“Who-who was robbed?” Jende asked.
Peter could not remember. And so he stepped out where Mrs. Vishwanathan was still squabbling with the constable, and in triumph she entered in and gave the details of the robberies.
When she finally departed, denied of her request to see Vishal’s body one last time (her voice wobbling again), Jende turned on Peter.
“And when were you going to tell me this?”
“I told you.”
“By mistake. If maami had not come barging in, you would have forgotten. There is something going on in this gym. We find out what, we crack this case. Luck by chance, you come here for exercise. Tell me everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Everything means everything. Anything you saw. Anything you remember. Anything you do. Anything anyone else does. Make a list.”
So Peter made his list:
Rahul looks after the college boys.
Sihon looks after the young women.
Vishal looks after the aunties.
“Same to same things don’t write,” said Jende, looking over his shoulder.
No one looks after the uncles. (Including me.)
Gym timings are from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m.
“These also you told,” Jende complained.
You have to wear separate shoes for the gym.
Mr. Kalsekar is the first person who greets you when you come into the gym.
He gives you a pouch into which you put your spare change and your money and your phone and everything else so it won’t bother you.
He gives you a token for your stuff.
This system was started when an elliptical trainer broke down because a five-rupee coin slipped inside and jammed it.
No one claimed the five-rupee coin.
The sauna works on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
There is a masseur who works part-time. He is in his gaon.
The gym charges Rs. 500 per massage.
No one takes massages.
Jende picked up the list, although Peter felt he had barely finished saying what he knew.
“How did the mobile get stolen if it was in a pouch with Kalsekar?” Jende asked.
“I think the guy was talking on it as he went in and so he didn’t put it in his pouch,” Peter said. Then he paused. “But I think it was found later.”
“These robberies. This murder here. That murder there. These are three faces of one coin.”
Peter kept from commenting. Perhaps the rim of the coin might be considered a third face, he thought. Sometimes things can have three faces. Like the Shiva at Elephanta and the three faces of Kalsekar’s new watch.
“Kalsekar had a new watch,” he told Jende.
Jende froze. “Show me your keys,” he said.
Peter was nonplussed.
“Your house keys. Show them to me.”
“What do you want with my house keys?” Peter asked, but he reached into his pocket and produced them nonetheless. He wished now that he had not agreed to attach them to the Our Lady of Perpetual Succour key chain, but Milly had insisted. “She won’t let you lose your keys again,” she had said. And so far, she had been right.
“Did you ever give them to Kalsekar to keep in a pouch?”
“Yes. Many times. When I went to the gym.”
“And this pouch-shouch. How is it sealed?”
“Sealed? What sealed?”
“Means: how do you know they haven’t taken something out?”
“Who is going to take anything out? Everyone knows how much money they have.”
“Money is not the only valuable thing, na?” Jende held the keys out against the light. He grunted a little.
“What? What?”
“Tell bhabhi she might have had a lucky escape.” He pointed to a tiny blob of blue sticking to the teeth. “You can go now, Pittr,” said Jende.
* * *
Later, he came to see Peter. He knew that his old friend would be up, reading. But he also knew that Milly would be asleep so he did not ring the bell; he only whistled, long and low. Peter let him in.
“You solved the full case. You and Mrs. Muthuswamy,” Jende said when he had drunk a glass of water and was slumped back in an armchair.
“Vishwanathan.”
“That only.”
“How?” Peter asked. “How did you figure it?”
“You know what they do when they get money?” There were many theys in every city, thought Peter, but Jende continued: “They buy 555 cigarettes. They buy Black Label and they buy a new watch.”
“Kalsekar?” It seemed incredible. “Kalsekar?”
“The mobile phone started it,” Jende explained. “Vishal robbed that one. They gave it back when the owner made a noise. Kalsekar figured there must be an easy way to rob everyone. And when the pouch system began, they found one. The house keys. Kalsekar would take them out and press them into clay molds.”
