by Vaseem Khan
‘Every day, I come to this window and look out there,’ said Ashok. ‘In four years that hospital has barely risen two floors. And it is not for want of trying. But just as I know that if I can get that place completed it will do great credit to my reputation and the reputation of my party, there are others who know that every day they can delay me will do me harm. And then I look into that little lane, and see grown men sitting down in broad daylight and shitting against the hospital wall, as if this were the most natural thing in the whole world, and I begin to laugh. Sometimes I laugh so hard tears fall from my eyes. Tell me, old friend, where else in the world can a man go and see such things?’
Ashok turned to face Chopra. ‘Men like Nayak are an ugly fact of our nation, one we would rather pretend did not exist. Like those men down there, shitting against the wall of the very hospital that might one day save their lives. If you say that he is alive and prospering then I believe you. If you say we must do something then something must be done. I will help in any way that I can. But I will be honest; it is not going to be easy to convince the Commissioner to investigate this. His resources, as well as his concerns, are presently engaged with the election. Rallies and riots, my friend, are what is troubling the police chiefs of this city. As far as they are concerned, Kala Nayak is old news, dead and buried with most of the underworld. The days of gangsters holding the city to ransom are a thing of the past. They are a dying breed, running like rats from our brave men in khaki.’
Ashok put his hand on Chopra’s shoulder. ‘For both our sakes, I hope that you are not mistaken. I will use up valuable collateral requesting an investigation into this matter, and in my line of work collateral is everything. But you know what they say: if one lives in the dung heap, one cannot smell of roses.’
The clerk returned. With great ceremony he handed Chopra a bottle of cold Limca. He also gave Ashok a small fragrant parcel wrapped in newspaper. ‘For you, sir,’ said the clerk. Chopra noticed that he was even younger than he had first thought. A slim, good-looking young boy with slicked-back hair and the beginnings of a faint moustache.
Ashok broke into a grin. ‘Do you see this, Ashwin? This is why India is great! The young! There are one billion of us now, and most of that one billion are young, ambitious and fiercely competent like my Raju here. Each day, at this time, he fetches me my favourite snack, whether I remind him or not. He knows that this will bring a smile to my face. And when I am smiling Raju knows that I will sign his papers and listen to him as he tells me what I must next do. Isn’t this right, Raju?’
The young man murmured something that Chopra could not hear, and looked uncomfortable as Ashok continued to beam at him. ‘Don’t be shy, now. Tell the inspector what you achieved in your HSC examinations.’
‘I was state topper, sir,’ mumbled the boy apologetically.
‘State topper! Do you hear that, old friend? State topper! And where did you grow up, Raju?’
A flush of embarrassment clouded the boy’s face.
‘Well?’
‘In an orphanage, sir.’
‘An orphanage!’ echoed Ashok. ‘Do you know what it takes to climb out of a place like that? It takes determination. And something else too: a helping hand. The sad fact of our country is that there are many young people like Raju who have the potential but not the contacts to get ahead. Even in the biggest multinationals, the old codes of nepotism still hold sway. It is up to people like me to give the Rajus of this world an opportunity to prove themselves. That is why I make it a rule not to surround myself with fawning flunkies and pretty young girls with short skirts and vacant smiles. Instead I find young men like Raju here, who roll their eyes at me when they think I am not looking, and tut-tut me under their breath when I am lax in my duty.’
‘But, sir—!’
‘Oh, don’t deny it,’ said Ashok good-humouredly. He opened the parcel and the smell of freshly fried samosas filled the room. ‘Ahhh,’ he breathed theatrically. ‘Doesn’t that remind you of old Hari Uncle back in the village?’
A loud rapping sounded on the door and the security guard burst in. ‘Sir!’ he blurted. ‘There is a petitioner from Sakinaka in the lobby! He is threatening to set fire to himself!’
Ashok rolled his eyes. ‘Again?’ He grinned at Chopra. ‘Don’t worry. This drama happens nearly every week. All the poor chap wants is some attention. Really I should have him locked up, but I don’t have the heart to do it. Wait here, old friend. I’ll be right back.’
