by Gabriel Khan
His threats were cut short; Ajay took a leaf out of Sharmaji’s book and let fly a ringing slap, bringing Singh to his knees. Then he took out his ID card and knelt down himself. ‘Look at this. This is who I am. I know all about you, you piece of shit. I know you’re a bloody drug dealer, and you like kissing the arse of the underworld.’
By the time Ajay had half pushed, half pulled the protesting actor out of the room and downstairs, Joginder had already prised open shelves in the kitchen and discovered the predictable packets of drugs.
There wasn’t much Singh could say now. He was trembling. He could hear the disconcertingly hushed voices of his servants from behind the door to the study, where they’d been cloistered. It was the last blow. ‘Sir, please let me go,’ he said, pleading, hands folded. ‘I’m nobody, I just provide entertainment to people, I only—’
There was a shout from outside. ‘Sir, you’ve got to see this!’ shouted Iqbal excitedly. Ajay, his face black as thunder, looked at Singh, who seemed to have frozen.
The three of them went outside, Ajay dragging the actor along.
Iqbal was standing next to a massive, rapidly emptying swimming pool. They watched with incredulity as the last of the water drained away to reveal the door of a safe set into the wall of the pool.
Finally, the actor broke. Without any protest, he allowed himself to be led down the stairs and unlocked the door. The gang was completely unprepared for what they saw.
The two-foot-large secret crevice was filled with gold and silver biscuits, lining the wall right up to the ceiling. It was the biggest safe they’d seen and, but for a chance reflection off the water that Iqbal had been lucky enough to catch, they would have missed it altogether.
Feigning patience, the gang of four carried out the rest of their ‘chores’. Everything was packed up in two gunny bags. The actor, now crying bitterly, was made to sign on an official-looking paper. He was then taken to his bedroom and locked in. Iqbal disconnected the phone lines. Finally, fifteen minutes later, they were on their way, richer by several lakhs and hardly believing their luck. The ‘raid’ had taken less than an hour in all.
But Ajay seemed dissatisfied. The others didn’t notice it, so mesmerized were they with their latest catch. The drugs had disturbed him; he was getting sidelined from his path, his endgame. The drugs they’d found had brought it home to him.
Before they caught on to his mood, he overrode his thoughts. At least now, he would celebrate. In fact…
‘Sharmaji, weren’t you saying you wanted to give more electronic goods to your daughter for her wedding?’ he said, his eyes on the road. He’d chosen to drive while the others counted the loot.
‘I was, I really was, Ajay!’ said Sharmaji. ‘I’d promised myself that if I could afford to, I would give her more dowry. I can’t believe you remember!’
Iqbal, who was looking out of the car, now said, ‘Hey, this isn’t the road back home. This is the way to Sadar Bazar.’
‘Yes, it is. I thought since we organized gold and cash earlier, we would organize some imported electronic items too, for the wedding,’ said Ajay, smiling.
Sharmaji beamed at him. ‘You’re a good man.’
They spent the rest of the journey in a carefree mood, as if they’d just learnt they had scored big in an exam and owed it to themselves to have fun. As they entered the Sadar Bazar area, the electronics market was yet to open but breakfast and mithai shops were doing brisk business. The foursome stopped for breakfast at an expensive restaurant and then some jalebis at a roadside stall.
The jalebis made Sharmaji nostalgic. ‘You know, boys,’ he said, munching away on one, eyes half-closed in satisfaction, ‘your Mrs Sharma and I used to do this exact same thing. After college, we would spend hours just roaming the streets, chatting and laughing.’ He paused to slurp the jalebi juice off his wrist, and resumed, ‘She would always want something. I had to buy her stuff all the time, but my father would never give me enough money, so everything I bought her was cheap.’
Iqbal joined in. ‘You’re right, Sharmaji. Maybe I should take back something for Malti and Rahul too.’
‘Sure, why don’t we—’ Joginder started to say, and stopped.
Ajay’s thoughts went to Priya and her warm embrace. He excused himself and went in search of an STD booth.
