by Gabriel Khan
‘All right, I got it.’
I slammed the phone down. ‘They’re back. Come on. We’ve got to get to Sharma’s house. Singh, get us there as fast as you can!’ I shouted, heading out of the room and towards the exit.
All credit to Singh. Rallying from his earlier slowness, he rose to the occasion magnificently. In less than a minute, he had a couple of jeeps ready, and we were racing through the narrow streets, high-pitched sirens blaring at full volume. Singh was with Ranveer and me in our car, Rahul and a few other local policemen in the other. I filled the Chandigarh man in on the way, as succinctly as I could.
‘They’re doing it under our nose, Singh. This sort of thing can’t be encouraged,’ I yelled over the din. ‘We have to make sure everyone knows who’s the boss.’
‘I agree,’ he screeched back. ‘Will you arrest them?’
I smiled grimly. ‘That’s the plan.’
Plans, though, have a nasty habit of falling apart at the last minute.
With a veritable maniac behind the wheel, we reached the house in record time, covering nearly ten kilometres in fifteen minutes. Tyres screeched as the two jeeps shuddered to a halt, and Rahul, Ranveer and Singh were out in a flash, drawing their guns as they barged through the gate. I followed at a slower pace.
A strange sight greeted my eyes as I walked through the gate. Rahul, Singh and a few other cops were yelling at the top of their voices, guns in hand, pointing at four men who were lying stretched out on the floor. Ranveer was standing a little further off, looking at the prostrate figures with a strange expression. The two-storey house was ablaze with light. People hung out of every single window, watching the drama unfold with the knowledge that there was a safe distance between them and what was happening.
An imposing woman of matronly proportions was standing at the main door, a rolling pin in hand, arguing ferociously with a constable who appeared to be trying to pacify her.
As I approached the four figures on the ground, the early-morning light was enough to tell me that we had been fooled. Even from behind, I could easily tell that neither of the four men was Sharma. I turned towards Ranveer and caught his eye, and almost imperceptibly, he shook his head, holstering his weapon.
Time to take charge.
I strode forward, past the array of hand-held weaponry, and knelt beside the figures. ‘You, in the centre. Who are you?’
‘Sir, I’m nobody. I’ve not done anything wrong. This is a mistake—’
I cut in. ‘I’ll decide that. Now shut up and just tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.’
The man whimpered. ‘Sir, please believe me, we are nobody. A man came to us and gave us some money, told us to deliver some packets to this address. That’s all we know.’
‘He’s lying,’ snarled Singh. ‘Let’s bash in his head, or perhaps a limb he doesn’t really need. Maybe that will give him some incentive!’
The man panicked. By now, all four were gibbering with fright. No way could they be the gang we were looking for.
‘No, Singh. Let it be. These guys are nothing.’
Singh was about to say something when the wireless set on his belt crackled. Holstering his gun, an act that brought an expression of hopeful relief to the faces of the four unfortunate men, he barked into it, ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, you told me to keep a watch?’
‘Yes, yes, I remember. What is it?’
‘Sir, it’s not here. It’s in Ludhiana. I just had a call from a friend of mine there. He said four men robbed the residence of an actor.’
‘WHAT? When?’
‘A couple of hours ago, I believe.’
Singh turned towards me, wide-eyed. But there was more to come.
We were looking at another nightmarish road trip, this time to Ludhiana, about 150 km from Sharma’s house.
Rahul and I began discussing the odds that our targets were still there.
Perhaps I could just send Rahul and Ranveer to Ludhiana, and return to Delhi.
Then the radio crackled again: ‘Sir, just got an alert from Sadar police station about four men who duped a major electronics store in Sadar Bazar in Ludhiana. We got a call at the local police station.’
I grabbed the radio. ‘What kind of shop?’
‘Imported goods, sir. Illegal. Apparently it was a customs raid.’
‘Shit! When was this?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
I threw the radio back to Singh. ‘You,’ I said, pointing to one of the horizontal figures. ‘Where did they meet you?’
‘Sir, outside Rock Garden.’
‘When?’
