She wanted to buy peace with Karan. She wanted him to think about what he was doing. It was best not to push too hard, for men who dance on the edge of knives shouldn’t be questioned about where they stand.
She knew Karan was still following her. She still tried to follow him sometimes too. Yes, she would admit to it. The Karan Walk she did alone. She saw him leave every day but sometimes his manner would give him away. There were days he would touch the head of the neighbor’s child on the way out, a reminder of the glaring absence in their own home.
Today was the Other Dharavi Walk. They started by visiting Nariman Point, Cuffe Parade, and Breach Candy.
“These are the shore temples of Mumbai,” she said.
There was no shock and awe. All they could see were bland straight-line structures, drawn to fill pockets. At least there was no pretension.
“Rich men have built their Dharavis,” she explained.
There was a poverty of architecture, an absence of planning, and a complete lack of maintenance. Each building showed up the next.
“There is an aesthetic somewhere,” promised Nandini.
She led them to the waterfront as the sun set and the missing aesthetic arrived. The looming darkness hid the structures and the lights began to blink. The bays of Mumbai were beautiful by night.
Water lapped the concrete walls and some spray scaled them. Today was another day. Another man would meet Karan for remembrance.
* * *
Tiwari sits in his office and stares. He has spent the last hour goggle-eyed, watching a ray of sunlight traverse his desk. Dust particles busy themselves in the yellow diagonal.
“Collider,” blurts Pandey. He has read about the new scientific experiment.
“What?” says Tiwari.
Pandey the linguist looks at his boss and his young, alert mind finds new words; moribund and desultory describe Tiwari today.
“Sir,” he says, “this Dr. Evam has designs on you.”
Tiwari shrugs.
“Our immediate concern should be the next twenty-four hours, sir,” Pandey suggests. His confidence with his boss is increasing by the minute.
Sunlight disappears. A cloud bank moves in, ready to deposit. There is a strange light outside, a precursor to rain that seems to affect Tiwari. “I am unable to get off this chair and do anything,” he despairs. “What weighs me down?”
It is the weight of suspicion’s ax that rests upon his plump shoulders. He wonders what Ranvir must be up to and thinks he should be second-guessing him. Tiwari wants this over quickly. When you are helpless in battle you would rather see the end than watch your wounds take shape. It is a gray August evening; it is a time when rain follows rain. Cups of hot tea haven’t helped. Tiwari wraps his arms around himself and reflects aloud.
“My khabaris are common folk. Their daily life occupies them. They have to defend themselves against hunger, despair, corruption, and disease. One of them will have to deal with Karan, this man who is like a lethal ghost.”
Pandey has to say something. “Sir, you think Ranvir-sir will do something?”
Tiwari sighs. “Let me spell it out for you. One of my best khabaris has to catch a flight to the Gulf of Oily Wealth. I have to make sure he gets away. And the singular problem is that he is on a police hit list and his name was assigned to Ranvir’s team. Imagine, I have to protect one of my men from the police force. I cannot do it officially so I can either hope that Ranvir’s team does not find out, or I have to be devious.”
“How will they know if you don’t tell them?” asks Pandey.
“There are leaks everywhere, Pandey. One day you will understand. Anyway, if there’s no movement from Ranvir’s team, it means my khabari is safe.”
The call soon comes.
Tiwari sits up with a jerk as he listens. He loosens his collar because he needs room to breathe. “Karan is on the move,” he mutters. “They have cut him loose. He has that walk we all know by now, that slow, deliberate shuffle he adopts when he’s hunting. It’s a strange thing to look at; it’s almost as if his feet do not belong to the earth.”
“They are wasting no time, sir. Target?”
“There’s only one,” says Tiwari. “I can see a sure thing. Karan will try to kill him by the day’s end.”
The thought of a killer on the move captivates Pandey. “Sir, we will have him followed?”