‘But sir, what about the Shivaji Ground rally?’ protested Raju desperately.
‘The rally will wait for me,’ declared Ashok imperiously as he swept out of the room, the samosa still in his hand. ‘After all, I am the star attraction, yes?’
Raju followed him out, casting a last despairing look at Chopra, as if to say, ‘Do you see what I must deal with?’
Chopra returned to his seat to wait. Ashok’s words had filled him with a renewed sense of purpose, and a determination to see this matter through. Whatever it took, he would bring the killers of Santosh Achrekar to justice.
He looked at the clock on the wall behind Ashok’s desk. It was already late in the morning. Assuming Ashok could convince the Commissioner, a raid could be organised by that very evening. Three raids, in fact. One on the derelict warehouse in Vile Parle, one on the boat at Versova, and one on the mansion of one Arun Jaitley, the alter ego of Kala Nayak. Chopra would insist on being there for that final raid. They would protest, but he would be there nonetheless. He wanted to see Nayak’s face when they led him out in handcuffs; he wanted to look into his eyes.
The wall behind the desk was lined with framed photographs, pictures of Ashok with famous personalities. Chopra noted that there was also a picture of Ashok back in the village, being garlanded by the village council. He smiled. Ashok never missed a trick to remind his voters of his humble origins. Alongside this photo was a picture of Gandhi sitting cross-legged before his charka, spinning cotton. Chopra knew that Ashok, in his own cynical way, had always been a big fan of Gandhiji. ‘Now there was a born “spin” doctor,’ he would say, laughing at his own joke. ‘He understood how to market his image before we even had media relations officers!’
There were other pictures of Ashok with various senior politicians, some of whom were so old and mummified in the pictures that they had probably passed into the next life by now. There was a picture with a prominent Bollywood film star, a man who had risen from the local community. There were many pictures of Ashok with his public: Ashok at rallies, shouting into a mike; Ashok grandstanding in front of a packed audience of black-suited lawyers; Ashok being garlanded and felicitated by various charities and welfare organisatio—
Chopra froze.
Seconds ticked away, and then he rose from the chair and walked behind the desk to take a closer look at the picture that had caught his eye.
The photograph showed Ashok placing a garland around a slim young man in a white shirt and navy trousers. A number of other similarly dressed young men were gathered around the boy, watching the award ceremony. In the background was a large banner that said: Shanti Nagar Boys’ Orphanage Annual Sports Day. Above these words was the legend S.N.B.O.
Chopra felt something catch deep inside his throat. S.N.B.O.… SNBO. Could it possibly be? He moved back to the window and looked down into the street. SNBO. Shanti Nagar Boys’ Orphanage.
Chopra stared at the half-built hospital across the road. His mind was whirling with possibilities. Was he clutching at straws, or had he, through sheer chance, stumbled across the vital clue that might finally unlock the mystery of Santosh Achrekar’s death?
Chopra knew that there was only one way to resolve these conundrums–he had to find out for himself.
Chopra took an auto-rickshaw to Shanti Nagar, a poor, bustling suburban community with narrow overcrowded streets, overhanging balconies and a preponderance of roadside rubbish tips.
By stopping and asking directions he quickly found his way to the Sha
nti Nagar Boys’ Orphanage.
The building looked like a convent, with black wrought-iron gates, shuttered windows and tall whitewashed walls. Chopra explained to the security guard that he was here to visit the orphanage’s administrator. The guard swung aside the gate then went back to reading the newspaper he had been perusing.
The orphanage’s main building was fronted by a withered lawn and a cement statue of the freedom-fighter and politician Dr T. S. S. Rajan.
Chopra walked through the front doors and into a low-ceilinged rotunda, which housed numerous display cases holding trophies and award plaques. Decorating the walls was a series of blown-up photographs showing destitute young boys taken in by the orphanage and inducted into a programme of wholesome activities and educational pursuits.
