by Anita Nair
Who was he fooling? No one was going to pay 25K just to sit across a table and watch a girl suck on a straw. He didn’t particularly care any more. He would be out of her life after tomorrow.
He called the number again.
In the early evening light, the station house seemed even more decrepit and shabby. Once upon a time, as evening descended, they would have begun to wind up operations. Nothing much ever happened in a rural settlement after dark. Not any more, Gowda thought as he rode into the compound on his Bullet. The size of the station itself had changed.
They had two separate divisions – one to handle law and order and the other to handle crime. He was the station head and oversaw both. But each division had its own set of officers. Two ASIs, two SIs and several constables manned each division. And two station writers. The tight ship he had run had become a cruise liner, he told himself. He glanced at his watch as he walked into the station. It was a little past four.
A group of men huddled in front of the station writer’s table stared at him curiously.
‘Is there any point in approaching him?’ one of the men asked.
The station writer grimaced. ‘Pointless! It’s all about rules for him.’
‘What’s to be done then?’ The man frowned. It was a clear case of trespass but the trespasser claimed he had papers to prove that his claim on the land was as valid.
‘It’s about how the FIR is lodged,’ the station writer murmured.
The man peered into the station writer’s face. ‘Oh,’ he said after a pause.
Somewhere a phone rang. The man sat up to make an offer to the station writer but before he could speak, a constable appeared. ‘Gowda sir wants to see you,’ he said.
The station writer pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up.
Gowda had a stack of brown files in front of him. He waved to the writer to sit down. Gowda had had a long and frustrating afternoon trying to chase Teja bhai. He had drawn a blank among his informer networks and his most trusted informer, Mohammed, was unreachable. He would have to get a couple of constables to scour the streets. In times of acute staff shortage, it was going to be hard. When people complained about inadequate policing, they needed to remember that there was one policeman for every thousand citizens of this city.
He had begun examining the case diaries almost as a matter of routine but he felt his foul mood worsen when he noticed something was awry.
No one knew better than Gowda just how crucial the role of the station writer was. Some of them could teach High Court judges a thing or two about points of law. They knew exactly how to lodge a complaint depending on who was bribing them. And Zahir, the new station writer, was a pro at what he did.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked without any preamble.
‘I don’t understand, sir,’ the station writer said.
‘Don’t play the fool with me, Zahir.’ Gowda frowned. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I am talking about the FIRs you lodge. Somehow it’s always the accused who gets the benefit of the doubt and not the complainant.’
Zahir put on his most aggrieved look. ‘Sir, I don’t know who is gossiping about me. But you must realize that because of my religion, I am a target.’
‘Stop it,’ Gowda snapped, leaning forward. ‘Don’t you dare play the religion card here. I don’t know how it was in the station that you were in before, but here I make my decisions based on what I observe. Do you understand?’
Zahir flushed.
‘I see that the Muddelmal register shows that most of the recovered stolen property is still here at the station. Why is that?’
Zahir looked at a point above Gowda’s head. ‘The owners haven’t come to collect it.’
‘Let them know, Zahir. Until you do, how will the complainant know that it has been recovered?’ Gowda looked at the file pointedly.
Zahir stood for a moment, then left. As he went out, he passed Santosh, who was walking in. He heard Gowda snarl, ‘What?’
Santosh felt the insides of his belly descend to his knees. How could someone do this to him at his age, he asked himself. It was like going to the school headmaster’s room all over again.
‘Sir,’ he said, pulling himself together.
Gowda stared at him, waiting for him to go on.
Something about the stare tied his tongue and thoughts into knots. ‘Sir,’ he tried again as his mind raced to form an opening sentence that would get Gowda’s attention.
‘Are you going to stand here sirring me or are you going to say something more?’ Gowda growled.
It had occurred to Santosh in the past two days that Gowda had mellowed. The cantankerousness that had been such a part of him seemed to have retreated. Obviously it hadn’t. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘We had a breakthrough in the Nandita case investigation.’
Gowda waved for him to sit. ‘Tell me.’
‘Ratna met a few of Nandita’s classmates today and one girl who seems to have been Nandita’s confidante said that she may have gone to the Basilica to pray. Something about a scholarship she was hoping to get,’ Santosh said, watching Gowda’s face for a glimmer of a smile.
Instead there was curious blankness.
‘So we went there this afternoon, and Ratna who knows a flower seller there made some enquiries,’ Santosh continued.
‘And …’ Gowda asked, again that curious flat note in his voice.
‘The woman remembered her. She said that she had wondered about a girl in school uniform all by herself. But then she saw there was a woman with her.’
‘And they got into an auto and left,’ Gowda concluded for him.
Santosh stared, too surprised to speak. ‘How did …’ he began after a pause.
Gowda leaned back in his chair. ‘I was there yesterday and I heard from another source just about the same details. The auto belongs to a man called Teja bhai who suddenly seems to have disappeared from the face of earth.’
‘I wish you had told us,’ Santosh said. ‘We could have saved so much time.’
Gowda flushed. ‘I should have,’ he admitted. He hadn’t meant to keep the team out of the loop but he was used to doing things on his own. It had been unprofessional of him.
It was turning dark outside, and through the window mesh the hum of mosquitoes had grown into a steady drone. One of the constables knocked and came in bearing a lit mosquito coil. The heavy acrid smoke swirled through the room. Santosh coughed. Gowda pushed the glass of water on his table towards him. Santosh, eyes streaming, grabbed the glass hastily and drank the water to quell the irritation in his throat.
