by Juggi Bhasin
‘We have no information about that. The cellphone company told us that the account has been frozen because the bills went unpaid.’
‘Okay. I will deal with that. So how does this work?’
Ajaib Singh became serious as he outlined the next steps.
‘You will have a window of just fifteen minutes. You can play around with the laptop only for that much time. Do not attempt to take away anything. My man will keep the second locker key on a table outside the storage room. After you have completed the job, keep the key back from where you picked it up. The shift changes at 10 p.m., and the new officer who comes in is not exactly a friend of mine. If you are caught, I will not bail you out. I will deny any transaction with you. You will be left to face the music. Do you understand what I am saying?’
‘Clear as crystal,’ responded Rahul, pocketing the key.
That same night, Rahul walked into a Gurugram police station and went into the storage room, no questions asked. He opened the locker containing Simone’s stuff, including her laptop. He inserted a pen drive into it and transferred all the data, files and folders. He completed the job in under ten minutes, before the next shift began.
CHAPTER 15
Usman liked to watch old Hindi films in the crumbling theatres of purani Delhi. Especially during his weekly-off on Sunday mornings when he did not know what to do with his time. He had no family to go back to in his one-room tenement in Jamia Nagar. He was not too sure how he had arrived in the world. All he knew was that he had arrived feeling very angry. Especially at the way he thought his community was always being pilloried by the majority. Someone in the Delhi Wakf Board had raised him on a steady diet of religious teachings. When he grew up, he was offered a choice to become a maulvi. But when he took a good look at himself in the mirror, he decided otherwise.
He was tall and strapping, blessed with exceptionally strong biceps and upper carriage. He sported a military style crew cut and deliberately wore a permanent sneer on his face to take attention away from his good looks. He liked to look at himself in the mirror, stripped to the torso, pumping his arms, watching the play of his muscular frame. It was no surprise then that he chose to become a swimming instructor at the Fort swimming complex. He landed a job that gave him the opportunity to move around with a bare torso with no questions asked. The pay cheque was also reasonable. What more could he want? Yet the anger in his heart against the real or imagined injustices forever dogged him.
The world of old Hindi films, especially the Urdu language socials of the ’60s gave Usman a chance to escape reality. These films transported him to another world. He would sometimes imagine himself to be a young nawab in love with a girl from the aristocracy as well as a nautch girl. He would imagine walking down a path strewn with rose petals, in a courtyard lined with gurgling fountains and flowering jasmine, forced to choose between the nautch girl and the nobleman’s daughter. For two hours, the axis of the world would tilt in another direction for him. When the lights came on in the theatre after the show, he saw the reality around him for what it really was: torn seats in the hall stained with betel juice, and men leaving the theatre, scratching their crotches over their dirty pyjamas.
One Sunday afternoon, he came out of the hall and walked to his old Tata Sumo parked near the theatre. The Sumo, purchased from a junkyard and refitted and retooled was his most prized possession. He got into the driver’s seat and hummed a tune from the movie Mere Huzoor. He was in a good mood, and his hands tapped the steering wheel. He tilted the shade above the windscreen and pulled out his Ray-Ban sunglasses from underneath it. He spat at the glass frame and cleaned it with a piece of cloth. The rear-view mirror showed a good-looking man at peace with the world. He inserted the key into the ignition. Just then, a man driving a Bolero jeep appeared from nowhere and scraped past the Sumo’s fender.
Usman shouted at the driver of the disappearing Bolero.
‘Hey, watch it, you jackass!’
The Bolero braked to a halt and the driver reversed to block the exit of the Sumo. A triangulated flag of a religious sect flew from one end of the windscreen. The driver got out of the Bolero, and Usman followed suit.
The short and thickly-built man stopped and looked carefully at the star and crescent symbol on the Sumo.
‘So, what do we have here? A Pakistani cruising the streets of Delhi? Some nerve, huh?’
Usman came up to the man, fists clenched, ready to give it back.