One photograph, garlanded with flowers, showed Ashok Kalyan standing in line with a number of other serious-looking gentlemen. The caption in the photograph read ‘SHANTI NAGAR BOYS’ ORPHANAGE BOARD OF GOVERNORS’. At the bottom of the photograph were the names of the governors. Against some names, in brackets, were the words: ‘Not present in photograph’. One of the names against which this was written was ‘Shree Arun Jaitley’.
‘Excuse me, sir, may I help you with something?’
Chopra turned to find an elderly woman in a navy blue sari looking at him with hawkish eyes. For a moment he did not speak. His thoughts were still churning around inside his head. Then he said, ‘My name is Inspector Chopra. I have some questions about the orphanage.’
‘What is this about, Inspector?’ said the woman.
‘A missing boy,’ said Chopra. He turned back to the Board of Governors photograph. ‘How long has MLA Ashok Kalyan been on the Board of Governors here?’
‘Kalyan Sir? Why, he was one of the founding members. Without his help this sanctuary would never have been established, or any of the other four orphanages that we now run. We will be celebrating our fourth anniversary in one month’s time. But what is this you say of a missing boy?’
Chopra removed the picture of Santosh Achrekar from his pocket and handed it to the woman. ‘Do you know who this boy is?’
The woman hesitated, a fraction too long, then said, ‘No. I have not seen him before.’
‘Are you sure?’ persisted Chopra.
The woman could not meet his eyes. ‘I have said no, sir. I have not seen this boy. Now, we are really busy, you must excuse me.’
He knew that the woman was not telling him the truth. ‘Madam, this boy is dead. Murdered. If you do not cooperate with me then a full investigation will be conducted. We will turn this place upside down. Do you understand me?’
‘Murdered! My goodness!’ The woman appeared genuinely alarmed. Then she calmed down and said: ‘Inspector, you must do what you think is right. But I tell you I have not seen this boy before.’
She narrowed her eyes and met his gaze with a look of stubborn defiance.
Finally, Chopra nodded and turned to leave. The woman watched him go then scuttled off down the tiled corridor.
He stopped as he reached the gate. He looked back and saw the turbaned, bespectacled stone figure of Dr T. S. S. Rajan staring down at him with an expectant gaze.
He turned and went back into the building.
His shoes squeaked as he walked along the newly scrubbed corridors. From the rotunda he followed the sign that said ‘Boys’ Wing’. He walked past a classroom where young boys of perhaps six or seven years of age were sitting at wooden desks reciting in unison behind their English teacher. A few doors down he found a small gymnasium lined with blue matting. Further along he saw an open door and looked inside. It was an empty dormitory, two rows of single beds facing each other. Each bed had been made meticulously.
A little further down the corridor he came across a small room in which a temple had been set up. A portly, middle-aged woman in a navy blue sari, the uniform of the staff at the orphanage, was lighting incense before a statue of Lord Krishna. Chopra waited for her to finish her prayers. The woman touched her joined palms to her forehead, then turned.
‘My goodness!’ she gasped, raising a hand to her throat.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Chopra. ‘My name is Inspector Chopra, and I must ask you a question.’ He took out the photograph of Santosh and held it below the woman’s nose.
The woman looked at the picture… and then her face crumpled into tears. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. ‘I told him to leave it alone,’ she sobbed. ‘I told him he was putting himself in danger. But he didn’t listen to me.’
‘I am listening to you,’ said Chopra gently. ‘Please tell me what happened.’
‘I cannot,’ said the woman, still weeping into her hands. ‘They will kill me.’
‘No one will harm you,’ said Chopra. ‘You have my word. Now tell me, from the beginning…’
When Chopra arrived back at his apartment, it was to discover that everyone was out. He had wanted to talk to Poppy, to tell her what he had been doing, to confess everything: not just about the private investigation he had undertaken into the death of Santosh Achrekar, but also about the other thing and what that meant for their future together.