‘How are you doing, Cleopatra?’
‘What an opening. You seem to be in a good mood.
‘I actually tried calling you last night, but each time Shakaal answered.’
‘Why Shakaal?’
‘Arre, your father and the villain of Shaan both have shiny pates.’ Ajay smiled mischievously, though his beloved couldn’t see him.
‘Achcha, tell me when you are coming to Bombay?’ Priya asked.
‘Will come soon, and this time it will be to take you away for good,’ Ajay replied.
He returned to his friends in a much better mood. ‘Guys, if you are done with jalebis and lassi, it’s time to decorate our houses.’
The four of them looked around carefully. They hadn’t chosen the best place for a shopping expedition. They were in a street that reeked of high society, with shops that catered exclusively to the rich and the neo-rich. All imported goods stores, boasting products from all over the world. Gadgets, clothes, goods, even some exotic foods – everything the rich liked to spend money on. Most certainly not a place for men like them, even if they did have more than anyone could imagine in the trunk of their car.
Ajay winked at the others, and together they went into the nearest restaurant. In a few minutes, they came back out, but they certainly weren’t the same men who had gone in. The loo inside the restaurant had come in handy. The moustached, frowning Sharmaji strode towards a store, followed by the stick-thin, slightly cross-eyed Joginder, who sported sunglasses and a false beard. Iqbal was a full-bearded turbaned Sikh and Ajay was – well, himself. He had never needed too much of disguise; early on in life he’d realized that he had one of those faces which you might see every day, yet never quite register. A thoroughly nondescript, forgettable face.
They were all dressed in immaculate formal clothes, and looked menacingly official. Sharmaji was confidently striding towards the nearest shop when Ajay grabbed his arm. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not that one.’ He pointed to one at the corner. ‘There. More cover.’
The others knew better than to ask why. Ajay was phenomenally accurate at spotting the right place to raid. They just hadn’t gotten around to asking how he did it.
Ajay led the way. There was no plan, the others just followed him.
The men barged in through the door of their target shop as if they owned the place, pushing various knickknacks out of the way. Before anyone in the shop could react, Ajay said, ‘Down the shutters now. Take this place apart. You—’ He pointed to a couple of customers. ’Get out, now. This is a raid.’
The shop emptied in less than thirty seconds. Iqbal drew the shutters down from inside, turned around and folded his hands across his chest, in a gesture that smacked of finality.
The owner hurried forward, a tiny man in his forties who looked as if he’d just bathed in oil.
‘Who are you?’ and ‘What the hell is going on here?’ were the two conventional openings. It was always those two. Ajay waited.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’
Ah. Sometimes people don’t believe in following convention.
‘Customs,’ snapped Ajay.
‘Customs?’ repeated the man. ‘But I’ve paid the duty fees!’
Ajay grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him to the counter. ‘Show me your receipts.’ He pointed to a man in his twenties who looked like an offspring of Frankenstein’s monster and a banshee. ‘You, take sir…’ he indicated Sharmaji. ’…and show him around the shop. Don’t hide anything, you hear?’
Turning back to the owner, Ajay saw that he was holding out a stack of papers. He’d got them too quickly, and he looked a little too composed. Ajay selected a receipt at ra
ndom, took one glance at it, and without warning, slapped the man hard.
‘What the fuck is this? You trying to screw with me, shithead? Where’s your import licence?’
The shock on the man’s face was enough proof for Ajay, he’d broken Mr Oily.
‘Running a smuggling racket, are you, you little weasel?’ Ajay shouted.
The man fell down, groping at Ajay’s feet. ‘Please, sir, your honour, sir, I’m a poor man, please—’
‘You? Poor? What the fuck do you think I am, stupid? How many people have paid with their lives for a little piece of shit like you?’
The man pleaded. ‘Your honour, sir, let me go. Please, sir, your highness, take what you want, please let me go. I won’t smuggle anymore…’
Not many people noticed when, a few minutes later, four men lifted the shutters of a shop and walked out with sixteen bags bearing the store’s logo. And not many noticed that the store didn’t do any business that day.
