by Vaseem Khan
Flanked by a goon on either side, he was dragged along the deck, onto the jetty and from there down onto the deserted beach. The rain had momentarily relented; it fell now in a light spray. The sound of the surf was a gentle susurration that filled Chopra with a sense of sudden calm. The wet sand sucked at the soles of his shoes.
The goons held him upright as they turned and watched the white Mercedes leaving. Shetty followed the Mercedes on his motorbike.
‘Come on!’ One of the goons pushed Chopra in the back, toppling him onto his knees in the surf. He rested there a moment, like a Muslim about to commence his prayer. Then he was pulled roughly to his feet again, and dragged forward until they were knee-deep in swirling black water. An old discarded tin can rode up on the surf and ricocheted off his leg. With a swiftness of movement that belied his size one of the thugs pincered Chopra’s arms behind his back. The other pulled off his gag, but before Chopra had a chance to yell out, a rough hand grabbed his hair and he was pushed down into the water, his face submerged with a shocking suddenness.
He thrashed around, but the grip on his head was implacable; a knee was planted in his back. He held his breath, wriggling for all he was worth; suddenly, the knee slipped. With a monumental effort he shook off the hand from his skull and lifted himself up, drawing in a huge, gasping breath as he broke the surface of the water. The two thugs, one of whom had fallen into the surf, grappled with him.
From the corner of his eye, Chopra saw a grey shape bundling over the sand. The next thing he knew Ganesha had materialised out of the rain and steamed into one of the thugs, striking the man forcefully at his hip. Chopra heard the crack of bone; the thug screamed and tumbled backwards into the surf. The other thug, eyes wide in astonishment, reached into his jeans for his pistol, but the weapon fell from his water-slippery hands and was lost in the swirling sea. He fell onto his hands and knees, groping under the water for his automatic.
As Chopra watched, rooted to the spot in astonishment, Ganesha butted the man from behind, splaying him face-first into the water. Then, rushing forward, the elephant had stepped onto the man’s back, then his head.
Chopra came to his senses. He had no idea how or why what had just happened had happened. But it had happened all the same.
He tried to imagine how Ganesha could possibly have found him.
On foot Versova Beach was at least an hour from his home. He knew that few people would have commented on an elephant on the roads of Mumbai. What he didn’t understand was how the elephant had known where he was.
Chopra had read that many animals possessed senses that were still a mystery to human beings, particularly in the realms of tracking and navigation. He knew from Dr Harpal Singh’s book that the trunk gave the elephant an extraordinarily acute sense of smell, capable of detecting scents over a distance of several miles. He knew that in times of drought elephants had been shown to detect where water was to be found even when that water was over ten miles away… In the end, the only thing that really mattered was that he was alive.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said, patting Ganesha on the flank.
Chopra ran back up the wet sand, climbed the stone steps onto the concrete apron, and ran into the fishing village, Ganesha close at his heels.
When Chopra arrived back at his compound, he first settled Ganesha downstairs by the guard hut. It was time for the elephant to move out of the apartment.
He crouched and patted him on the head as Bahadur looked on with round eyes. ‘You saved my life, boy,’ Chopra murmured.
Ganesha yawned and collapsed onto all fours. He blinked, then closed his eyes. The night’s exertions had exhausted him. They had walked back from the village, Chopra forcing a steady pace through the still-quiet streets. He had sensed the elephant’s fatigue but he knew that time was of the essence now. A plan was already forming in his mind…
Within moments Ganesha was fast asleep.
In the apartment Chopra found Poppy curled up on the sofa. He knew that she must have waited up for him, fretting herself finally into a troubled sleep. Chopra considered waking her, but then decided against it. He was still shaken and not yet ready to talk to anyone about what had transpired that night.
He walked into his office, sat down in his wicker chair and closed his eyes.
He still could not believe that he was alive. How close had he come? He had tasted it, all but accepted it, gone halfway there and back. But now, miraculously, he had returned to the land of the living. Chopra lifted his hands to his face. He realised that he was weeping.