He knew that he should not have kept Poppy in the dark for so long. He knew that he should have spoken to her that morning when he had narrowly escaped death. He had made a mistake. If there was one person deserving of his trust and confidence it was his wife. And right now he had a desperate need to share his thoughts with her.
The disturbing information that he had uncovered at the orphanage had devastated him. He needed to talk to Poppy, if only to unburden his mind.
She would be shocked and furious, furious at the revelations but also furious at him. Poppy had made a crusade of his heart attack. He knew that she would be mortified at the things he had been doing, and even at the future plans he had put in place with Shalini Sharma, plans which would not lead to the stress-free life that Poppy had envisaged for them both following his retirement. Which was precisely why he had not told her about them.
None of that could be helped.
He had almost died; and there was a good chance that he was going back into danger. He had to make his peace with her before that.
Chopra trudged back downstairs. ‘Bahadur, where is Poppy Madam?’
But Bahadur did not know where Poppy was. Chopra felt a tug on his arm. He looked around and saw that Ganesha had twined his trunk around his wrist. The elephant had stood up and was padding back and forth, one step forward, one step back. He was clearly agitated. ‘What’s the matter, boy? What is it?’
Chopra patted the little elephant on the head. He looked down into Ganesha’s eyes. ‘You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know how you know, but you know.’
Suddenly there came the sound of an auto-rickshaw pulling into the compound. Chopra turned and saw Poppy bearing down on him. She looked deeply unhappy.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you have finally decided to come home.’
‘I must talk to you,’ said Chopra.
‘Yes, and I must talk to you too,’ said Poppy stiffly. ‘I do not know what you think, Mister big-shot C.I.D. man, but I am not some born-yesterday girl that you can treat in this way.’
He blinked in confusion. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘You know exactly what I am talking about!’ said Poppy, her voice rising to an exclamation point. ‘Just tell me, who is she?’
Chopra felt himself beginning to sweat. Beside him Bahadur was listening agog. He looked up. A couple of heads were poking out of windows, staring down on the scene with growing interest. ‘Look, whatever is troubling you, let’s go upstairs and talk about it. This isn’t the place.’
He walked into the lobby. Poppy had no choice but to follow him.
In the lift she refused to look at him. Instead she said: ‘Just tell me, who is she?’
‘Who is who?’ said Chopra exasperatedly. ‘You’re not making any sense, Poppy.’
Chopra felt himself floundering in an unfamiliar sea. ‘Look, clearly you are labouring under some sort of misunderstanding.’
But she was no longer listening. ‘You thought you could pull the wool over Poppy’s eyes. Well, I’ll show you, mister.’
They entered the apartment, where Poppy threw down her bag dramatically onto the sofa.
‘Whatever is troubling you—’ began Chopra, but she did not give him a chance to finish.
‘I am telling you now,’ said Poppy, her hands on her hips, ‘it is me or her!’
‘Or who?’
‘You know who.’
‘I know who?’ said Chopra, now thoroughly bewildered.
‘You see,’ cried Poppy, looking theatrically up at the ceiling, ‘he confesses!’
Chopra stood there, momentarily unsure of what he should say or do next. He had come here to talk to Poppy, to clear the air, but she appeared to be suffering from some sort of delusion. He knew his wife. There would be no way to have a sensible conversation with her until she had calmed down. In that sense, she had always been like a child; quick to anger, and as moody as a storm.
Poppy walked to the sofa and rummaged in her bags. ‘I want to tell you something else, Inspector,’ she said, holding aloft a white packet. ‘I know why you want this floozy of yours. But let me tell you one thing: anything she can give you I can too. Do you see this?’ She waved the packet under his nose. On it, in black letters, were the words DR REDDY’S HOME PREGNANCY TEST KIT. ‘Yes,’ declared Poppy, ‘I am pregnant!’
Chopra looked into his wife’s eyes. She had been crying, that much was evident. Clearly, she had come to some erroneous conclusions about him. And now, in desperation, this. ‘That is not possible,’ he said gently.
‘Miracles can happen,’ said Poppy, angrily. ‘They happen every day.’