Not until they were in the car and on their way back home did the others burst into laughter. Ajay joined in too, smiling.
‘Ajay, how the hell did you know which shop would be…?’ Sharmaji said.
Ajay shrugged. ‘No idea. I guess I just knew.’
‘Did you know they were smugglers?’ said Iqbal, still feeling a little awed.
‘I think so. I mean, I didn’t know for sure,’ said Ajay. ‘But you know what, Iqbal? I was born with a nose for it. It’s a scent that leads me to these kinds of men.’
There was a pause. Then Sharmaji said, ‘What, like a dog?’
They all burst out laughing again.
11
A Close Shave
Sharmaji wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘Jogi, go get us tea, there’s a good fellow!’
Grumbling, Joginder got off the train and went in search of a vendor.
They were on the Paschim Express, the train which originates at Amritsar and terminates at Bombay Central station, halting at Ludhiana junction for ten minutes along the way. It was 10.30 a.m. They were all in the same coach, but only for a while.
Ask any sane man to get train tickets only an hour before the train departs on an overnight journey and he would swear it was impossible – but Ajay had done the impossible again. As they approached the station, he suddenly told the taxi driver to let him off. ‘You guys go on ahead and wait for me near the platform. I’ll be right back.’
‘But where are we going?’ shouted Iqbal as the taxi started to move away.
‘Bombay!’ Ajay shouted back, before getting lost in the crowd.
They’d hardly been waiting two minutes, all six pairs of eyes glued to their suitcases in careful nonchalance, when Ajay came running up, two envelopes in his hand. ‘All right, come on. I’ve got tickets to Bombay.’
‘How the hell did you get them at this time?’ said Joginder, amazed. ‘The train is expected in… what…’
‘In twenty minutes,’ finished Ajay.
In a few minutes, the train was heading towards Ludhiana junction. ‘I couldn’t get seats in the same coach, so we’ll be spread out a little,’ Ajay said. ‘But until the train starts, I want all of us to be in the same coach.’
And there they were, crowding inside the compartment. Their suitcases were in the aisle, and blocked the way neatly for nearly everyone else. Sharmaji had to apologize several times.
Joginder was still grumbling as he balanced the tea cups in his hands and gingerly walked back to the train. But then he saw something that made him forget his irritation.
There were large numbers of people milling about in the station. Among them were the usual suspects: beggars, vendors, ticket checkers, policemen. But suddenly he saw something, just for a fleeting moment, that gave him pause. Maybe everything wasn’t as it seemed to be.
A man with a suitcase had just come in through the entrance. Everything about him was fine, except that he seemed to be paying a lot of attention to his surroundings. Too much attention. He looked up at the foot overbridge. At another man who was standing there. The second man gave an imperceptible shake of the head.
It was tiny, but it was enough. The net was closing in. He had to get out of here, and do so without drawing attention. Which was easier said than done with four tea cups in his hands.
Walking past a garbage bin, he surreptitiously dropped one in, and hoped like hell nobody had noticed. Then he drained the second cup in that hand in one gulp. It was scalding, and burned his tongue and throat, and he could feel blisters right down to his gut. He fought back an urge to dance around in pain, but at least that was another cup gone. There.
His luck would’ve held, had the man who’d just walked in been anyone else. But it was Waseem, and he’d just seen a man drain a scalding cup of tea in one gulp.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joginder saw the man begin to walk a little faster. Trouble was, he was walking towards him.
He turned the corner, and knowing he had just a few seconds before the cop rounded the corner too, flung the tea cups away and made a dash for the train.
Ajay was looking out of the window and saw Joginder running. Instantly, he surmised what must have happened. He looked behind Joginder, but didn’t see anyone.
Turning quickly to the others, he said, ‘All right, what I was afraid of has happened. The cops are here. Yes, Jogi, I know…’ – this was to the panting Joginder – ‘so all of you, listen to me very carefully.’
