by Vaseem Khan
‘I remember the case.’ Surat nodded. ‘It was handled by a colleague sent here from another station – he was an expert in that sort of thing, apparently. But he has since been transferred to Kolkata.’
Rangwalla swore under his breath.
Kolkata was on the far side of the country.
‘However, a copy of the case file is still lodged with us. Would you like to see it?’
Rangwalla hesitated. Surat had always been an expert on stating the obvious. But he did not wish to place the young man in a moral quandary. He knew that the woman who now ran the station was not the type to look kindly upon outsiders rooting around in official police records. Malini Sheriwal – known in the force as Shoot’em Up Sheriwal – had once served on Mumbai’s notorious Encounter Squad, taking down gangsters at will, usually in a hail of bullets. Rangwalla had no desire to become the focus of her ire.
‘It is OK,’ said Surat, sensing his indecision. ‘The case is officially closed, so no one will mind if you take a look. In fact, I will show you the site, if you like. It will give us a chance to catch up.’
The boy has become a man, thought Rangwalla, a lump stealing into his throat.
Surat vanished into the station, returning swiftly with the file. As he hopped into the jeep, Rangwalla couldn’t help but ask him about the miscreant he had dragged in earlier.
Surat grinned. ‘He is surely the most stupid criminal I have come across. Yesterday he attempted to rob an electronics store, only to discover that they carried almost no cash. You know, ever since the government recalled all five-hundred and one-thousand rupee notes.’
Rangwalla understood. The government’s recent demonetisation push had been an attempt to clamp down on money laundering, counterfeiting and ‘black money’ – money that had escaped the taxman’s attentions or had otherwise been obtained through corrupt means. One of the unintended consequences had been the effect on small businesses, many of which ran almost entirely on cash.
‘And so our thief asked them to write him a cheque,’ said Surat. ‘In his own name.’
For an instant Rangwalla was speechless, and then he burst into a wild bray of laughter as Surat edged the jeep out into the road.
A star in the making
For all his intransigence, Buckley was as efficient as his word.
Soon after leaving Cyrus Zorabian’s office, Chopra received a call to inform him that Geeta Lokhani was willing to meet him. He was asked to make his way to Opera House where she had agreed to talk to him between engagements.
The drive across the city took less than an hour.
The Opera House region was named after Mumbai’s century-old and recently renovated Royal Opera House, the venue for Chopra’s meeting with Lokhani. The area was also known for its glut of jewellery stores. The last time Chopra had spent any length of time in the congested enclave was shortly after he had first arrived in the city, one of his earliest postings, patrolling a beat in the area.
He parked the van behind the grand old building, then walked into the lobby with Ganesha in tow.
The Royal Opera House had a storied history.
Completed in 1916, it had been inaugurated by no less a patron than King George V. The three-tiered building featured an auditorium, gilded ceilings painted with murals of luminaries such as Shakespeare and Newton, stained-glass windows and an ornate foyer combining both European and Indian detailing. For years it had hosted both opera and live performances by Indian artists, before being turned into a movie hall when cinema came of age in the city. Following Independence, the grand old venue had stuttered along until falling into disuse in the nineties.
Now, restored as part of Mumbai’s much vaunted cultural renaissance, it was proving a magnet for the city’s jet set.
He found Lokhani in the auditorium, being filmed by a camera crew with the sweeping tiers of maroon-cushioned seats serving as a backdrop. As he looked on, a curious Ganesha drifted behind him on to the stage, clambering up a short access ramp. He was intrigued by the towering cut-out scenery, left over from a prior performance, and featuring a host of characters from Indian mythology.
‘Cut! Cut! Cut! What the hell is that elephant doing in my shot?’
A short man with the boiled-down body of an ascetic and wearing an obscene toupee bounded towards the stage. The toupee jounced around on his skull with a life of its own.
Ganesha froze.