The blue blob on the teeth of the key.
“Then he would get duplicates cut,” Jende continued.
“The keywalla outside.”
“Haan. He was part of it.”
“Picked him up?”
“Like in the films Faraar and Nau do gyarah. When the first cops came only.”
“Involved?”
“Something they must have given him. He must have known. How many keys people can lose?”
Peter thought about that. “Then the two of them would rob the house?”
“No, only Vishal. Only this time, that woman Madhavi came back. She found him there and began screaming. He hit her to shut her up. Hit her too hard. Broke her neck. Then he went back home and told Kalsekar. Kalsekar told him to run away, to go to his gaon. Vishal didn’t. He went to the station and then came back to the gym.”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“The maal. The loot. He wanted his share of what they had taken from Madhavi’s house. He told Kalsekar that.”
Peter was still a little confused. “That upset the old man so much that he picked up a dumbbell and beat the boy to death?”
“No, worse. Vishal said he was going to the police. He said he was going to tell them that Kalsekar had done it all. He told Kalsekar he had left Kalsekar’s fingerprint back at Madhavi’s house.”
“That’s not possible … is it?”
Jende grinned, a rare occurrence. “See, even you don’t know. You’re not sure if your fingerprints can turn up in someone else’s house. Kalsekar believed Vishal. That was the problem. That was what killed Vishal. That Kalsekar believed him.”
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”
“Waah waah.”
“Not me, Pope.”
“You Catholics bring your pope into everything. Do you know where we found him?”
“The pope?”
“Why we’ll be looking for your pope? Where we found Kalsekar.”
“Where?” Peter braced himself. Surely not another dead body? Things come in threes …
“In the market. Apna Gopi Tank Market. He was trying to get one of the kassais to cut off his fingertips.”
Peter looked carefully at his friend. He couldn’t be sure whether this was a joke or not, but Jende had his police face on. “You’re giving me some daaru-shaaru or no?” Peter took out his bottle of Royal Challenge.
“Chhee. RC still?” Jende protested.
“I am one.”
“You are a Royal Challenge?”
“Jay, your brains have gone on bandobast or what? I’m a Roman Catholic, RC. Royal Challenge, RC? Got it?”
“Anything you’ll say to save money. Cheapda,” said Jende, but he seemed to relish the first fiery swig.
“Besides,” said Peter, “you might arrest me if I serve you Black Label.”
GLOSSARY
The following glossary provides simple explanations of select (though by no means all) Indian terms used in Mumbai Noir. These words come from Hindi, Urdu, Maharathi, Punjabi, and Gujarati.
Abba/Abbu: father
Abbe: friendly, informal word to refer to a man
Accha: okay; good
Adaab: a Muslim greeting
Adda: a group hangout
Adhan: Islamic call to prayer
Adrak: ginger
Ammi: mother
Arrey: hey
Baba: father; older man; holy man
Baccha: child
Bakr’a Eid: the second Eid holiday when goats are sacrificed
Banda: colloquial term for a man
Bandobast: arrangement
Baniya: trader; shopkeeper
Bhabhi: sister-in-law (brother’s wife)
Bhai: brother; gangster (colloquial)
Bhen: sister
Bhenchod: sisterfucker
Bhuna-gosht: roasted meat
Biryani: a rice dish which usually contains meat and saffron
Boondi: small fried chickpea flour balls
Bun maska: a Parsi snack consisting of a roll and butter
Chal hutt: get out of the way
Challan: ticket from the police
Champi: head massage
Chana daal: split chickpea lentils
Chawl: tenement house
Chela: disciple
Chikna/Chikni: smooth; greasy
Chowki: police station
Churidar: tight pajama bottom
Chutiya: a pussy chaser; a moron; a loser