“Easier said than done.” Tiwari starts to pace the room. How do you follow a madman with a gun? How can you even find someone who could keep up with Karan’s meanderings? Karan was a wanderer when he killed. You never knew where he would go next or the path he would take. “When the time comes he disappears,” says Tiwari. “Give me my phones. I will assign my lookouts in every locality. My people are in every suburb.”
“We still need to tail him, sir. Someone should try to get evidence.”
That’s a good idea. “Like who?”
“People who are familiar with the roads. The weather forecast is grim, so we need people who can find their way around in such conditions.”
A light goes off in Pandey’s head. He examines a list of their men and picks two names. He chooses two former classmates of his, Dilip “DJ” Jadhav and Kunal “KK” Kirkire. They have interesting backgrounds. Like him they were graduates in the humanities, which in India was a degree for wastrels. The two were also part-time musicians who played cover songs at social functions. In no time Jadhav and Kirkire were the new-age jobless: English-speaking, confident, some would say cocky, and proud of their state of hopeless enlightenment.
* * *
We filched toilet paper so we could write. We bought the girlie magazine Debonair so we could read. We saw Waiting for Godot and stayed till the end. We would spend our daylight hours in a café. We would hang about, busy-looking and broke.
Nothing matters. None of this matters if you believe you have potential. The best years are always ahead.
These thoughts ran through their heads while they were seated in a canteen.
DJ became a bus driver and KK a conductor. Together they handled Route No. 84 Ltd., a bus route that was an institution. It was a long and winding journey that traversed the length of Mumbai’s western suburbs. Every morning the two would meet at the Mantralaya building near Nariman Point. KK would smoke a cigarette and DJ would empty a gutka packet into his mouth. They would then walk to Hutatma Chowk and board the first service of the day. They would end up in the distant suburb of Goregaon. From there it was back to the chowk; another smoke and another gutka. And they would do this loop till the day elapsed. They would stand at day’s end on tired feet and spit into a gutter. For ten years this was their life.
One day DJ says to KK, “Kirkire, you drive this bus from now on.”
“Why?”
“Look into my eyes,” says DJ. “What do you see?”
KK doesn’t need to look. “Retinal discharge. It comes from boredom and the fear of daydreaming and falling asleep at the wheel.” KK peers down at his own legs instead. He has varicose veins to show for the years of standing all day long on the bus; they were ugly, these knotted threads that stitched his legs together. He could not bear the sight of them.
Tiwari’s offer to join the police force came like manna to the duo, who had been classmates of Pandey’s years earlier. It gave them a chance to put their feet up most of the time. When asked, Tiwari was blunt.
“Your job description? Rat on your neighbors and rat on your friends.”
They were tasked with keeping track of three localities, places where they roamed and whose people they had known for many long years. And they had to divulge anything notable that happened; they had to follow people from time to time to unearth secrets or gather information. They buried their qualms and their misgivings. An honest job had been no friend of theirs.
The Karan assignment was their first serious mission, and they dropped everything when Pandey called. Tiwari gave them a Handycam. It was small and easy to use.
“Tak
e this and shoot Karan,” he told them, laughing at his own joke. The two stood and stared at Tiwari. He showed them a portfolio of Karan. Almost every photograph had him looking down at some point below the camera. “Memorize this face,” he ordered.
The two stared some more.
Tiwari got up from his chair and paced the room in a slow shuffle. He looked like a drunk trying to walk straight. “Remember this walk,” he told them. “This is how he moves.”
Examining the two, Tiwari had doubts. DJ and KK were a little frantic and they sometimes held hands. Tiwari was terrified of the sight of men holding hands. These two were constantly touching, and even now a hand was over a shoulder. Tiwari looked at Pandey, who shrugged.
“Any questions?’ Tiwari asked them.
DJ held up his hand. “Sir, is he a criminal?” he asked. “I mean, is he dangerous?”
These were two tough questions. “Yes and no,” said Tiwari. Again the irony delighted him. It was best these two remained clueless.