Afterwards, he crept back into the living room, and stood there looking down at his wife’s sleeping face. He imagined her once again as a widow. If he knew Poppy, she would make a cause of herself. Plenty of theatrics and melodrama… but in the end his wife was irrepressible, a force of nature; she would survive.
Chopra walked to the window and looked out over the sleeping city. His city. Yes, that was how he had always thought of it. His city. His because he felt a duty towards it. People said he had inherited this sense of duty from his father, but Chopra did not believe this. You could not inherit such a sense, the way you could the colour of your eyes, or your hair. Such a sense had to be born within each man, had to be nurtured by the decisions he made, particularly the decisions he made at the most critical times in his life. Times like this moment.
Chopra did not wake Poppy. She would not understand what he was about to do. Instead, he took a notepad from the telephone stand and wrote her a message. ‘Dear Poppy, do not worry. I am safe. I have gone out. I will be back soon. I will explain then. Ashwin.’
He left the note on the table, took one last look at his wife, then went back downstairs.
He found Ganesha hunkered down in his furrow next to the metal pole. Bahadur had reattached the chain around the little elephant’s neck. Chopra looked down on Ganesha’s guileless, sleeping face. Had it really happened? Or had it been some incredible dream? How had the elephant found him? How had he known? None of it made any sense.
Chopra realised that he might never know the answers to these questions. The only thing he could be sure of was what his Uncle Bansi had said: ‘This is no ordinary elephant.’
Chopra recalled something from Harriet Fortinbrass’s memoirs: ‘Indian mythology elevates the elephant to the position of navratna, one of the nine jewels that rose to the surface when gods and demons searched the oceans for the elixir of life. Indians are convinced that elephants possess mystical powers and an innate sympathy for the trials of humankind. They are our friends; they are our keepers.’
Chopra had to move fast.
He took a rickshaw back to Versova, to the fishing village. It was almost dawn. Soon the villagers would be bustling about their business.
Chopra found his Enfield where he had left it, hidden behind the oil drums on the concrete apron above the beach. He looked down at the beach to the trawler in which he had so recently been imprisoned. At the end of the jetty, parked by the mooring post, he could see Shetty’s Hero Honda. Shetty had returned as he had promised.
Chopra peered at the surf. There was no sign of the bodies of the two goons. The sea, that ultimate collector of human waste, had done its work.
Chopra settled down to wait, knowing that what he was doing now far exceeded in foolishness everything he had so far done. But he was beyond caring about consequences; he felt like a man who had already died, and was living now on borrowed time. The only thing that mattered was completing his self-appointed mission.
Thirty minutes later, just as dawn was breaking, Shetty emerged. Chopra watched him as he straddled his bike, stamped on the clutch and roared away.
Chopra followed him as he made his way back along Yari Road, back through Andheri West and back to Sahar.
On the east side of Sahar he drove into the affluent new Mount Kailash development. This was one of many new developments in the suburbs, designed to cater to the burgeoning wealth in the city and the exodus from the crowded southern zone
. Large, well-constructed bungalows lined the road, each with a fancy gate and security guards stationed outside. Shetty stopped at the gate of one particularly lavish mansion. For a while he chatted to the guards, who clearly knew him. Then the gate opened and he roared off inside.
Chopra counted to one hundred then revved his bike towards the gate. He signalled to one of the guards.
‘Hey, you, I’m looking for the bungalow of Prakash Jain, do you know where it is?’
The guard exchanged looks with his colleague. ‘No, sir.’
‘What about this one,’ said Chopra. ‘Are you sure this isn’t his bungalow?’
‘No, sir,’ grinned the guard. ‘This is Jaitley Sahib’s bungalow.’
‘Jaitley? Yes, I have heard of him. Mr Jain told me about him. Tall man, wears a white suit, walks with an ivory cane, yes?’
‘Yes, yes,’ nodded the guard enthusiastically. Chopra roared away.