I’d spent around two minutes setting up the perimeter, but Singh was a capable man, and I didn’t have to spend any more effort on this. I was close to those bastards, I could feel it. They still hadn’t left.
All the uniformed guys were outside, and I sent just a few plainclothes men in, through different gates. Too many cops would scare them away.
I walked in, pulling a suitcase I’d just borrowed from a helpful citizen. Well, a citizen who’d been bullied into helpfulness, true, but hey, as long as he got his luggage back, right?
I looked around, spotting familiar faces in the crowd. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but then nothing rarely does until it comes up behind you and kicks you where the sun doesn’t shine.
I took in as much as I could at a glance. There were a couple of transvestites haranguing a young couple, a group of men sitting in a semicircle playing rummy, a man trying to balance four cups of tea as he walked, a coolie who looked thoroughly bogged down by the weight of the luggage on his head, Ranveer standing on the foot overbridge…
His inexperience showed again. As our eyes met, he shook his head. It was imperceptible, but it shouldn’t have been done.
I looked around again, walking slowly ahead, taking care not to bump into anything. And then I saw it. The man with the four cups now had three. Where was the fourth? As I watched, he drained another glass in one mighty gulp. His body stiffened. Jesus, I thought! That tea must have been fucking hot! Why? No man would do that, unless he was forced to.
He was walking faster now, and he was moving away from me. Directly away. That had to mean something.
I walked faster too. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rahul approach, having seen some purposeful movement from me. Good man.
The fellow made a blind turn. Shit!
I sped to the turning and looked around. The man had disappeared. Damn, damn, damn!
Rahul arrived behind me, but before I could say anything, my walkie-talkie crackled. It was Ranveer. ‘Sir, I’ve got him. The man you were chasing. The man with the tea. He just got into a train.’
‘Which one?’ I barked.
‘I think it’s the Paschim Express.’
I turned to Rahul. ‘Get outside, find out. This was a last-minute dash, they must have bought the tickets in black. And they must have paid a bomb.’
He nodded and ran off.
Police work is all about following the trail. Every criminal leaves a trail, however intelligent or lowlife he thinks he is. And that’s what you have to do as a good cop – follow the trail like a determined bloo
dhound. There would be enough trips and dead ends on the way, but stay true to the path and in the end, you’ll get your man.
Sometimes, though, all you need is sheer, blind luck.
I had no idea why I took my eyes off the train, but I did. And saw a familiar figure walking briskly towards one of the toilets. I’d seen enough pictures of Sharmaji in police files and at his house to recognize him anywhere.
This time, I didn’t take my eyes off him. I watched him walk into the men’s room. Still not looking anywhere else, I spoke into the radio. ‘I’ve got Sharma. Repeat, I’ve got Sharma. Inside men’s toilet near platform 4. I want two men here on the double. Repeat, I want two men outside that toilet, and I want them now!’
Backup would arrive. In the meantime, it wouldn’t do any harm to follow the fellow in.
Slowly, but as naturally as I could, I opened the door to the smelly loo. The fat ass was just in front of me, washing his face.
I walked up behind him, savoured the moment for a second longer than I should have, and said, ‘P.K. Sharma, you’re mine now.’
In hindsight, I should have sensed something was wrong. Not when the man in front of me didn’t swivel around in surprise, not when I suddenly realized that there was not a single urinal in here, not even when I felt the touch of cold steel on my neck. I should have noticed something was not right when I entered a public toilet in broad daylight and found it empty except for just one man. In a crowded station in India, that’s just not possible.
But there I was, outwitted, one step too far behind.
The pressure on my neck shifted, and I heard a voice say, ‘You will, of course, not move.’
It was the coldest voice I’d ever heard. Enough to induce frostbite in summer. Sheer ruthless menace dripping from it, the voice said, ‘Sharmaji, don’t turn around. Walk sideways to the door, keep your back to us, and leave.’
Every instruction was followed to the letter.
The man behind me spoke again. ‘Your name.’ It wasn’t a request.
