by Vaseem Khan
He entered the house.
He found himself inside a vast marbled lobby. A double spiral staircase with ornamented balustrades and finials in the shape of lions’ heads wound up to the first floor. The lobby was tastefully decorated with large Chinese urns and a set of teakwood trestle tables positioned either side of a pond. Exotic fish swam in circles around a profusion of lily pads and floating lotus flowers.
Chopra’s heart thundered inside his chest. He clutched his revolver, knuckles whitening on the handle.
He moved through the deserted lobby into an adjoining passage, lined with large rectangular carvings fashioned from Burma teakwood. They depicted scenes from the Ramayana, Lord Rama battling Ravana for his beloved Sita. There was something mythological in his own situation, thought Chopra. The hero facing the villain in a final confrontation. In Mumbai, even he could not escape the narrative of the Bollywood potboiler.
He entered a room as sumptuously decorated as the lobby, with a gleaming Italian marble floor, a vast chandelier, and a grand dining table. A giant print hung on one wall, a rural scene of three village maidens carrying pots beside a gurgling river. An arched doorway led onwards. Voices drifted in through the opening. Chopra raised his revolver and moved through the doorway and into another room.
There were three men in the room, two of them sitting on plush red leather sofas that faced each other, the third standing by the floor-to-ceiling French windows that looked out into darkness. The man by the doors was the man in the red beret, the man Chopra knew as Shetty. The two men seated on the sofas were Kala Nayak and Ashok Kalyan.
As Chopra entered the room, the three men turned as one. There was a moment of stunned silence, then Nayak spoke. ‘I had hoped that your experience on the boat would have taught you to keep your nose out of my business, Inspector. It seems that I was wrong.’
Shetty moved away from the doors and towards the sofas. ‘I told you to let me find him,’ he growled. He glared at Chopra. ‘I would have cut your throat and watched your blood run into the gutter along with your self-righteousness.’
‘You would have made a mess,’ said Nayak sharply. ‘And I do not need a mess right now.’
Ashok Kalyan stood up. ‘You have become an impatient man, Ashwin. I told you to wait.’
‘Why?’ said Chopra. ‘So you could tell me more lies?’
Chopra’s face seethed with fury as he glared at Ashok. The revelation of Ashok’s involvement had shaken him to the very core. That his childhood friend, a man he had respected as well as loved, was a criminal was bad enough. That he was a man who exploited children for his own gain was almost more than he could bear.
His hands had clenched into fists and it was all he could do to prevent himself from launching an assault on Kalyan there and then.
‘Lies?’ Ashok shook his head. ‘No. So that I can tell you some home truths, old friend.’
‘What truths would those be? About the human trafficking ring that Nayak has established in our city? About the boys that you help him find through your orphanages? About Santosh Achrekar, who found out everything and threatened to expose you? Is that why he was killed?’
‘Santosh had a bright future ahead of him,’ said Nayak. ‘I offered him a way out of the filth and poverty into which he had been born. He threw it back in my face. He decided that my business was not to his liking. He forgot the first rule of our country: do not bite the hand that feeds you. He started to snoop around, to ask questions that should never be asked. I think he had the idea that he was going to become a hero. But he made the mistake of trusting the wrong person.’
Shetty moved closer. ‘Santosh thought that I would help him expose the operation. We bumped into each other at Motilal’s when he came for the monthly accounts. We became friends, for a while. To tell you the truth I quite liked him. I suppose he thought he could trust me, because one day he told me he had found some documents back at head office. He was convinced the organisation was up to shady activities. Hah! What a fool!’
‘He found something that led him to the orphanage, didn’t he?’ said Chopra.
‘He saw the account books. It was only a matter of time before he began to ask why what he had come to believe was a crooked organisation was pumping money into those orphanages. He told me he was waiting to find definitive proof before he went to the police. I pretended to be sympathetic; I pretended that I knew all about it, but that I had always been too frightened to go to the police myself. Just another innocent victim. I tell you, I should get a Filmfare award for acting!’