‘Around four a.m.’ The man was trembling.
‘Did they say why?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ he cried. ‘They just gave us the money, the address and the packets. I don’t know anything else, sir, honest.’
I grabbed the man by the collar and pulled him upright. Then, leaning in so close that I could smell the stale beer on his breath, I spoke through gritted teeth, ‘Think very carefully. Was there anything else? Because if there’s anything you’re hiding, I’ll have your life in my hands, do you understand? You’ll never see your mother or father or brother or sister ever again, because you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life inside a ten-by-ten cell.’
The man stared back at me, speechless.
‘So. Is. There. Anything. Else.’
‘Sir, they s-s-s-said they were g-g-g-going to the Ludhiana s-s-s-station,’ he managed to stammer out.
Station? Oh dear god!
‘Rahul,’ I shouted, flinging the man back down. ‘Check those packets. What’s in them?’
Rahul snatched up one, and slit it open. It was filled with paper. He snatched up another; that one was stuffed with toys, the ones you get on every roadside.
He looked up at me in dismay.
They’d done it again. Somehow, they knew that we’d be coming, they’d known that the wedding would be watched. And so they’d planned ahead.
But it wasn’t too late.
I turned to Singh. ‘How far is Ludhiana junction from here?’
‘Sir, two hours, tops.’
‘Do you have any idea when any main line express leaves the station?’ I was getting desperate.
‘Sir, I have in-laws in Ludhiana. I know that the first express train leaves the station for Delhi at ten forty a.m.’
I looked at my watch. It was just 9 a.m. They’d left for the station at 8.30. Maybe, just maybe, we could catch them at the station.
I pointed to one of the others lying prostrate on the ground. ‘You! Did they say where they were going?’ I asked, knowing it was a long shot.
He shook his head. So much for that.
‘Singh, get some of your men to interrogate these fellows. See what else they know. But don’t be too hopeful. I want you to question the people in the house too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And get someone to check all trains that leave between nine and eleven, even if they are metre-gauge trains. And I need your driver. The maniac, the one who drove us here.’
Singh looked puzzled. ‘Why him, sir?’
‘How long did you say it would take to reach the station?’
‘Two hours.’
‘We need to get there in one. I need him.’
10
Wedding Windfall
Ajay could not help marvelling at how, no matter how many daughters he married off, Sharmaji always managed to be as flustered, as harrowed and as clueless as he’d been at his own wedding. He’d been to the second daughter’s wedding, then the third, and now the fourth, and every time, Sharmaji seemed completely out of his depth. At least until the rest of the gang came along and provided, quite apart from the material requirements, moral support.
Last night, after everyone had gone to bed – having exhausted themselves – the four of them had sat around drinking and quietly chatting.
‘So, Sharmaji,’ said Ajay, ‘how many daughters do you hav
e left to marry off?’
‘L-l-let’s shee now,’ muttered the tipsy father of the bride, considering the question with utmost seriousness. ‘There’s Mrs Sharma—’
‘What, you want to marry her off?’ said Joginder innocently, as the others started laughing. ‘What did she do?’
‘Do? Oh, you shaid daughtersh! I have eight daughtersh. You hear that? Eight!’
‘Parminder,’ said Ajay.
‘Harvinder,’ said Iqbal.
‘Garvinder,’ said Joginder.
‘Yesh yesh! Then there’s Satvinder, Mohinder, Surinder, Maninder and—and—Sukhwinder, my youngesht,’ he ended happily, and drained his glass.
There was a silence. Each of the other three was contemplating asking the question they’d had in their heads since they’d discovered the nursery rhyme-like nomenclature in the Sharma household. But they hadn’t wanted to offend Sharmaji, and so had refrained.
Iqbal took a deep breath, and took the leap at last, witnessing the man’s drunkenness. ‘Sharmaji, you’ve got some wonderfully named children,’ he said.
Sharmaji looked at them. They looked back. He cleared his throat. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘They kept coming, and we were fine till the first three, and they still kept coming, and there were so many names to think of, and—and—and we didn’t have any TV back in our day!’ he finished wretchedly.
