by Vaseem Khan
‘Sir, may I ask why you have called me here today?’
Lobo gaped at him. ‘Didn’t your wife tell you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘A heinous crime has been perpetrated, Chopra.’
‘What crime, sir?’
‘Think of the worst crime imaginable.’
Chopra’s expression was quizzical. ‘Someone has been murdered?’
‘Worse!’ roared Lobo.
‘A crime worse than murder? Forgive me, sir, but it would be simpler if you just told me.’
‘They have taken our beloved Father Gonsalves!’
‘There has been a kidnapping?’ Chopra was astonished. ‘If this is the case, sir, then you must inform the police immediately.’
Lobo’s eyebrows met like duelling caterpillars. ‘It is better if I show you. Come with me.’
The school’s assembly hall looked out onto the school grounds through a succession of triumphant stained-glass windows depicting pivotal scenes from the life of St Xavier, as well as images of the Blessed Virgin and the Bom Jesus. The hall was lined with a succession of worn pews, inscribed with a hundred years’ worth of juvenile graffiti as young minds were subjected to the purgatory of daily Mass, Vespers and interminable speechmaking.
At least this was how Chopra viewed the depressing chamber.
Chopra was not a religious man, though he believed that everyone had the right to believe whatever he or she wished. In his experience religion and tolerance rarely went hand in hand. In the history of humankind more murders had been committed in the name of religion than in the pursuit of money, sex and power combined. This was particularly true on the subcontinent, which had seen regular convulsions and conquests in the name of one faith or another. It bothered him greatly whenever he saw the minds of children being filled with the belief that one form of connection to the Great Mystery was somehow superior to another.
They followed Principal Lobo up a flight of short steps to the stage. A pulpit-style lectern was positioned at the front. Directly behind it, at the rear of the stage, was a marble column on which stood an empty plinth.
Lobo flung a hand at the plinth. ‘There!’
Chopra stared. ‘There is nothing there.’
‘Precisely, Chopra! The damned goondas have taken it.’
Understanding dawned. He stepped forward and kneeled down to examine the brass plaque affixed to the edge of the plinth. It read:
FATHER ALBINO GONSALVES
FOUNDER AND GUIDING LIGHT OF
THE ST XAVIER CATHOLIC SCHOOL FOR BOYS
BORN LISBON 1880
TAKEN FROM US IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1942
‘Someone has stolen a bust?’
‘Not just any bust, Chopra. The bust of our founder.’
Chopra straightened up.
He realised that to Lobo this crime was of greater consequence than the theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond, which had all but put two nations at each other’s throats. After thirty years on the force he knew that crimes were often this way. He had seen men kill over what at first glance seemed the most trivial of matters.
But everything was important to someone.
‘You wish us to recover the bust?’
‘It is imperative that you do. The very morale of our school is at stake.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘This matter must be solved discreetly,’ growled Lobo. ‘I will not allow this school to become a laughing stock. I have informed the staff and students that the bust has been sent for polishing. The only ones who know about the theft are myself, Machado here, your wife, the janitor and the school secretary Mr Banarjee. And now you.’
‘And the thieves.’
‘What?’ Lobo glared at Rangwalla as if noticing him for the first time.
‘The thieves, sir,’ Rangwalla clarified queasily. ‘They know about the theft.’
‘Well, of course they do, man!’ roared Lobo. ‘They stole the thing, didn’t they?’
‘When did the theft take place?’ Chopra asked.
Machado took up the story while Lobo glowered at Rangwalla.
‘Three nights ago. The janitor discovered it in the morning, just before Mass. He swears it was there the evening before when he swept the hall after Vespers.’
‘How was the theft committed?’
‘The bust is kept under a glass case, as you can see. The thieves simply unscrewed the case from the plinth and removed the bust.’
‘How did they get into the school?’
‘They broke a window in the rear wing and climbed in.’
‘You have no guards?’
‘We are a school. We have never needed guards.’
Chopra looked thoughtful. ‘Do you have any suspects?’
‘It is D’Souza’s boys,’ muttered Lobo darkly. ‘I’ll wager on it.’
Chopra turned to Machado. ‘D’Souza?’
‘Principal of the St Francis Catholic School for Boys,’ clarified Machado. ‘Brother Lobo believes that Principal Angelus D’Souza is behind this theft.’
‘Why would the principal of another Catholic school steal the bust of your founder?’
‘To humiliate me, that’s why!’ Lobo exploded. ‘D’Souza has always been jealous of me, ever since we were boys. He used to be a Jesuit, you know, before he slunk off to join those wretched Franciscans. The St Francis school has always been second to St Xavier. Second and second rate.’
‘Are you suggesting the bust was stolen because of an inter-school rivalry?’
‘A rivalry that St Xavier has always had the upper hand in.’
‘But why now?’
‘Because His Holiness the Pope will be visiting Mumbai in a few months’ time,’ explained Lobo. ‘He will make a stop at one of the Catholic schools in the city. The only possible choices are St Xavier and St Francis. St Xavier is the clear front runner. I have it on good authority from the Vatican that His Holiness will choose us. This is a humiliation D’Souza cannot stomach. He thinks that by stealing the bust he will undermine the Vatican’s faith in us. Perhaps even tilt the odds in his favour.’