* * *
The rains started early. The clouds had gathered through the night and a humid stillness had camped over the city till it felt swollen. The clouds broke at five a.m. just as the milk vans and newspaper vendors began making their rounds. The first showers pooled the debris on the streets and sidewalks. The drains swirled and the night rats scurried for cover. Street dogs sought shelter under awnings and morning walkers held umbrellas, scoured the skies, and marched onward.
It was a weekday. Office-goers took an additional five minutes in bed, did a couple of additional stretches, had a wistful moment in front of a mirror, and then got into the zone. White collars, blue collars, and day workers dressed up, wired themselves, and left hurriedly, half-expecting the heavens to open up. The drizzle intensified and by noon it looked like a monsoon.
DJ and KK were in limbo when Tiwari called. He asked them to get going. He said he would provide minute-by-minute instructions.
“Just keep rolling and keep shooting. You’ll spot this guy Karan soon. Do not let him out of your sight.”
They cursed in unison and stared at the cloudy skies.
“Father Sperm,” said DJ.
They stared at the wet streets.
“Mother Egg,” said KK.
They eyed each other with mock seriousness.
“We are bastards all.”
They spent a full day in the field and the rain made it messy. They pulled out all their rain gear: plastic caps that covered their ears, plastic gum boots that bit their feet, and black plastic overcoats that made them sweat. They looked like a couple of miserable crows. Outside the water had started to flow along the sidewalks. Armies of umbrellas marched from station to station. Cars and buses honked ceaselessly and tempers flared. A few children from the slums laughed at the madness and walked on the road dividers, holding out their spindly arms and gathering water.
A bus rushed past, splashing them with murk from the gutter. KK kept a straight face. Water was collecting in his right shoe and tickling his toe. The damn boot wouldn’t come off easily so he had to bear with it.
“Who is this Karan fellow?” asked DJ. “Is he important enough for this?”
KK was perceived to be the senior among the two and had been given some additional instructions. He had been asked to keep a fair distance.
“He’s a VIP. He’s also mental.”
DJ shrugged his shoulders. He motioned to their Handycam. “Is this waterproof?”
“Yes and no,” said KK, mimicking Tiwari. They laughed for a while. The two had long since found solace in misery. “Let’s go.”
* * *
It is a day for disembodied voices. The first is when a call comes from an unregistered number. There is no introduction, just a set of orders and a promise of more to follow. Where has Desai gone? Karan is given five minutes. Then the same voice calls again. “Ready to go,” it says.
He walks to the cupboard and opens the drawer. The gun is dull and heavy. He holds it in his right hand, cups his left hand under his right wrist, and takes aim in the mirror. Outside the rain is pelting down. He pulls on a raincoat, yanks the hood over his head, and steps out into the streets.
This is a dream, he tells himself once again. He glances down and watches his feet move. His hands stay dry in the raincoat. He walks with no purpose because it isn’t yet time. Karan crosses the road, walks awhile, then crosses back again. Voices follow in his wake. So do KK and DJ.
Nobody is supposed to know Karan’s assignment today and, curiously, no one actually does. He is carrying a new phone with him and takes orders from a new controller. After half an hour of meandering he stands listlessly under a bus shelter. Life pauses as he watches rain thread its way down the metal roof. He feels uneasy. He likes a clear plan that is of his own making, but this assignment is different. The quarry is known but the staging is impromptu and this makes him nervous. In his line of work he needs to prepare, get under the target’s skin, and understand how the person would react. He has to choose the place and time. This ensures there’s no room for surprises.
But he has learned not to question Ranvir. If Ranvir Pratap wants to keep the staging unknown then he surely has his reasons for it. Ranvir is a stickler for detail and he makes his team go over every step again and again till he tells them to fuck off.
“No more thinking now. You hear me?”
“Yes sir.”
“If you want to be successful, don’t listen to inner voices.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t worry. Just rely on yourself to execute. You have been trained well.”