‘I am not a Pakistani, you jackass. That’s a religious symbol. Move your car out of my way, otherwise I will make you do it.’
‘You will make me do it? Really? This is a free country, not Lahore. I can park anywhere. You scratch out that symbol from the jeep and we will talk . . .’
‘You won’t move out of the way, huh?’
‘Well, you can back off. The likes of me never retreat . . .’
The Bolero driver never got to complete his sentence as Usman slapped him hard across the face. But he recovered and struck a glancing blow across Usman’s chin. The two men grappled with each other. The man punched Usman in the stomach, but Usman came back strongly. He released a flurry of punches aimed at the man’s head and stomach. The Bolero driver suddenly looked short for breath. His face was purple with congestion, and he was breathing hard. He knew he was no match for Usman. His opponent could quite literally kill him with a punch.
He turned and ran towards his vehicle. A crowd was beginning to collect. The Bolero driver backed away at great speed, but Usman was not ready to let go. His wanted to inflict more punishment.
He gave chase and the two cars sped along the road opposite Red Fort towards Daryaganj. Usman’s cellphone rang and he glanced to check who it was. He ignored the call and stepped on the accelerator. The Sumo hit the Bolero from behind, even as the latter desperately tried to pull away. Usman came up strongly again and rammed the Bolero from the side. He herded it to a quiet side street on the left under the Daryaganj pedestrian bridge.
In the street, Usman rammed the Bolero from behind again, forcing it to stop. The Bolero driver was at Usman’s mercy. He covered his face with his hands as Usman walked up to him with balled-up fists. He saw the man shrunk in his seat, face covered. The anger seeped out of him. He stood there feeling emptied out. His cellphone began to ring again, and he turned and walked back to the Sumo. The man in the Bolero saw him drive away and only then did he raise his head. He swore under his breath.
‘You got me this time, mullah. But I will get you eventually. I will ensure I do so, and when I do, I will make an example of you.’
Speeding out of Daryaganj, Usman took the call. The Fort club president, Thakkar, was on the line.
‘Hey namazi, are you deaf? I have been calling you for the last five minutes.’
Usman winced at the insult. The anger began to brew in him again. He knew if he lost it this time, his job could be on the line.
‘I was busy somewhere. What is it, Sir?’
Thakkar barked an order. ‘Drop whatever you are doing and head to the club. My daughter has got an unexpected break from her school at Sanawar. She wants to learn swimming. I am getting the pool heated. Teach her the basics. I have cleared off everyone else. Come as fast as you can.’
‘But it’s my weekly off. I have things to do at home . . .’
Usman could almost see Thakkar’s jowly face working up in contempt.
‘Namazi, you and all the staff at the club belong to me. Do you understand that? When I want something, I get it. If you don’t land up now, don’t bother showing up for work on Monday. Got it?’
The line went dead and Usman, in complete frustration, hit the steering wheel. He braked next to a quiet intersection and considered his options. It had been that kind of a day. Two hours of complete happiness and then a chain of nerve-wracking events brought upon him by who else but members of the majority community. The hatred settling in him wasn’t going anywhere. It was almost set in him like molten iron in a mould cavity. He had no
choice but to comply.
Thakkar’s twelve-year-old daughter was a notch more demanding than her father. She was quite irritated that a lowly swimming instructor had kept her waiting. She refused to get into the pool at first. She complied only after her father offered a treat at the best Chinese restaurant in town.
She got into the pool and asked Usman with an arched eyebrow, ‘Where’s the rubber float? Do you want me to drown?’
Usman had no choice but to keep a patient face. ‘That’s the thing you have to keep in mind, Miss. If you use a rubber float, you can never learn swimming.’
‘I see,’ replied Miss Thakkar. ‘Did you seriously think I didn’t know that? I was testing you.’
She entered the pool, and Usman took her through the first steps on how to float by holding on to the side of the pool, face down in the water and kicking her legs in a straight line.