‘Surely the theft of one bust cannot have such dire consequences?’
‘“Malum quo communius eo peius”,’ muttered Lobo.
Unlike St Xavier, Chopra’s village school had not offered Latin as part of its curriculum. If it had, he would have known that Lobo had said ‘the more common an evil is, the worse it is’.
‘Our founder is our guiding spirit,’ continued the principal. ‘Indeed, his very spirit walks these halls. I often encounter him myself, late in the evening. He tells me I am doing a fine job. He tells me to fight the good fight. Today’s loutish generation need the Jesuit moral code more than ever. It is the rock upon which we have built our church. Are we to turn the other cheek while our founding father is whisked away from under our very noses? Do you think His Holiness will not take note of our laxness?’
Chopra realised that it was pointless to argue. ‘Very well. In that case we will do everything we can.’
‘You must confront D’Souza. The man is a spineless coward. He will crack like an egg.’
‘Sir!’
Chopra turned to see Rangwalla staring in horror through the stained-glass windows out onto the adjoining playing fields. He followed his deputy’s gaze… just in time to see a young boy running past with a baby elephant in hot pursuit.
‘It’s OK, boy, it wasn’t your fault.’
Chopra patted Ganesha on the top of his head, his voice soothing. The young elephant was back in the van where he had instantly collapsed to the floor with his trunk curled up under his face, eyes closed, ears flattened against his skull.
Chopra recognised the symptoms; Ganesha was deeply distressed.
Over the past months he had become an expert in reading the emotional state of his young ward – and what a range of emotions Ganesha had! He seemed capable of displaying all the feelings of a young child – happiness, sorrow, pain, petulance, ang
er and, above all, affection.
Like a child, Ganesha had little ability to control these feelings. He was impetuous and without guile. Sometimes Chopra feared that the little elephant had become too trusting, too willing to offer his affection to all those who approached him with a smile and a warm word.
Ganesha did not realise that in the world of humans, deceit and treachery often lay behind such a smile.
He recalled the mad panic as he and Rangwalla had dashed out into the manicured grounds of St Xavier. They had found Ganesha butting the trunk of a neem tree in which the young boy – aged no more than eleven, Chopra guessed – had wedged himself. The boy was wailing alternatively for his mother and the saints to save him.
‘Out of the way, Chopra! I’ll deal with this!’
Chopra had turned to find Principal Lobo bearing down on Ganesha with an antique blunderbuss under his arm.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘What does it look like I am doing? There is a rampaging elephant on the grounds! I am going to take it down before it hurts someone.’
Chopra had stood before Ganesha. ‘Then you will have to shoot me first.’
After Lobo had been hauled away by Brother Machado, Chopra had quietened Ganesha down and led him back to the van.
Now, he turned as Rangwalla arrived. ‘Well?’
‘Ganesha wanted to play with the boys. It seems that some of them decided it would be more fun to tease him. That young thug in the tree tied a bunch of firecrackers to his tail.’
Chopra turned back to Ganesha and saw that Rangwalla was right. The remnants of the string with which the crackers had been tied to Ganesha’s tail could still be seen. The bifurcated clump of long hairs at the end of the tail had been singed and a burn mark scarred the tail itself.
A cold fury raged through him, tempered only by the realisation that he could not, in good conscience, hold the boy to account. Boys were boys. The young oaf had probably not anticipated the harm that he had inflicted. No doubt he would learn his lesson.
He recalled the arrogant threats the little villain had shouted down from his perch as Chopra had led Ganesha away. ‘My father will have you arrested! Do you know how rich he is? He’ll crush you and that stupid elephant! You watch! I’ll get him, you see if I don’t!’
The words had strangely disturbed Chopra.
Normally, he would have ignored such silliness, particularly from the mouth of a boy still in shorts, but he couldn’t help but dwell on Lobo’s earlier sentiments.
Truly, the world was changing.
More and more Indian children were becoming spoiled brats – goondas, as Lobo called them. It would be easy to see this as yet another result of western influence, but Chopra felt there was a deeper malaise at work. Parents were busier, with more distractions. They spent less time with their children, and when they did they gave them the wrong messages. They had lost touch with their roots, the quintessentially Indian teachings of humility and respect that men like Gandhi had both practised and preached. Now, it was fashionable to be brash and bold. It was considered trendy to flaunt your wealth and power. This culture transmitted itself to the children, who grew up believing that the world revolved around them, and that all they had to do was reach out and take what they wanted.
Chopra couldn’t help but feel that the nation was breeding a lost generation. The consequences of this would, one day, be a very bitter harvest indeed.
But what if the boy had not found refuge in a tree? Would Ganesha really have hurt him?
Chopra knew that he sometimes forgot that Ganesha was not a kitten or a pet poodle. The little elephant weighed two hundred and fifty kilos and had the capacity to inflict serious physical injury on the frail humans he lived among. Ganesha had saved Chopra’s life earlier in the year by hurting the human traffickers who had attempted to kill him. But could Ganesha distinguish between villains and mischief-making boys? If not, then Chopra would soon have a real problem on his hands.
