I was not interested in this debate. It seemed to me that the best we could do was to throw some smoke bombs and shoot our way in.
“Trust me,” said Kumaran. And so the matter ended there.
* * *
We had established the crime and the motive. The mode of killing was painstakingly simple: a nudge or a poke, or a simple but effective domestic accident. We didn’t know where to begin looking for the perpetrator. Ranvir went around humming tunelessly and asking the same question again and again: “Who let them in, who let them out?’”
It was getting on our nerves.
Phase two of our research began: we sat as temporary watchmen in an apartment block in a typical suburb, watching the goings-on for three whole days.
“Getting the vibrations yet?” asked Ranvir.
I was beginning to sympathize with watchmen and their drudgery. Back at the office Ranvir emerged from a hibernation of deep thought and asked for the dates of the incidents. It turned out that all took place in the first week of the month. “Payback time,” said Ranvir, seeing the light. We went after the bill collectors.
We found them quickly. There were three of them, in their late teens, bad eggs given to minor offenses. One was with the gas company, one was with the electricity board, and the third was a newspaper delivery boy. They had teamed up some six months ago—we were looking at a nascent gang, one that might have gone on to bigger things had we not caught up with them.
* * *
Ranvir Pratap invited Parthasarathy for a chai and bun maska. They met in an Irani café over breakfast. Parthasarathy was convinced by the findings. He also agreed with Ranvir when he said that there wasn’t sufficient evidence to convict these killers through the courts. It was well known in police circles that the burden of proof was a mantle that Ranvir flung with impunity, and he took no chances unless a quick verdict was certain. Parthasarathy did not fight the decision but he made it clear that this should not be a typical encounter, the kind that involved Karan. There should be no shooting.
* * *
There were a couple of new members on the team who had arrived quietly. We watched them suspiciously because they did not fit in. One was a thickset civilian who was fiddling with the electrical panels of the apartment where the gang was holed up. The other was a middle-aged man who was poring over some blueprints. I could glimpse outlines of gas cylinders and pressure pumps.
The chawl was still deserted and its inmates were milling around outside, a murmur gradually rising. We did not have too much time. What was really going on? Kumaran remained stoic and continued fiddling with some kind of detonator. I was growing curious watching him. Ranvir seemed satisfied with the progress.
“Why don’t we smoke them out, sir? We could get them out alive.”
“Cannot,” said Kumaran.
“Cannot or will not?” asked Munna.
Kumaran paused. “The last incident they engineered involved an old woman,” he said.
“So?”
“She lived on the sixth floor of an apartment block.”
“Okay. So what happened?”
“She was blind. They walked her by the hand to the elevator shaft. They had managed to open the sliding doors even though the elevator was on the ground floor below. She fell down into the blackness.”
Ranvir watched us closely. “Feel anything?” he asked. “Sympathy, anger, the urge to do something?”
I felt nothing and looked away. The gun in my holster grew heavy but it remained in place. These boys were multiple murderers and perhaps deserved whatever came their way. But I needed orders to get going.
“At ease, my little sharpshooter,” said Ranvir. “This one is not for you. There’s a better way. We have to do to them what they have done to these old folk. And we have to ensure the public doesn’t find out.” He gave Kumaran a quiet nod.
Kumaran asked us to fall out and scatter. He didn’t want us in the vicinity when he executed his plan.
We were astonished but we followed his orders. Tapas, Munna, and I packed our equipment, turned our backs on the chawl, and started to walk away. At that very moment there was a massive explosion. The two civilians in Kumaran’s team had engineered something—they had used gas cylinders to pump inflammable gas into the chawl, then shorted the power supply. Glass shattered and blew out from the apartment, followed by flames and a blast of black smoke billowing out from the windows. The three of us turned around and gaped. Our guns were instinctively in our hands.
The ensuing scene was unforgettable. Kumaran was crouched behind a car watching the results of his effort. He rose to his feet slowly, then turned to face us. His expression was one of deep satisfaction and vindication. He smiled and his teeth gleamed. I had never seen him smile before; I would never see it again. The first hail of bullets started from left to right. They zinged past us, hit the wall behind, and zipped past again. The line of fire caught Kumaran and drew spurts from below his knees. He buckled, looking surprised. The second hail came from the opposite direction at the same height. By now Kumaran was down on his knees and flailing. He caught that hail with open arms and he never came to again. The spurt of firing died. It was the death rattle of a cornered gang member who was mindlessly letting loose with his weapon. Kumaran lay grotesquely in a crumpled heap. The three of us stood with the best weapons that the force had, cocked and ready, but feeling quite useless. We looked up at the destroyed apartment and then in unison toward our boss. Some part of Ranvir Pratap died that night. We could see it on his face, just a fleeting glimpse.
* * *
The incident made the papers the next day. A chawl had suffered an electrical surge. A fire started and some gas cylinders had exploded. Three youngsters were caught in the blaze and were charred to death. A police team was in the vicinity but could not help them in time.
“A domestic accident,” said Ranvir to the press, as he handed out a list of domestic do’s and don’ts. “We have been experiencing many of them in the past few months, as you must have noticed. We should all be careful.”