His trunk dangled between his front legs, and his tail swished nervously as the man berated him. Before Chopra could give the overbearing oaf a piece of his mind, Geeta Lokhani rose from her seat. ‘Oh, leave him alone, Raghu.’
The man subsided instantly, retreating back to his post behind the main camera rig while continuing to stab hostile glances in Ganesha’s direction.
‘Chopra, I presume,’ said Lokhani, extending a bangled hand towards him.
Chopra nodded, suddenly on the back foot.
Geeta Lokhani, a small, dusky and attractive woman, exuded a sense of supreme confidence, her voice as refined as her appearance. Floating along in an immaculate maroon and gold sari, clutching an iPad in her hand, she gestured Chopra to a make-up room where they might talk. ‘Treat my guest with care,’ she warned the glowering cameraman, nodding at Ganesha.
Once inside the anteroom, she sat down before a mirrored dresser. ‘I must apologise. We are filming a promotional video for the opera house, and the director is somewhat highly strung about the whole thing.’
‘We?’ said Chopra.
‘As head of the BMC’s Planning Committee for many years, I was heavily involved in the opera house’s renovation. The city authorities felt it would be judicious for me to speak in a short advert promoting the venue’s new programme.’ Her expression became serious. ‘Buckley said that you wished to talk to me about Cyrus Zorabian?’
Chopra quickly explained that he had been employed by Cyrus’s daughter to re-examine the investigation into her father’s death. ‘Cyrus met with you on the day that he was murdered. I would like to know why.’
‘It is a simple matter,’ said Lokhani. ‘The Parsees have always been known for their philanthropy, particularly in Mumbai. Cyrus merely wished to follow in this tradition. He was lending his support to an important BMC initiative.’
‘What sort of initiative?’
Lokhani seemed to consider whether or not to provide further details.
‘It would not take long to visit the BMC and find the details I need,’ said Chopra mildly. ‘You could save me the time and effort.’
Her lips stretched into a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I am still in the habit of being tight-lipped about BMC ventures. So many projects begin with great fanfare before falling foul of red tape and political interests that in latter years I have tried to keep public exposure to a minimum. The last major initiative I helmed – the one that Cyrus was also involved with – was a slum resettlement project on the outskirts of the city, in Vashi. Fifty acres of reclaimed land that we have proposed to build twenty apartment towers on, comprising over two thousand new units. These units will be used to rehouse slum dwellers from Mumbai’s southern districts, infinitely improving their lives. We called the project New Haven.’
Chopra had heard of a number of such projects.
Coming from a rural village, with its wide-open expanses, the pressure on housing in Mumbai was something that had always astonished him. Each year thousands continued to pour into the ‘city of dreams’, more often than not ending up on the city’s streets. This never-ending influx – which some equated to lemmings blindly charging over a cliff – created an upward surge in land values which only exacerbated the problem. The result was some of the most expensive property on earth sitting side by side with some of the world’s most deprived slums.
Recently, the issue had become a political hot potato.
Social organisations and prominent activists, incensed by the endless self-aggrandising of the government lauding the country’s sustained economic boom, scathingly e
nquired as to when this fabled wealth might actually reach the poorest echelons of society. The old policy of simply bulldozing the slums, sending the cops to round up their former denizens, and then dumping them beyond the municipal borders, was no longer considered a viable stratagem for the succour of the disenfranchised. And so slum demolition had been replaced by slum redevelopment, slum rehousing, and – Chopra’s favourite – slum rehabilitation, which always put him in mind of an alcoholic being nursed back to sobriety.
He knew that Vashi was out in Navi Mumbai – or New Mumbai – a deliberately planned township that was and was not part of the city, depending on who you spoke to. Certainly, the residents of Vashi were conflicted on the matter, some wishing to preserve their independence from the city-monster on their doorstep, others keen to bask in the dubious glamour of being known as Mumbaikers.
‘That is all very admirable,’ he said. ‘But what has it to do with Cyrus?’