Crore: ten million
Daal: curried lentils
Daaru: alcoholic drinks
Dabba: box
Dawakhana: pharmacy
Dhobi: washerman
Dhoti: traditional sarong for men
Djibba: Muslim attire worn by men
Dupatta: a long scarf women wear with a salwaar kameez
Durgah: a Muslim saint’s shrine or tomb
Faltu: extra; useless
Firang: foreigner (slang, slightly derogatory)
Gali: small street; alleyway
Gaon: village
Gayatri Mantra: Hindu prayer
Ghagra: a long, flowing skirt
Gharana: household
Ghat: riverbank
Ghungroos: small bells, usually attached to anklets
Goonga: a mute person
Gori: a white girl
Guthkha: an intoxicant made of tobacco, betel nut, and other spices
Haan: yes; also can mean “what” when used interrogatively
Hafta: a week; weekly protection money paid to police or gangsters
Hakim: indigenous doctor
Halkat: a mean person; a person without any values
Handi: a cooking vessel made out of clay
Haramzadi: a female born of unwed parents; a disgraced woman (colloquial)
Havaldar: policeman
Hijra: a transgender person
Hisaab: account
IAS: Indian Administrative Service
Ittar: natural perfume
Jab: when
Jalsa: festivity
Janta: the public; the people
Jehennum: hell
Ji: respectful suffix meaning “sir”
Kaajal: traditional eyeliner
Kaalia: black
Kasaai: butcher
Kathak: traditional classical dance
Khala: mother’s sister; aunty (colloquial)
Khandvi: a snack made out of gram flour and yogurt
Kholi: small apartment; hut
Kolhapuri: traditional sandal
Kundan: purified gold
Kurta: a loose shirt
Kurti: a contemporary, casual, and shorter version of a kurta
Lathi: a stick
Lakh: one hundred thousand
Lehenga: long, flowing skirt
Maadherchod: motherfucker
Maal: stuff; goods
Maharaj: specialized cook; chef
Maibaap: parent
Mandir: temple
Marathi: the language of Maharashtra
Marega: you’ll kill
Marg: street
Masjid: mosque
Mata: mother
Mausam Hai Ashiqana: a romantic atmosphere (song title)
Mera: mine
Mere liye bas: I’ve had enough
Muezzin: the person who leads the call to prayer at a mosque
Mujra: a form of dance originated by Mughal courtesans
Nakli: not real; counterfeit; false
Nan khatai: a biscuit
Naqaab: a mask
Neem: a type of tree
Paan: betel nut
Paanwalla: a person who sells paan
Pathsala: school
Pav: a traditional Bombay fast food dish served with a bun
Pooch-taach: inquiry; investigation
Qurbani: sacrifice
Raita: spiced and garnished yogurt
Rehmat: mercy
Saab/Sahib: a superior; during colonial times, a white man
Salwar: baggy pants
Sandaas: toilet; latrine
Senti: sentimental
Shaukeen: a connoisseur
Surya namaskar: in yoga, a sun salutation
Tamasha: a show; a dramatic event
Tapri: a type of local tea
Tel: oil
Tera: yours
Thaana/Thaane: Police station
Thepla: a savory pancake
Undhiyo: a savory vegetarian dish
Upma: south Indian breakfast dish
Urs: a Muslim holiday
Uske liye: for him or her
Ya: or
Yaar: friend; dude; man
Yatra: journey
Zindagi imtihaan leti hai: life gives you tests
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
AHMED BUNGLOWALA is the creator of the cult Indian private eye Shorty Gomes—short, sardonic, and at times exasperating. The Days and Nights of Shorty Gomes was published by Rupa & Co. in 1993. Ahmed grew up in Mumbai’s Nagpada and studied at St. Xavier’s College at Dhobi Talao. He later moved to Pune to take up a corporate job as a spin doctor. He now lives in Goa with his wife and three dogs.
NAMITA DEVIDAYAL wrote the award-winning memoir The Music Room and the best-selling novel Aftertaste. She is a writer with the Times of India and has covered a wide range of subjects, from being a “yummy mummy” to music to personal finance. She graduated from Princeton University with a degree in politics. Devidayal lives in Mumbai.