Tiwari read the official report and smirked. There was no mention of any gunfire. Kumaran’s fate was recorded as an accident; he was known to be clumsy with a weapon.
Inside or Out?
Nandini was away and I had roamed the streets trying to distance myself from thoughts of Kumaran and the time we spent together. Sometimes the crowded streets of Mumbai can get your mind full of things you do not want to remember. Linking Road, Bandra, is full of honking cars, its sidewalks are crowded with hawkers and teenage shoppers, mostly girls wearing three-quarter leggings and large hoop earrings. Their feet peek out of brightly colored sandals with toenails that are aflame. I catch myself staring sometimes. I walk again. A fellow lies on the sidewalk, legs spread wide, his head lolling to one side; his clothing is threadbare and his hair needs a wash. I look for needle marks as I step over him. I find plenty of them in a tattoo parlor with a line out the door. I join the queue of youngsters just to see what happens, then give my place away to a boy with torn jeans and studs. He shrugs.
I keep moving till it darkens. The streetlights come on and the sodium vapor takes hold. The streets are yellow when I leave. I walk briskly to my door, happy the day has gone by. The chawl is eerily quiet; there is no footwear in front of our door. I enter and reach for the switch; the phosphorescent tube flickers on. There is a Post-it on the fridge that says, Eat, one on the sink that says, Wash, and another on the liquor cabinet that says, No. I fix a drink and down it in one gulp. I fix another in a hurry and head for my den.
And then I pause. It hits me. The question comes like it has before and I cannot move . . . Am I inside or out? I place the drink on the floor and feel the door. My hand finds the doorknob. I turn it slowly, enter cautiously, and shut it behind me. It is pitch dark. My ears buzz. I reach inside my pocket and fish out my lighter. I place my left hand against my face and flick the cap open. A flame leaps and gray smoke spirals.
I turn slowly
to face the table and lower my hand. I blink. It’s true, I am there as I had feared, seated at the table. I have been there all day. I walk slowly and drag some dust to this man who lacks courage, who sits alone in the dark the day after, frozen.
The man raises his eyes, slowly removing his gaze from the blank sheet of paper in front of him. Helpless are his eyes and the hand that writes. He places a palm on my shoulder as he rises and he walks into me.
The bell rings and we freeze. We hear: keys on the key ring, shoes sliding across the floor, Post-its getting torn up. Breathing.
“Karan?”
One of us should speak.
“Karan, are you going to sit there all day?”
Things have changed. Nandini has changed. And I have not. I get asked the same questions all the time—why doesn’t she come in more often? I peek out and she is seated on the floor facing away from me. She must be biting her lip, since I expect she would have said something really harsh by now.
“I liked Kumaran,” she says finally. “And I’m worried you will be next.”
I leave my den and sit beside her. She doesn’t speak for a while and she doesn’t look toward me either but she places her hand in mine. We watch TV till our eyes glaze.
“Fix me a drink, will you?”
She drinks it quickly and proffers the empty glass for a refill.
“Happy hour?” I fix her another.
“I’ll be a lush in my old age.”
I try to imagine what I’ll be.
“Will you wear your uniform? Please?”
There is no getting away. I drag myself to my wardrobe where everything has its place. I kit myself in my very best. It isn’t mechanical, not in the least. Crisp khakis with a greenish tinge, shiny belt, cap, medals, epaulets, shoes. She gives me a hug from behind, buries her nose in my uniform. She loves the feel, the smell, and the “look.”
“Stand down, officer.” I step back and she keeps looking at me.
“You thought it wouldn’t fit?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. She looks into her glass, at the amber fluid, before it goes down her throat. “It fits, of course it fits. God knows it belongs.”
Evam Bhaskar
Around the time Ranvir Pratap and Evam met and discussed the recruitment of Aspies, someone in counterintelligence ran a check on Evam. They kept him under surveillance, opening a file titled “Evam Enterprise.” He was an astute businessman in what Mumbai called “the unorganized sector.” The crèche that he ran for autistic children and their parents was just that: a crèche. It was very profitable. There was another side to Evam Enterprise that was profitable and quite bizarre.
The CI department expected their chief, Mishra, to expose Evam. “Now is not the time,” he said. Evam was linked to both Ranvir and Tiwari. Mishra was a chess player who saw many moves ahead. To him this whole affair seemed headed in the right direction. He made a notation on the file that said, One day someone will clean up this Special Branch. That would be him, of course: Mishra, the modern Hercules.
* * *
“What’s the purpose of living?” asked Evam of himself.
He had no appropriate response for the question. He had no audience either. It was a humid night and he had a few mosquitoes for company. He was staring at a computer screen which showed a sensuous girl. She gestured and she made a sound every time he clicked.
“Touch me,” she said.
“For what purpose?” he asked. A mosquito vied for his attention; it landed on the vein of his right wrist, which rested on the mouse. He watched it settle.
“Do you know my name?” he asked.
“Touch me, Evam,” she pleaded.