Lokhani smiled grimly. ‘A development of this type is an exceptionally expensive endeavour. It cannot be funded by the state government alone. Few people understand the true cost of rehousing slum residents. Did you know, for instance, that, as per the tenets of the Slum Rehabilitation Scheme, slum dwellers cannot be “materially disadvantaged” by such a move? What this means, in short, is that they cannot be asked to pay the sort of purchase prices and rents that a build of this type would usually attract and which would repay the cost of construction. Frankly, a project like this is only viable when subsidised by private donors and patrons from the world of commerce. That is where Cyrus came in.
‘As the head of one of the wealthiest Parsee clubs in the city he had vast influence with those who might contribute financing. With a few phone calls he could have opened doors for us that we cannot hope to open ourselves.’ Lokhani’s smile was tinged with sadness. ‘Losing Cyrus has been a major blow to the New Haven project. He was a generous man who gave of his time freely. I believe he felt this would be his legacy, a cause worth fighting for.’
Chopra considered this.
Clearly, there was more to Cyrus Zorabian than he had at first thought. He knew of wealthy men – and innumerable politicians – who pretended to a philanthropy that rarely made it past soundbites for the media. But Cyrus seemed genuinely committed to those at the poorest end of Mumbai’s social spectrum.
‘How did he seem to you that day?’ he asked. ‘The day he died, I mean. Did he behave strangely in any way? Was anything troubling him?’
‘Not at all. He was his usual self. Gregarious. Bombastic. Flirty.’
‘Flirty?’
Lokhani smiled. ‘It was harmless, though I dare say in his younger days he must have been quite the charmer. He had a certain aura about him; larger than life. I always thought of Cyrus as a roaring fire. The sort of man you could warm your heart by.’
‘You were fond of him.’
‘Yes. In a way, I was.’
Chopra hesitated. ‘Forgive me for asking . . . but was his visit more than just business?’
Lokhani looked momentarily puzzled, then caught his meaning. Her cheeks coloured. ‘He was twice my age,’ she said, an unmistakable admonishment in her tone. ‘But, to answer your question, no. There was nothing between us.’
‘You are married?’
‘No. Should I be?’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘It’s funny how often men look at me and think that everything I have achieved could not have been possible without the guiding hand of a man.’
Chopra had thought no such thing, but decided not to labour the point. He struck out in a different direction. ‘Is it true you are entering politics?’
‘Yes. In actual fact, my last day at the BMC was two weeks ago. But I had already agreed to help with this video, which is why I am here today.’
‘Why did you leave?’
Lokhani sighed. ‘I worked for the BMC for years, Chopra. I have seen the desperation of those who have little or nothing in our city. I tried to help in whatever way I could, but the truth is that my hands were always tied – largely by the machinations of politicians who control how Mumbai’s executive branches operate. I believe that in order for me to do the most good I must aspire to such a position.’
‘It is a noble sentiment.’
‘Some call it foolhardy. To leave the safety of my role at the BMC and wade into the polluted waters of politics. Nevertheless . . .’ Lokhani rose gracefully from her seat. ‘Forgive me, but I am pressed for time.’
She led Chopra back into the auditorium where he was astonished to discover the director Raghu poised below the stage, hands forming a sort of viewfinder through which he was examining Ganesha with a critical eye.
On the stage, Ganesha, hunkered before a fifteen-foot-high cut-out of his namesake, the elephant-headed god Ganesh, blinked in the overhead arc lights as the director framed his shot.
Chopra sighed.
The little elephant was notoriously fond of having his photograph taken. He knew, by now, that elephants possessed a range of human-like emotions; had he known that vanity was one of them he might have put his foot down when the young calf’s tendencies first exhibited themselves.
‘Ganesha,’ he said sternly, ‘it’s time to go.’
‘One more shot,’ pleaded the director, who had clearly changed his tune. ‘He’s a natural.’
Chopra swung his gaze on to the stage where Ganesha was looking at him expectantly. His irritation drained away. ‘Very well. Just one more shot.’