‘Why did he trust you?’
‘Because I told him that he had finally convinced me, and that we could bring this trafficking operation down together. I told him I knew where we could get the proof he needed.’
‘Is that why he went to Moti’s on the night he was killed?’
Shetty smiled. ‘That evening I asked him to meet me there. I had already told him about how dirty cash was being laundered through the leather shops, moving from one store to another until Nayak Sahib could put it back into ‘white’ business. We stayed at Moti’s all evening; I said I needed to build up my courage for what we had to do. I gave him a Coke, and laced it with drugs. After that, I made him drink whisky with me. I pretended to be in two minds; should I help or should I stay silent? He was eager to keep me talking, so he drank. Typical kid, trying too hard to impress. Pity he wasn’t much of a drinker. By this time the pills were kicking in, too. When I could see he was almost gone, I told him I would show him where the boys were kept. On the bike, he was virtually unconscious; I nearly crashed trying to keep him upright. I took him to the place where you found his body. Just before I dragged him to the water, he woke up. Maybe he got some idea of what was going to happen–he suddenly got the strength to fight. He gave me a few scratches, but he had no chance against me. It was a pleasure putting an end to his miserable life.’
Chopra’s finger tightened on the trigger of his revolver. He knew that he was teetering on the brink. If this man spoke one more word, he would shoot him down in cold blood. He thought now of the list that he had found in Santosh Achrekar’s diary. He had thought that it was a bribe list, but he had been wrong.
It was a list of abducted boys and the prices that they had fetched.
Chopra recalled now his meeting with the woman at the orphanage. About how she had learned, from Santosh Achrekar, that the place in which she worked, a place she’d believed was helping those in need, was actually a vision of hell from which a modern slave trade in children was being orchestrated. The shaken woman had provided many important details to Santosh that had allowed him to further his investigation, not realising then that she was signing his death warrant.
Chopra had promised her that he would avenge Santosh’s death and bring a stop to the abuse. At first hesitant, she had finally told him what he wished to know.
He had discovered that the orphanage was besieged by requests from charities and welfare organisations to take in children. In a nation as overcrowded and poor as India this was to be expected. The orphanage, however, had exacting rules. It only took in boys below the age of eight and only those that were healthy. Those with disabilities or family connections were not considered. The boys were schooled and well looked after. But discipline was paramount. Any boy that was disruptive or who did not follow orders without question was dismissed back onto the harsh streets of the city.
Over time the woman noticed that no prospective adoptive parents ever came to the orphanage. Instead, a committee of gentlemen who claimed to represent a charity that helped place orphans into homes would visit the orphanage. Many boys would depart with these gentlemen.
None of the boys would ever return.
The staff at the orphanage were told that the placement organisation had a one hundred per cent success rate. They were told that they had a part to play in assuring that this success continued. They were told that discretion was everything.
Chopra turned to Nayak, keeping h
is gun aimed at Shetty. ‘I saw the warehouse in Vile Parle. Is that where you keep the boys before you take them to Versova to be shipped? Caged like wild animals? Photographed so that you can send pictures of them to the “customers”?’
Nayak said nothing.
‘Where do you ship them?’
‘What does it matter where they go?’ said Nayak eventually. ‘They are a commodity, like everything else. They go to the highest bidder. The Middle East. The South. It is all the same. In business, one cannot afford to be sentimental.’
‘Listen to him, old friend,’ said Ashok gently. ‘Listen to what he is saying. It is not too late.’
‘Not too late?’ Chopra nearly spat the words. ‘I should put a bullet in you right now.’
‘What will that accomplish?’ Ashok clasped his hands in front of his stomach. ‘Let me tell you a story. About a policeman, an honest and dedicated policeman who worked his whole life to uphold the principles of justice that someone taught him a long time ago, not realising that the country in which he so diligently applied those principles had changed, its ideals had changed. And then one day the policeman retired. What did he have to show for a lifetime of servitude? Was it a mansion as fine as the one in which we are now standing? Was it a Mercedes parked in front of his home? No. Shall I tell you what he had to show for a lifetime’s slavery? Nothing. Not a bean.’