The three looked at each other, close to laughter. Best leave it at that, they thought.
But Sharmaji wasn’t done. He gazed at his glass, whose contents had emptied like the happiness had drained from his face a minute ago. ‘Y’ know, boys, a wedding’s a shad shad thing. My girlsh will all go away! I will be left all alone—’
Ajay winked at him. ‘So what, Sharmaji! Get some more Harvinders and Sukhwinders and Maninders!’
Sharmaji seemed most offended. ‘You—you—Ajay, all thish ish a joke to you! Jusht you wait till you marry and have a girl. You’ll know what—my poor girlsh!’ he lapsed back into silence.
The words seemed to sober Ajay; he immediately went quiet. Before the others could notice and comment, though, Sharmaji went on, ‘Yeah, and it’sh coshtly too! So many kidsh—I’m broke now, and I’ve got more kidsh to get married! Hey-ho!’ He looked at his glass and decided another swig would make him feel less morose.
Ajay looked up. ‘All right, Sharmaji, stop crying and tell me something. Have you heard of Satwar Singh?’
Sharmaji paused, mid-gulp, and thought hard. ‘The Punjabi actor?’
Ajay nodded.
Iqbal spoke. ‘I’ve seen the fellow. He came to Jaipur last month. Some big shop near our house was being inaugurated, and they’d brought him.’
‘So what do you think of him?’ Ajay asked Iqbal.
‘Oh, he’s the usual rich bastard. Came in some swanky car, looked like he owned the place. I heard he’d even asked the shopowners to pay for his makeup!’
‘Black money, Iqbal bhai, it’s all black money,’ said Ajay.
They looked at him, surprised. ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Sharmaji.
Ajay smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘Have another drink, Sharmaji,’ he said, pouring one liberally for the older man.
‘Have you ever seen an actor begging for mercy in real life?’ asked Ajay.
‘I would definitely want to see one some day,’ Joginder chimed in.
Ajay got to his feet. ‘Let’s make a spectacle of the actor. It’s four a.m. now, if we leave now we’ll reach Ludhiana by six.’
Sharmaji – who was already drifting away to the few hours of sleep he would need to fully recover from the drinking – opened his eyes blearily when Ajay shook him from his semi-conscious state. He was about to yell at him when he saw the expression on Ajay’s face.
The man’s eyes were sparkling, which meant they were going to make a killing.
Sharmaji was wide awake in an instant. Ten minutes later, he was ready. Avoiding all the men in their various stages of sleep, he left the house through the back entrance and walked briskly to the end of the lane. There he met the others, who had gone ahead and were waiting for him in a taxi.
The four of them sat mute in the car, unrecognizable in their disguises.
Something was not right. Ajay felt it instinctively. His gut feeling had never failed him yet. And right now, as their car drove towards Ludhiana and raced down the highway from Sharmaji’s house, his intuition was screaming at him to stop.
‘Joginder, pull over here.’
Surprised, Joginder did as he was told. He pulled up near the pavement. Chandigarh’s famous Rock Garden lay just ahead.
‘What’s wrong, Ajay?’ asked Sharmaji, concerned.
Ajay didn’t reply; he just sat there, his eyes unfocused, his mind clearly far away. In the rear-view mirror, Sharmaji and Iqbal, both in the back seat, saw Ajay’s eyes locked on a point ahead of them in ferocious concentration.
Just as abruptly as they had come to a halt, Ajay snapped out of his thoughts. ‘Change of plans. I’m sorry, Sharmaji, but you won’t be happy with what I’m going to say.’
Sharmaji sighed resignedly. ‘Out with it.’
‘We can’t go back.’
There was a collective gasp. ‘What do you mean, we can’t go back? Go back where?’ cried Iqbal.
‘We can’t go back to my house,’ said Sharmaji. ‘Isn’t that what you’re saying, Ajay?’
Ajay nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. There’s a good chance that by the time we return, the police will be waiting for us at your house. We can’t take that risk.’