The building site was little more than a concrete superstructure, all but suffocated by trellises of bamboo scaffolding. Labourers scampered along the scaffolding in the manner of daredevil trapeze artists or flying lemurs. Some carried hods loaded with bricks, lengths of copper piping, or tools. Rangwalla’s heart leapt into his mouth as one emaciated worker in a string vest and checked dhoti, swinging a bucket in one hand, appeared to stumble. For a brief steepling second, he teetered on the brink of plummeting to his doom, but then righted himself before shimmying through an open doorway. A jaunty whistle echoed down to those watching below.
And that, thought Rangwalla, was Mumbai in a nutshell.
He had heard Chopra once say that the city was a magnificent high-wire act. At any moment in time, it lurched from one potential catastrophe to another, somehow defying its own destruction. No wonder it bred madmen!
He glanced at the developer’s signboard: NEW WORLD DEVELOPMENTS. FIFTY LUXURY APARTMENTS FULL OF LUXURIOUSNESS. BUY NOW! ONLY 50 LAKHS EACH!
Only fifty lakhs, thought Rangwalla sourly. Five million rupees. These were not homes for the ordinary Mumbaiker. These were homes for those who had already broken out from the swamp of poverty that defined the ‘ordinary’ Mumbaiker.
‘They’re moving along at a furious pace,’ commented Surat, beside him. ‘A year ago, this site was a great big hole in the ground, filling up with monsoon water.’
‘The building that was here before this, it was a textile factory, right?’
‘Yes. A very old building; three storeys, if I remember. Belonged to the same family for decades. The most recent owner was a Hasan Gafoor.’
‘My understanding is that he ended up in prison. Following the collapse, I mean.’
‘Correct. Although it was ultimately ruled that the fire that led to the collapse had been an accident, Gafoor was held responsible for not maintaining the building to the required BMC regulations.’
‘Yes. We were told that the building had been declared unsafe by the BMC, but Gafoor had done nothing about it.’
‘I suppose like most landlords he did not care about such things,’ said Surat grimly. ‘In the end, the BMC issued a demolition order against the property. Gafoor was accused of bribing BMC officials to stay the order, though that was never proved. Nevertheless, he was convicted of “culpable homicide not amounting to murder”. You will have to go to Central Prison if you wish to talk to him.’
Rangwalla looked back up at the half-finished edifice.
F
rom the ashes of misfortune, opportunity was rising. Soon new lives would inhabit this place; new stories would be written. Thus it had always been in this city of dreams.
But what about those who had been disinherited, those who had lost their lives? Perhaps their spirits would remain, doomed to haunt this tower of stone until they obtained deliverance.
And now it had fallen upon Rangwalla to help them find that release.
In spite of the day’s early heat, the former sub-inspector shivered.
The best of rivals
Chopra’s next port of call was Boman Jeejibhoy, the man who, according to Zubin Engineer, secretary of the Vulture Club, had quarrelled with Cyrus some time before his death. There was nothing in the police investigation about Jeejibhoy. Chopra knew from Engineer that this was because the Parsees at the club had not wished to air their dirty laundry in public. Their natural insularity had compelled them to discretion. He suspected that not a single one of them had even entertained the notion that Jeejibhoy might have had anything to do with Cyrus’s murder. In a collective failure of imagination, they could not conceive of anything that might bring shame upon their clan.
Engineer had arranged for him to meet with Jeejibhoy at his business offices, a forty-minute drive from Opera House, west to east across the city, to the Haji Bunder port district.
Upon arrival Chopra parked his van in the forecourt of the gleaming office complex, and let Ganesha out of the back.
He looked up at the façade of the building before him, a broad expanse of tinted glass panels and pristine white columns, topped by a row of pennants fluttering from the flat roof. A grand signboard above the arched doorway read: PERSEPOLIS BOATS & MARINE CONSTRUCTION. It was from here, Chopra had learned, that Boman Jeejibhoy ran one of the biggest boat-building operations in the country.