‘Money isn’t everything, Ashok.’
‘You are wrong, old friend. It is the only thing.’
And Chopra remembered what Nayak had said to him on the trawler: ‘I know what to spend my money on now… the one thing that can guarantee a long life and prosperity. Do you know what that is? Power. With the money I make, I buy power.’
Without warning, Shetty darted between the sofas and charged directly at Chopra. Before he could react, Shetty had grabbed his arm, throwing his weight behind his lunge. Chopra found himself off-balance; the two men tumbled to the floor. The gun went off.
There was a moment of ringing silence.
With a grunt, Chopra heaved the big man aside. Breathing heavily, he struggled to his feet. He looked down at Shetty, who was lying face down on his stomach. Blood oozed out from below his torso. Chopra saw that hidden behind Shetty’s right ear were the scabbed-over scars of three short scratches.
A noise behind him made Chopra turn. The French windows were open; a gust of rain blew in from the darkness. Nayak had disappeared.
Ashok, meanwhile, had not moved. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said, calmly. ‘There is nothing to be gained. Nayak has spent years putting money in the right pockets. Even if you arrest him, he will never see the inside of a jail cell.’
‘I have more faith than you, Ashok. There are still decent men in our country.’
Chopra jogged through the open doorway and into the gardens of the mansion. He was immediately drenched. A solid sheet of water was now falling from the heavens. He could barely see a yard in front of his face. And, unlike Nayak, he did not know the terrain. How could he possibly catch him now?
He ran on.
A shape whirled out of the blackness and Chopra fired on instinct. He squinted closer. It was a concrete statue of a blackbuck antelope raised up on its hind legs.
He ran on, still breathing heavily. He was conscious of his heart thundering inside his ribcage. No time to worry about that now.
He passed another statue. He tripped and fell forward… into water.
He splashed around blindly, like a drowning man. He was waist-deep in water, his feet slipping on slime.
He had fallen into a pond.
He lost his footing again and fell, gasping as his face went beneath the slimy water. A shape feathered past his nose, then another. Fish!
Chopra steadied himself, then waded forward, still clutching the revolver. He reached the edge of the pond and, with a sigh of relief, began to clamber out until he was on his hands and knees on the concrete border surrounding the pool. He rested in that position a moment, slimy pond-water dripping from his face, the rain hammering on his back like the fists of an enraged woman…
A foot whirled out of the darkness, catching him in the ribs. He tumbled onto his back, momentarily winded. Rain sleeted into his eyes. He tried to rise, and then something struck him in the stomach. It was the point of Nayak’s cane. Gasping, he doubled up in agony, tears starting from his eyes, mingling with the rain. The gun had slipped from his grasp. But he could not think of that now; his senses had been overtaken by the sudden, stunning pain, and the thunderous beating of his heart in his ears. Was he having another heart attack…?
And suddenly Chopra was back at the Sahar station, standing inside the interview room, shafts of bright sunlight spearing through the rusted iron grille set high into the whitewashed wall.
He had been interviewing a man that Rangwalla had brought in on a charge of causing public disorder. The man, who claimed to be the reincarnation of the late billionaire guru Sathya Sai Baba, had stood up in the centre of Chakala market and coolly informed his bemused public that one ton of gold from his personal coffers was buried beneath the market.
Enterprising locals had begun digging within the hour, progressively widening their search until the surrounding streets resembled a battlefield of trenches and honking traffic.
Chopra had been grilling the man, attempting to work out if he was a fraudster or simply mad… and suddenly a lance of pain had speared through his chest, quickly followed by another, then another. The world slowed down.
