet.
He had learned much, but not enough for him to consider the visit an unqualified success. He could sense that Shastri wished to say more, but would not. He doubted that it was just the confidentiality agreement stopping the old man from speaking. He suspected that a large part of what held the engineer’s tongue was guilt.
But guilt for what?
That was the crux of the matter.
A great knot of guilt into which was wrapped the past of Hollis Burbank.
For Chopra to make further progress, he would need to pursue another road.
And he thought he knew just where to begin.
AN OBNOXIOUS MOVIE STAR
While Poppy went with Big Mother to Victoria Terminus, Irfan and Ganesha had chosen to stay behind at the hotel. Poppy had had her reservations but, as Irfan pointed out to her, he was used to staying with Ganesha at the restaurant each night on his own anyway.
She extracted from him a solemn promise that he would stay in his room, and out of trouble.
Ten minutes after Poppy left, Irfan found his feet itching.
Ganesha, curled up in front of the television watching a show about a man who ate cars for a living, seemed content to lie around until Poppy returned. But Irfan had never been inside a five-star hotel before. Every minute that he stayed in his room seemed like a lost opportunity.
“I think you’re getting restless, aren’t you, Ganesha?” he said loudly.
Ganesha looked up. His trunk and face were smeared with ice cream. Irfan had ordered a dozen tubs, assorted flavours—in the interests of scientific discovery—from room service, and now the empty cartons were strewn about the carpet like wounded soldiers in a battle.
“Yes, I can see you are itching to explore.” He got up and opened the door.
Ganesha flapped his ears, looked quizzically at the boy, then lurched to his feet and wandered over to the door. Irfan prodded him into the corridor. “Oh, look,” he said. “You have left the room. It is my duty to accompany you and make sure you do not get into trouble. It is what Poppy would want.”
Ganesha mopped up some ice cream from his face with his trunk.
“I suppose we should clean you up first,�
� said Irfan, thinking how Poppy always insisted on wiping his own face when they were set to go out.
He led Ganesha into the bathroom, and the walk-in shower. “Come on.”
He turned on the shower, then watched as Ganesha bundled inside, his bottom sticking out of the entrance. The power shower jet cascaded off the elephant’s flanks, running in rivulets down his squat legs to his square-toed feet. Ganesha twirled his trunk and flapped his ears with happiness—elephants, Irfan had learned, loved water. It kept their sensitive skin hydrated, and seemed to fill them with a sense of euphoria. Certainly, Ganesha was always at his most playful when being hosed down in his courtyard at the restaurant.
After the shower, they headed downstairs, making their way out into the gardens, where they saw that the film crew had once again set up for a shoot.
Irfan looked around for the pretty actress they had seen the day before. Like Poppy, he adored the movies, but didn’t recognise the actress. Then again, he was a Mumbaiker, a Bollywood aficionado—he didn’t know much about cinema from the south.
There was no sign of her.
Instead he saw, once again, that stupid golden-furred monkey, in its stupid waistcoat, lounging in a deckchair.
The langur caught sight of them and stood up on its hind legs, teeth bared, eyes narrowed malevolently, hissing at them.
“Come on, Ganesha,” said Irfan. “Let’s go find somewhere else to play. I don’t like the company around here.”
They turned and went back into the hotel and into the grand ballroom where the giant cut-outs of famous personalities had been set up, in readiness for a wedding that now looked as if it might never take place.