‘Careful!’ screeched Miss Thakkar as the ‘float’ lessons began. ‘I can feel your hands moving up. We are taught at an early age to watch out for all the tricks used by molesters . . .’
Usman let go of her. He did not care if she sank to the bottom of the pool. He suddenly felt furious at everything going on around him. Miss Thakkar saw his face congested with anger and piped down. She knew she had reached the limit to which she could push him.
After a while, when the father and daughter had left, Usman let the tension seep out by doing backstrokes. The rage building up inside him slowly settled down. As he floated, his mind went back to the time when he had taught a bronze-skinned office girl the basics of swimming. It had been a completely different experience. He continued floating, thinking of her.
*
Alone in his apartment, Rahul sat before his laptop, ready to begin tracing Simone. He had not prayed since he was a child, but a prayer to unknown gods was forming on his lips. He so badly wanted to be united with Simone. He would have to walk down a road for that, broken or otherwise. His fingers moved over the laptop keys effortlessly, and the screen came to life. He had used a software he developed during his IIT days to find out her password when he downloaded the content on his pen drive. He used it again to access the data. All the information in Simone’s computer was on his screen. He went over each and every email sent or received, her social media profile on Facebook and Twitter, and even some of her pictures on Instagram.
He had prepared himself to be surprised. He could not believe what he was looking at. The pictures and information showed him a very different girl from the one he knew. Simone came across as a funny, whacky, fun-loving, despairing, polarized woman, full of nervous energy in her opinions, preferences and choice of people, politics, entertainment and matters of love and sexual gratification. He had suspected her of possessing some of these traits, but he had no clue about the extent of it. It was almost as if she had reserved a different, restrained self for when she would meet him.
Such a girl, he knew, could easily be misunderstood, especially by predators on the prowl. He also took into account that there was a fair bit of exaggeration in social media profiles, but her essence could not be hidden. It was stark and her profile stared at him. He carefully went over all the information available to him, but he could not spot a person or a group shadowing her.
He knew what his next step would be.
He used the software again and hacked into her iPhone to trace her password. He then logged into the iCloud site on his computer and gained access to her personal iCloud. Once he was in, he used statistical analysis to access all her telephonic conversations, music, entertainment and food-ordering choices. He hacked into all the apps she would frequently use on her iPhone. A mass of data streamed on his screen, and he began to assess each and every transaction and telephonic conversation.
He had begun work at 11 p.m. Finally, at 7 a.m., he leaned back into his chair, completely exhausted, but filled with a strange happiness that he was on to something that could lead him to his goal. The names of three individuals kept popping up in various conversations with alarming regularity. These were: Fredo, the pizza delivery boy; Usman, her swimming instructor at the Fort club; and Dubey, a Zuber taxi driver.
CHAPTER 16
Kripal polished off the oatmeal biscuits and eyed the glass of cold coffee before him. It took some effort on his part to ignore the coffee and focus on the interview. He was on to something. And this girl, Namrata, the chief public relations executive at Yummimages, could lead him to it. But for that he would have to take his mind off the trappings of the corporate world: the delicious oatmeal biscuits, the lip-smacking coffee and the pleasure of talking to a girl for whom the word ‘beautiful’ would not do justice. It was definitely a far cry from the sights and smells of his police station.
‘Shall I ask for some more oatmeal biscuits?’ asked Namrata sweetly.
Kripal put on his best grin, which meant he was not going to be suckered with lollipops of the edible and other varieties.
‘Madam, let’s leave the oatmeal and summarize what we know about what happened on the night of the party at your CEO’s place.’
‘By all means. We are as eager to get to the bottom of this as you.’
Kripal grinned again. He knew that this girl, like hundreds before her, considered him to be an oaf. They had no idea about the number of cases he had cracked for his department. He could move on a case with the agility of a gazelle when he wanted to. He sucked some coffee from a straw.