SONIA FALEIRO is a San Francisco–based award-winning reporter and writer. Her nonfiction narrative, Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay’s Dance Bars, has been published worldwide and translated into several languages. For more information, visit www.soniafaleiro.com.
SMITA HARISH JAIN grew up in Mumbai and, despite having twenty-three addresses since leaving, still considers it home. Her earliest recollection of the city is of ragged beggar boys playing cricket under a canopy of neem trees. After publishing a number of short stories, she is working on her first novel, also set in Mumbai.
DEVASHISH MAKHIJA spends his life driven to manic curiosity about little things (such as why the butterfly is not called the more befitting “flutter-by”). To distract himself from such insomnia-inducing questions, he tells stories, writes screenplays, makes films and graphic art, scribbles poems, stands on his head each morning, and sings songs to the Mumbai pigeons each night. His alter ego resides at www.nakedindianfakir.com.
RIAZ MULLA was born in Mumbai in 1969. He is a trained electrical engineer, and has worked in the power and IT industries. He is currently in the education field, leading the Mumbai training division at Tech Mahindra, one of India’s leading IT firms. He is married with a son and a daughter. “Justice” is his first published fiction.
JERRY PINTO lives and works in Mumbai. He is the author of several books and is executive secretary of MelJol, a nongovernmental organization that advocates for the rights of children.
R. RAJ RAO calls himself a queer writer, not because much of his work explores the theme of homosexual love in a way
that no Indian writer has done before, but because his overall literary output is queer—he has written and published poetry, plays, short stories, novels, and a biography. His latest novel is Hostel Room 131, while his forthcoming novel is entitled Lady Lolita’s Lover.
AVTAR SINGH spent seven years in Mumbai and two more in Goa before returning to Delhi. His last job was as editor of Time Out Delhi. His novel, The Beauty of These Present Things, which is set in Mumbai, is available from Penguin India. He lives in Delhi with his wife, son, and singing dog.
KALPANA SWAMINATHAN and ISHRAT SYED are surgeons and they write together as KALPISH RATNA. Swaminathan also writes under her own name; her anthology Venus Crossing won the 2009 Vodafone Crossword Award for Fiction. Her most recent novel is I Never Knew It Was You. She lives in Mumbai.
Ishrat Syed and KALPANA SWAMINATHAN are surgeons and they write together as KALPISH RATNA. Syed is also a photographer; his last exhibition, The Persistence of Memory, previewed his pictorial project Palimpsest–––—The Erasures That Made Bombay. Their most recent book is Once Upon a Hill. Syed divides his time between Mumbai and Mississippi.
ABBAS TYREWALA is one of the most versatile talents in the Hindi film industry. His directorial debut, Jaane Tu … Ya Jaane Na (2008), was an award-winning critical and commercial success. He has written dialogues, lyrics, and screenplays for numerous highly acclaimed films, such as Munnabhai M.B.B.S., Asoka the Great, and Maqbool—an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. He was born in Mumbai in 1974 and studied at St. Xavier’s College.
ALTAF TYREWALA was born in Mumbai and studied in New York. He is the author of the acclaimed novel No God in Sight, which was published across the world. His short stories have been included in numerous Indian and international anthologies and magazines. He has been awarded the DAAD Artists-in-Berlin Literature Grant for 2011, and he can be reached at [email protected].
PAROMITA VOHRA is a filmmaker and writer whose work focuses on feminism, urban life, love, and popular culture. Some of her films are Partners in Crime, Morality TV and the Loving Jehad, Q2P, Where’ Sandra, and Unlimited Girls. She has also written the Pakistani film Khamosh Pani (Silent Waters) and several documentaries, and published fiction and nonfiction in various anthologies including Bombay Meri Jaan, Electric Feather, Recess, Defending Our Dreams, and First Proof.
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