The three of them watched Sharmaji struggle with the idea. He would be leaving his family on the day after the wedding, when his daughter had just gone away to her new house, her new family. His wife, for one, would be livid. His family that had come from afar would certainly complain too.
On the other hand, going back meant never getting to see any of them again. And in all the seven years he had worked with Ajay, the boy had not been wrong even once.
He sighed again. ‘Bugger it. At least let me call my wife.’
Ajay nodded. Sharmaji got off and lumbered over to a nearby phone booth.
‘So, what do we do now, Ajay?’ said Joginder.
Ajay looked around. Something caught his attention. Without turning his head, he rolled down his window and pointed across the road. ‘See those four men? They’re our ticket out of here.’
The taxi dropped them off at a mechanic’s place, where a fat wad of money got them a white government Ambassador for the day. For what they were planning, it would certainly have to be this car. Soon, they were on the road to Ludhiana, with Joginder at the wheel. He didn’t stop at a single traffic signal, the flashing red beacon on top of the car acting as an instant green light. All the people at a roadside dhaba where they broke journey, including its owner, would have sworn to the fact that four men from the CBI had walked in, flashed their ids, asked for food, wolfed down a scrumptious breakfast and left. All of them would also vouch that their leader, a fattish man with a deep voice and a bushy moustache, made sure he paid before they left.
Naturally, none of them could vouch for the fact that the man hadn’t had a moustache the previous night.
By 6 a.m., they had arrived at their destination, which was being guarded by a couple of burly guards. They looked very surprised when a government vehicle stopped in front of them, and the windows rolled down to reveal four very official-looking men sitting inside. But they stood their ground, safe in the knowledge that their employer had paid the right kinds of people.
The first guard walked up to the car and spoke, affecting boredom. ‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘We want to meet your hero, chum,’ said Sharmaji.
You had to hand it to the fellow, he had balls. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘He’s shooting.’
But it was hard to browbeat Sharmaji when he was in full form. His eyes not leaving the guard’s, he opened the door and got out, treating him to a full view of his massive frame. ‘Really?’ h
e said, walking right up to the man until they were face to face. Well, face to chest. ‘Which film?’
The guard made a strangled noise in his throat. ‘Um… Jawani ka Jalwa,’ he hazarded.
In a flash, Sharmaji had swatted him aside with one massive paw. As the man lay on the ground, rubbing his bruised cheek, he strode to the other guard, who by this time had decided that cooperation was the best option. But before he could get this realization across, Sharmaji had hauled him up by the arms and shoved an ID that said ‘CBI’ in his face.
A minute later, the four of them were inside the bungalow, flashing IDs left, right and centre at curious servants. A tray-laden chef was subject to a P.K. Sharma slap, which instantly bought obedience from everyone else. As Sharmaji stamped about, the others played out their roles, which they had rehearsed and performed umpteen times, to perfection.
Iqbal headed straight for the bar in the lounge, ripped it open, and began stuffing expensive imported alcohol bottles in a bag.
Joginder eyed a huge painting for a few seconds. Then he went over and slid it to one side, revealing the predictable hidden safe. He signalled to Sharmaji; the ‘leader’ started shouting and elicited a response from the head chef, who, prompted by both his previous experience of the slap and the possibility of more in the future, immediately gave up the combination.
Ajay bounded up the rounded stairs to the biggest door he could find, kicked it open, and saw exactly what he had expected to see.
The room was mammoth, easily half the size of his flat in Bombay. In the centre was a bed, which now disgorged a nude woman who ran screaming, all parts of her body bouncing interestingly, to the bathroom. Remaining in the bed was the actor Satwar Singh, who had clearly been awoken by said screaming.
‘Wha—’ he started sleepily. Then he saw Ajay, who said brightly, ‘Good morning!’
That woke him up. Covering his flab with a dressing gown, the thespian clambered off the bed. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he shrieked.
‘Fans, Mr Singh,’ said Ajay, winking at him. ‘We really wanted to meet you, so we thought we’d drop in!’
For a second, the answer floored the actor. Then he found his voice and lost his temper. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? Get out! Get the hell out. I’ll skin you alive—’