‘Madam, after interviewing all those who had turned up for the party, we can say for certain that the party began around 9 p.m. Significantly, Miss Shamona and your CEO, Mr Rahul, were already in the apartment, and they met each guest personally and with warmth. The guests quickly occupied all rooms in the house because they were encouraged to do so by the two hosts. The party was held to celebrate the forthcoming launch of the IPO. Am I right?’
‘Absolutely,’ remarked Namrata. ‘You are so clever.’
Kripal grinned again and sipped some more coffee.
‘Mr Rahul was in high spirits, and it would be not wrong to say that his co-host, Miss Shamona, was the life of the party. She laughed and joked with everyone. She was not sulking or angry or suicidal. She was simply having fun. She moved through all the rooms and just about everyone remembers seeing her dancing in the hall, supervising the kitchen, the staff and waiters, and hanging out on the balcony with her team and later with Mr Rahul.’
‘Correct. We have been through this.’
‘Right. When all this was happening, people were getting drunk, vomiting in the bathroom and consuming drugs.’
‘I wasn’t. I was completely sober.’
‘That’s why I am talking to you. You were the rare witness who was completely sober that night.’
‘I hope . . . the drugs will not be a problem . . .’
Kripal grinned.
‘They can be, but I will ignore them for the moment. You have your fancy marijuana, cocaine, uppers and downers and what not, and we have our bhang.’
‘Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘Service with a smile. That’s us,’ Kripal smiled again. Namrata was beginning to lose a bit of her famed persuasive, relationship-building skills. She knew he was on to something.
‘So . . . er . . . what’s the problem then? We have been over this twice already.’
‘Ah! Miss Namrata. You have been doing so well so far. Have some more patience. All in good time. Okay, around 11.30 p.m., Miss Shamona’s team recalls leaving Mr Rahul and Shamona Devi alone on the balcony. Half-an-hour later, Mr Rahul rushed into the main hall in complete panic, looking for Miss Shamona. She had disappeared. She has not been seen ever since.’
Kripal emptied the last of the coffee and leaned back in satisfaction.
‘So, Madam, what does it mean? She was nowhere in the house. Mr Rahul could not have thrown her off the balcony, otherwise we would have found a body, and we checked the building thoroughly: there was no way someone could have come up from the balcony and abducted
her. It is not possible.’
Namrata trembled slightly. She knew the cop was close to making his point. Kripal leaned forward, his eyes bloodshot.
‘The only entry and exit point from where Miss Shamona could have disappeared was the main door that led straight to the hall where everyone was dancing. So, here is the dilemma. No one, discounting someone who might have passed out under the influence of drinks or drugs, remembers Miss Shamona leaving through that door. So, how did she disappear? Magic?’
Namrata’s throat was dry. She could hardly hear her own voice. ‘You tell me.’
Kripal leaned forward and Namrata felt as if he had hemmed her into a corner.
‘Jog your memory, Miss Namrata. Are you certain you have not left out some minor but significant detail. You are after all the company’s spokesperson, you know.’
Namrata croaked, ‘No, I have not.’
Kripal had a strange look on his face when he answered. ‘Meadows Housing Society, in which this apartment is located, informed me that at 11.45 p.m. the lights went out in Gurugram. The entire complex runs on back-up, but it takes thirty seconds to kick in. Thirty seconds, Miss Namrata! It is an eternity. You can murder someone and drag the body away in that time. An abductor could beguile you out of the apartment in the dark in that time. You could go down to check something and be whisked away. Or better still, someone from within the apartment could have lured Miss Shamona out in the dark, and you would never hear of her again. The possibilities are endless. But you forgot to tell me about the blackout. Why, Miss Namrata?
Namrata looked terrified and was unable to speak for a moment. Then she found her voice. ‘It was a genuine mistake. I forgot to mention it. I thought it was a minor detail . . . so sorry . . .’
Kripal got up shaking his head and walked to the door. Namrata spoke behind him.
‘Now that you mention it, Inspector, Mr Suhel was on the edge that evening. He was drinking heavily, and he was all alone in a corner. He looked as if there was something on his mind . . .’