The traffic light at Worli Naka turns red. Karan crosses the road and then another. A boy is selling books wrapped in plastic sheets. He looks hungry. Karan hands him a bill and picks up a pirated best seller. He holds it above his head for meager protection and walks. He takes the road to the seaface. Angry brown surf is scaling the wall and the parapet is getting a drenching. Karan stands out of range. Young couples are sitting on the wall with knees bent and arms wrapped around each other, as if daring the sea.
He needs a distraction to occupy his mind but doesn’t find any. Finally he turns, walks in the opposite direction, and hails a cab. “Dadar,” he says, and the cabbie takes off. It is an old Fiat. It rattles and shakes, the roof is low, and he has to crouch. Outside it is pouring. He rolls up the window but a gap remains. The cab has wipers that swing uselessly and the cabbie leans out of his window with a cloth and wipes the windscreen as he drives. It is a dark afternoon. At Dadar he gets out near a bus stop and catches a bus to Horniman Circle. He sits at the back and pretends to read a newspaper. It takes over an hour to get there.
* * *
In the backseat of a taxi, DJ and KK strain their eyes to keep track of the red bus.
“This is like a treasure hunt,” says DJ. “What’s he doing?”
KK is listening to some music and doesn’t respond.
The cabbie is humming a bhajan. He has white hair and vermilion on his forehead and he looks like a pandit.
At Horniman Circle they jump out in a hurry. It’s four in the afternoon and the rain has subsided to a light mist. Karan walks to Flora Fountain. He keeps crossing the roads on the way. After a few minutes they realize he’s doing this without thinking. There is no pattern. Karan stops at a paan-wallah and buys some mawa in a small plastic packet. He opens it, grinds some in his palm, tosses it into his mouth, and walks away.
“You think he knows we’re following him?” asks DJ.
KK snorts. “You fucking moron, can’t you see that he’s also following someone? We’re traveling like a convoy, all of us following each other.”
Ahead of Karan is a man of medium build who is doing his best to move in an evasive manner, zigzagging ahead. Karan seems to be tracking him expertly by keeping some distance and many people between them. Every once in a while Karan gets a call. And then he waits and allows the quarry to disappear. Then he moves away in a different direction and magically catches up
with the man.
“He’s being guided by a team on the phone,” whispers DJ.
“Why are you whispering, you moron?” asks KK.
They are taking turns running the camera. So far they have a street-side documentary of Mumbai on a rainy day.
KK calls Tiwari and describes the man who Karan is following.
“Keep following him,” says Tiwari. “And be careful.” He hopes Karan doesn’t discover and then target this twosome. That would be a travesty.
But DJ and KK are careless and they run headfirst into the man they have all been following. He is wearing a white shirt and dark pants. His shirt is open to his navel and a heavy gold chain hangs around his neck. He’s talking on the phone while holding an umbrella in his other hand. He walks right into KK and drops the umbrella and then the phone. He curses, glares at KK, and hails a cab. As the vehicle draws near he peeks into the window and says, “Airport?”
The cabbie nods and he gets in. And then Karan passes right by them and hails another cab. “Airport,” he says. And they are off.
“Fuck.” KK looks around for a cab but there are none to be found.
“Call Tiwari,” says DJ. “Tell him we need wheels.”
* * *
Karan’s cab is old and slow and he’s having a hard time keeping up with the other vehicle. During the long ride to the airport he gets three calls. His controller keeps urging him to hurry up.
“You are losing your quarry!” he screams. “What were you waiting for?”
“I didn’t wait for anything,” says Karan.
“You were standing around and getting mawa made for yourself. Do you think we cannot see you? Is this a time to indulge your vices?”
Karan takes a deep breath and counts to three. “Mister,” he says with a degree of annoyance, “I thought I was being followed. There were two guys who were blundering about behind me trying to act smart.”
“I see,” says the surprised controller. Why would someone follow Karan? “Are you sure you were being followed?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve never seen anyone as amateurish as these two. They were also filming my movements.”
There’s a long pause and a murmur of voices in the background.
The Third Squad Page 18