Chopra turned his head to look at Rangwalla. The movement seemed to take an age. His hand came up to clutch at his khaki shirt, as if to still the thundering of hooves beneath his ribs… and then he was falling, falling, falling…
When he had awoken, Poppy’s face had been the first thing he had seen. He remembered now the feeling of warmth that had coursed through him as his dear wife had looked down on him with tears in her eyes. ‘A heart attack!’ she had admonished him. ‘Who gave you permission to have a heart attack?’
He opened his eyes and saw Nayak looming over him through the curtain of rain. Nayak bent down onto one knee. He had Chopra’s revolver in his hand.
‘You have caused me a great deal of trouble, Chopra,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard above the rain. ‘An honest man in a dishonest city. That is why I have never approached you. I told Ashok, when we first got into business together, when we began to build our power base, that you would never come on board. One crore, ten crores… they say every man has his price. But the only price a man like you will ask for is the price of his own funeral.’
Nayak stood. He pointed the gun at Chopra’s chest. Chopra felt the sound of his heartbeat slowing in his ears. He thought, suddenly, of Poppy. Poppy who had stuck by his side through thick and thin. Poppy and her never-ending struggles against tyranny and oppression. Poppy and her morbid fear of cockroaches; her habit of biting her lip when she was nervous; her insistence on filling up the apartment with the latest junk that her favourite magazines told her that she simply must have. Her wonderful dosas; the way she would press his shoulders when she knew he was tired, all the while grumbling on about Mrs Subramanium’s latest outrage; the way she would whisper in his ear, on the night of every anniversary, even after all these years, that she was so glad that God had brought them together because she simply could not imagine spending her life with any other man. His dear Poppy.
He wouldn’t even have the chance to say goodbye. After twenty-four years of being a good husband, fate would deny him even that. Karma, he thought; nothing but karma…
Chopra blinked. He saw Nayak standing over him, his face blurred by rain. He blinked again. The muzzle of the gun held his gaze like the eyes of a cobra… blink… Nayak disappeared… blink… and now an after-flash… Nayak cartwheeling through the air.
With a loud crack the underworld don’s head met the concrete edge of the pond. His body slammed into the heaving water. Immediately, it sank below the surface.
Chopra raised
himself onto his elbows. A wave of pain lanced around his ribs; the world was spinning like a carousel and he was overcome by nausea. The rain continued to thud onto his skull, plastering his hair to his scalp, ricocheting like a symphony of bullets off the tiles around the pond.
He felt a warm touch on his cheek, and turned. Ganesha snorted, wetly, then continued to pet his face with his trunk, as if assuring himself that Chopra was still in one piece.
He struggled to his knees. With one hand clutching his ribs he peered into the pond.
Nayak floated, face down in the water.
Chopra slipped into the pond and waded over to the floating body. He turned Nayak over. The gangster’s eyes were closed. A large gash was visible on his forehead where he had struck the concrete.
Chopra hauled the body to the side of the pond, then dragged it out. He tried to pump Nayak’s chest, but it was too late. He was dead.
Chopra got to his feet. He placed a hand on Ganesha’s head. He knew that, in spite of Nayak’s death, in one sense it was now that the hard work really began. He would have to summon the authorities and pray that there were enough untainted men in the fragile house of Indian justice to permit the visiting of that justice upon all the other corrupt players in this horror.
First among those was his childhood friend, Ashok Kalyan.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said, ‘let’s finish what we’ve started.’
THE BABY GANESH DETECTIVE AGENCY
‘Why can’t you just tell me where we are going?’
Poppy’s face was a picture of worry albeit mingled with curiosity. The past forty-eight hours had been the most trying that she could remember in a very long time.
First there had been the whole business with Kala Nayak and the scandal of the human trafficking ring that her husband had uncovered. She was still furious with him for gallivanting around the city trying to get himself killed when he had a dicky heart and should have been spending his retirement with his feet up, watching cricket and getting fat on her hand-cooked meals. Chopra had attempted to speak to her, presumably to offer some sort of feeble explanation for his foolhardy actions, but she had been so enraged that she had not been willing to listen.