So this was where Kala Nayak now lived. Right out in the open! How many years had he been here, right under Chopra’s very nose? How was it even possible? How could it be that he had heard nothing, that all his informants on the streets had heard nothing?
In the end it didn’t really matter. Nayak was back in Chopra’s city, and now he knew where he was. And what was more, there was no longer any doubt: Nayak was behind the killing of Santosh Achrekar. Santosh had worked for businessman Arun Jaitley, the alter ego of Nayak. Chopra did not yet know why Santosh had been killed, but he vowed to himself that he would find out.
He had to plan his next move carefully. Who could he call on? Not ACP Suresh Rao, who had always been at loggerheads with him. Perhaps his old friend ACP Ajit Shinde might believe him, might even call his former superiors in Mumbai and convince them on his behalf. But Shinde was halfway across the country in the jungles of Gadchiroli, fighting Naxals. Would he really act with alacrity on a call from his old friend? Or would he put it onto his to-do list, and then, when he finally got around to it, call and check on Chopra first, probably with Inspector Suryavansh.
Chopra imagined the conversation: ‘Old Chopra’s come up with this incredible story, is there any truth to it?’; ‘Nayak still alive? Preposterous! Back in the city, under our very noses? Ridiculous!’; ‘Chopra seemed very sure of his information. Claimed he’d seen the man with his own eyes.’; ‘Well, retirement does funny things to a man. And he’s been quite ill. Dicky heart, and all. Very stressful, I’d imagine.’; ‘Shame, he was such a reliable fellow.’
No, thought Chopra, he would not call ACP Ajit Shinde. But there was one other person who could help. One other person who had the welfare of the city at heart, particularly the welfare of Sahar, and who had the power to do something about it.
A MEETING WITH AN MLA
The offices of the Member of the Legislative Assembly for the Andheri East constituency, Ashok Kalyan, were located in a dour sandstone building on Sahar Road, the premises announced by a large billboard halfway up the front elevation sporting a colourful, hand-painted picture of Ashok standing shoulder to shoulder with the grinning party leader while a horseshoe of fawning acolytes from the party ranks looked on in awe. In the background was the logo of the party, and the party slogan: ‘From behind, we are moving the common man in front’.
Chopra knew that if Ashok had wished it he could have relocated to much fancier premises. But Ashok was a canny operator. ‘How can I be a man of the people if I don’t live like the people?’ he had explained with a big grin on his genial face.
That had been nearly five years ago, at the time of the last elections, when Ashok had first gained a seat in the state Legislative Assembly. Chopra had visited him on occasion since then, but those occasions had become rarer and rarer as each had become busier and busier, particularly Ashok. Yet they continued to talk on the telephone, felicitating each other at Diwali, asking after each other’s families, and generally keeping up with each other’s careers. As a former police officer and now MLA, Ashok continued to take a strong interest in local policing. He worked closely with the soon-to-retire state Home Minister, whose remit included law and order for Maharashtra. There were rumours that Ashok would be championed by his party as an able replacement for the outgoing minister.
A security guard sat outside Ashok’s office. It seemed the man of the people now needed protection from his people.
During the elections many politicians had been attacked around the country. The divide between rich and poor had been growing dramatically; and the common man was beginning to get fed up. While the incumbent government talked about ‘India Shining’, the opposition asked, ‘Shining for who?’ It didn’t help that many politicians openly lined their own pockets while pretending to be sanctimonious servants of the masses. Unfortunately, even the good ones were tarred with the same brush.
Through the glass screen of Ashok’s office Chopra could see his old friend sitting at his desk, a young clerk leaning over him holding a clipboard.
Chopra rapped on the glass door, ignoring the protests of the khaki-clad security guard. Ashok looked up. For a moment his expression was irritated at the interruption, and then he recognised Chopra and broke into a smile. He stood up, swept past the clerk and opened the door himself. ‘Ashwin! What are you doing here!’
The two men embraced. Ashok ushered Chopra into the office and pushed him onto a wooden chair. The clerk hovered around them like a nervous bat.