Evam Bhaskar was a social misfit. In his dreams he was a miscast hero but in life he was just another abject Mumbaikar. He peddled sex for a living and ran a crèche for idiot savants on the side. As a qualified psychologist he was hard-pressed to explain this.
Each thing Evam did clashed with everything else. This did not tear him apart but it made him contemplative.
“Why, Evam?” asked the girl, questioning his silence.
Evam clicked. She smiled, pirouetted, and shed her garb.
“Is this living?” he asked. The mosquito hovered and landed again. This time it drew blood.
He poked her with the cursor.
“Big boy,” she teased.
Evam slapped hard, his left hand missing; he swiped again and the mouse clattered off the table and hung by a wire. There was a buzzing sound around his ears.
The girl moaned.
And Evam cried.
“I am so sorry,” he said. For what? “So many things,” he whispered.
After a while he recovered. He walked to a window and peered out at the night. A breeze ruffled the curtain and he took a deep breath. His dead father spoke to him. Find a way, my son, he said.
Though his father departed early he left behind a settled household and two words of advice that he repeated to himself as much as to his only son: “Raastha dhoondo.” It was a decree that had a sense of urgency: “Find a way, don’t dawdle or hesitate because the likes of us have started on the wrong foot.” That summed up Evam’s life. From the grape boughs and grain fields of his village, to Mumbai and a doctoral degree in child psychology, and his two strange businesses, life was one long attempt to “find a way.”
“You want to study child psychology?” His mother wanted to know why.
“I don’t know.”
Dr. Evam. He had it carved on a polished teak plank with gold-painted lettering. He had to make a living. The thought of a government job crossed his mind. He applied to a general hospital in Mumbai and stated his specialization.
“Child psychology?” asked the registrar. “We only have openings for gynecology.”
When he tried to explain further he was waved away. “Raastha dhoondo,” he was told. In this case it meant, Go, get lost.
Finally he set up his own practice. He decided he would consult for special children. Nobody came at first. His operation flirted every now and then with financial ruin but he kept getting money from unlikely places at the most opportune moments. He kept faith and he put up a sign that said Rahath and waited.
They eventually came. Desperate mothers showed up to Rahath with their children, not for a cure but to cope, and he helped them. Their children were fine by themselves. At his place they could make faces, make mistakes, they could be themselves and nobody would notice.
This practice was numbing: mind numbing. Initially he marveled at the sheer variety, the inexplicable range of issues that cropped up when the wiring in the brain was even a little off. And then he began to yearn for a simple solution that would calm minds responsible for children with such issues.
There was no solution. If you had a child like this you had to learn to lead a different life, and it wasn’t easy. What was easy was to say that these kids were just a little different, and that we should learn to accept the difference rather than try to make them normal or beat ourselves up when that did not happen. Autism was hard to live with, and it was getting to those who came to Rahath. He realized that he was just a caregiver, effectively running a crèche for the parents as well.
Over the years his practice began to focus on milder forms of autism and its variants. His primary goal was to find gainful employment for this group, and he began to make presentations to corporations and government departments. It was hard work trying to change mind-sets.
* * *
Evam glanced at his watch and groaned. He had woken up in the middle of the night again. He was still seated in front of a screen that had also fallen asleep. His hands were covered with bumps and he scratched a few bite marks. He sat for a while and then got up to drink some water. The city was quiet, the street sounds having tapered. The bed didn’t look inviting. He sank into his chair again and shook the mouse; the screen came alive.
“Big boy,” she said, smiling. She breathed deeply.
He was captivated by the so
und of her breath. He could almost feel it on his shoulders. He smiled back.
She waited. “Evam? Is that you?” She was blind. That took some effort; that took so much programming. “Do you know my name? Could you say it?”
“Giselle,” he said without thinking. “What am I doing?” he asked himself aloud, not for the first time. He was moved to write a confession. Some part of him wanted to confess and another part wanted a record in case something happened to him. Dealing with horny, reckless cops was a risky business.
The Minds of Men
It’s time for a summation. I live in a lonely planet. I write a page every fortnight for a girlie magazine. It’s sandwiched between scantily clad pinup girls and some unclad ones. It’s a good place to be because I dispense advice for maladies that arise from reading girlie magazines. The column is titled “Tiger Balm.” Like any good balm my column hurts while it heals.
I’ve never met the editor of the publication. As an introduction, I sent her samples quoting fictional letters and advice. She liked my style and said my feedback was “sharp” and very “original.” She gave me three months as a trial period. I think their pictures were very good and so many letters came. Life went on.
Q: Will masturbation weaken me?
A: Yes. For about sixty seconds.
Q: I have a hard-on that won’t go away.
A: Sharpen a knife. Then shave a pencil till you break the lead.
Q: We like the photographs. That’s why we buy the magazine. We don’t need you and your advice.
A: You need a girlfriend.
Q: My girlfriend left me. She complained, saying I have bad breath, that I smell like sweat all the time and never shave. What should I do?
A: Reach out to National Geographic; better still, Animal Planet.
And then came the question that changed my life. The first U-turn in my life came up when some idiot who was in the throes of penis love wrote in:
The Third Squad Page 12