He glanced at his watch. He had done all he could for Ganesha for the moment. There was other work that he must attend to.
He looked up at his hovering associate detective. ‘Rangwalla, I want you to handle this case.’
‘Sir.’
‘I’m not as sure as Lobo seems to be that another school is behind the theft. This might just be a prank. You might be looking for an inside man. Or boy, to be more accurate.’
‘Sir.’
‘And talking of inside men…’ Chopra reached into his pocket and removed the papers that he had obtained from the personnel department at the Prince of Wales Museum. ‘I want you to track down these individuals. I want to know everything you can find out about them.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They are all staff members who joined the Prince of Wales Museum after it was announced that it would host the Crown Jewels exhibition. You need to work fast, Rangwalla. Sooner or later Rao will make the same leap.’
‘Count on me, sir.’
‘One last thing… Do you remember a man called Kanodia? Bulbul Kanodia?’
‘The jewel fence?’ Rangwalla’s brow corrugated into a frown. ‘You think he had something to do with this?’
‘What if I told you he was in the gallery at the time of the robbery?’ Chopra paused, momentarily thoughtful. ‘I need Bulbul’s old case file. And then I need to find out where he is now and what he’s been doing since he got out of prison.’
‘I can help you with the second part,’ said Rangwalla. ‘Kanodia went back to the jewellery business. Did very well by all accounts. He has a string of big jewellery stores now.’
‘How in the hell did he achieve that after spending two years in jail?’
Rangwalla shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But he’s managed to keep his nose clean.’
‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots, Rangwalla,’ said Chopra sternly.
Rangwalla nodded in agreement. ‘As for the old case file… Why don’t you just pick it up from the station?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘There is a new head at the station. Just arrived.’
‘Well, why don’t you ask him? I am sure he is a reasonable man.’
‘He is not a man, Rangwalla.’
‘There is a woman in charge of the station?’ Rangwalla could not have sounded more incredulous if he had been told that a baboon had just been elected Prime Minister.
‘Yes,’ said Chopra. ‘And a very competent one, from what I can tell. She has certainly whipped the place into shape – I’ve never seen the station looking so smart. And young Surat seems very impressed by her.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Malini Sheriwal.’
Rangwalla paled. ‘Did you say Malini Sheriwal?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You don’t mean Shoot ’Em Up Sheriwal?’
That was it!
Now Chopra knew where he had heard the name before. Shoot ’Em Up Sheriwal.
Inspector Malini Sheriwal had gained notoriety in the Brihanmumbai Police as the only female member of the so-called Encounter Squad. For years the Encounter Squad had terrorised Mumbai’s underworld, earning its unique sobriquet because of the long list of gangsters the squad members had shot dead in police ‘encounters’.
Chopra had read a Times of India article in which the Encounter Squad’s most successful detectives were lionised. Malini Sheriwal had been top of the tree. In three short years she had notched up more kills than the rest of the squad put together. Sheriwal was a crack shot, winner of the service’s Golden Gun tournament three years running. The word was that she was both fearless and ruthless.
But in the past year the tide of public sentiment had begun to turn. Human rights activists had begun to raise questions about these so-called ‘encounter’ killings. Suddenly the Encounter Squad was being portrayed as a gang of licensed vigilantes rather than heroic upholders of the law. The upper echelons of the force had sensed which way the wind was b
lowing and had quietly disbanded the unit and dispatched its members to relatively anonymous postings to lie low until things blew over.
This explained what Sheriwal was doing at the Sahar station. It didn’t explain to Chopra how he was going to get the Kanodia case file.
Luckily Rangwalla had a solution.
‘Leave it to me, sir.’
A DISCONSOLATE ELEPHANT
The starscape above the courtyard was an astrologer’s dream.
Chopra had often wondered how anyone could believe that their destiny was written up there, in the random patterns made by unimaginably distant balls of burning gas. But the human mind has an infinite capacity to delude itself. And in that gap between reason and superstition, all manner of fantasies prevailed.
Then again, he thought, if the last year had taught him anything, it was that perhaps not everything that failed to meet his own stern test of logic and rationality could be consigned to the realms of mere fantasy.
He looked down from the starry heavens to where Ganesha was hunkered down in the mud below his mango tree. The little elephant continued to be uncommunicative and withdrawn, enveloped in seeming despair.
Following the visit to St Xavier, Chopra had taken Ganesha to see the vet, Dr Rohit Lala.
Lala, who had become quite attached to Chopra’s ward over the past months, had examined Ganesha carefully before applying a waxy burn emollient to his tail. ‘It’s nothing,’ he had said in his booming, jovial manner. ‘The burn is superficial. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Then why is he so…?’ Chopra’s voice tailed off.
‘He has suffered a shock. Do not forget that he is a child. Imagine a human child that has been teased, bullied and burned. How would that child react? This, my friend, is the sort of wound that leaves deeper scars on the inside than the out.’