‘What can I get you? Tea? Soft drink?’
‘Nothing for me,’ said Chopra.
‘Nonsense,’ said Ashok. ‘First time we’ve got together in ages and I can’t even get my old friend something to drink? It’s a shame you’re a teetotaller; I have a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the Ambassador. Raju, go downstairs and get a Limca for the inspector sahib.’
‘But sir, the papers—’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll look at them in a minute. Go on, go now.’
The clerk bustled off with an aggrieved look.
‘The trouble with these young modern types,’ sighed Ashok, ‘is that they think everything can be done in a day. They have no concept of how things actually work. They come into my office without the faintest idea of how much effort and manoeuvring it takes to effect the slightest change in this great nation of ours. Anyway, how is retirement treating you?’
‘Not well,’ said Chopra. ‘Ashok, I need your help.’
Ashok regarded him with an amused smile. ‘You said that with such a serious face one would almost think you had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t retirement supposed to be the time when you relax and let someone else deal with all the problems?’
‘There are some problems a man has to deal with himself.’
Ashok shook his head and chuckled. ‘Same old Ashwin. What’s bothering you, old friend?’
‘Kala Nayak is back.’ Quickly Chopra explained what he had discovered, then: ‘I know that what I am saying is hard to believe, but I have seen him, I have spoken to him. It is him.’
Ashok Kalyan regarded Chopra carefully. The MLA was a handsome man, with a cap of curly black hair and a well-groomed moustache, dressed in a dazzling white kurta-pajama, a contrast against his coffee-coloured skin. The eyes radiated warmth and Ashok’s smile, Chopra had always thought, was like a personal assurance of friendship and trust. On Ashok’s desk sat his Nehru cap, which he had adopted as his personal trademark a couple of years back.
Two decades ago Ashok had made the move from policing into politics with consummate skill. Unlike Chopra he had always been an excellent public speaker, an open and approachable fellow with a flexible bent of mind. Tall and well built, he also displayed a physical dynamism that made him popular with the masses, like a Bollywood hero of their very own. Chopra had often asked him why he had chosen to move into the murky world of governance; Ashok had always laughed away his concerns. ‘We have so many crooks in our government,’ he would joke, ‘it’s about time we had a policeman or two as well.’
Ashok had quickly made a name for himself with his forthright manner and his undoubted charisma. And as his rallies became increasingly well attended, the leaders of his party had begun to sit up and take notice. He had progressed from ward councillor to MLA with relative ease, a rising star in whom others saw both possibility and opportunity. Now, with a state Home Ministership beckoning, there was even hope that should his party be successful in the current general elections–as many pundits were predicting they would be–he might well end up with a seat on the Cabinet in the not too distant future. ‘Imagine that!’ he had said to Chopra, the last time they had spoken on the phone. ‘A boy from our own village holding the ear of the Prime Minister of India! What do you think I should ask for?’
Ashok stood up from behind his desk and walked slowly to the window. ‘Come here,’ he said. Chopra stood up and joined him. ‘Look down there. Tell me what you see.’
Chopra looked down onto the road, and the passing traffic. This was a poor neighbourhood and there were few expensive cars. The Toyotas and Skodas that were now a common sight in the inner suburbs were nowhere to be seen. Here auto-rickshaws ruled the road, battling fiercely for lane space with battered Marutis, psychotic motorcyclists and obstinate handcart-wallahs. Women carrying vast baskets of fruit and dried fish swayed up the street, doggedly pursued by begging street urchins.
Across the street a building was rising. A white billboard declared it to be the ‘DOCTOR AMBEDEKAR GENERAL HOSPITAL’. Bamboo scaffolding climbed around the three half-finished floors. A narrow lane passed by one side of the building. In the lane Chopra could see a number of men squatting and defecating into the open sewer that ran alongside the new hospital. The men chatted amongst themselves, their pajamas hitched down around their ankles, cigarettes in their mouths.