‘What were you saying?’ Santosh asked, shoving the coil to a distant corner of the room.
‘Nothing of consequence.’ Gowda shrugged.
‘There’s more, sir.’ Santosh’s voice wobbled.
Santosh cleared his throat. ‘The flower seller said she thought she recognized the woman. Which is why she didn’t ask Nandita what she was doing on her own. That’s what she told Ratna.’
Santosh paused and swallowed.
‘Her name is Mary, sir, and apparently she is a recruiter.’
‘You are certain about that?’ Gowda asked.
‘Mary is well known in those areas, sir, and it isn’t as if the flower seller is an innocent woman. She used to sell ganja along with her flowers and that’s how Ratna knows her.’
‘This Ratna is smart. What do you think?’ Gowda asked with a small smile.
Santosh had mentioned Ratna’s name about six times in the past twenty minutes.
‘She is very smart, sir. And, sir, she is a Gowda like us and she is from Hassan.’ Instantly realizing that he was treading dangerous territory, Santosh hastened to add, ‘Her grandfather is Veerendra Gowda, the freedom fighter and poet.’
Gowda’s eyes narrowed. Santosh flushed. Why had he mentioned that she was a Gowda? Once, he had thought that Inspector Gowda would accept him and make him one of his own if he knew that Santosh belonged to the Gowda caste as well. He had hoped that
would cut him some slack even. That was what he had been told – that the police force was built on tiers of caste. You could be sure of unswerving allegiance and loyalty from your castemen. Except in the case of Gowda. Any reference to the caste equation only annoyed him. Santosh reached for the glass of water again.
Gowda waited for him to put the glass down. ‘And you think she is smart because she is a Gowda?’ he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
‘Yes, sir … no, sir,’ Santosh blubbered. Then with an effort, he collected himself and said, ‘Sir, she is very intelligent. I just mentioned she is a Gowda. It’s not connected to the case. I was just passing on a bit of information. Inconsequential trivia, actually.’
Gowda smiled. ‘Good! And,’ he continued, ‘if you believe in something, stand by it. Or you will never get ahead in life. You can’t let someone browbeat you into changing your mind simply because it’s not their point of view. Gowdas are strong people, you know,’ he added with a twinkle in his eye.
Santosh flushed. He didn’t know whether he wanted to hug the man or strangle him.
‘And now there is something we must get done right away,’ Gowda said, reaching for the phone. ‘Get the flower seller to describe the woman to the portrait artist. Not the one we will be allotted but a friend of mine who used to be at the forensic lab.’
‘Sir, won’t we be breaking rules?’ Santosh asked.
Gowda took a deep breath. Santosh bit his lip nervously, waiting for the explosion. Was Gowda counting under his breath, he wondered in dismay. He was known to do that or drink a glass of water, when he was trying to curb his irritability.
‘Sometimes we need to get around the rules in the interests of the victim,’ Gowda enunciated, as though speaking to a particularly slow dog. ‘Our priority here should be the missing child and not whether we are following the rules. If we put this request through the official channels, Nandita will be in some brothel before the artist here decides to switch on the system. If we have a reasonable likeness, we can show it around.’
‘You mean, send it to other stations?’ Santosh asked.
‘Hmm … not really, but to some others as well. Fixers, pimps, prostitutes, touts … I am sure that Ratna has a few contacts too,’ Gowda said, dialling the number of the forensic artist.
‘Shenoy,’ he said, ‘I need a favour.’
Santosh saw Gowda smile. The man knew how to smile after all.
Ratna and Santosh sat in the back of the jeep while Gowda got into the front with PC David. He pressed a button on the dashboard searching for an FM station. There was one that played Hindi music all day long. Neither David nor Santosh spoke even though their eyes met in the mirror. Gowda generally didn’t approve of music being played in the official vehicle. What was going on in his mind, they wondered. Only Ratna looked pleased as a lilting song came on, ‘Sheela ki jawani …’ Gowda adjusted the volume and slumped into the seat, brooding at the traffic as they headed towards Shivaji Nagar.
‘You like this song?’ Santosh asked, seeing Ratna mouth the words silently.
She nodded. Santosh swallowed. He had imagined her taste would veer towards the semi-classical or even the Kannada Bhaavageetha, not this cacophony from Bollywood masquerading as music.
As if on cue, Gowda reached across and turned off the music, mumbling, ‘Rubbish!’
The streets of Shivaji Nagar were bustling as usual. In the evening, it became an exotic bazaar of colour, scents and sounds. People teeming everywhere; some who had come in for a quick bargain before heading to the bus stand; earnest shoppers with a list; tourists who had been told the best bargains were to be found here. This was a Bangalore far removed from the plate glass malls of branded merchandise and credit-card-flashing customers. This city within a city didn’t distinguish between clerk and tout, pimp and priest. You were not judged by your accent or clothes, your haircut or the bag on your shoulder. You were here because you had something to pick up. And there they were: the push carts of gewgaws, clothes, sweets, vegetables, dry fruits, plastic basins, flowers, fruits, teacups, porcelain jars, shirts and factory-reject shoes. You could pick up anything you wanted by wandering through the streets of Shivaji Nagar. You just needed to know where to look and then bargain as if your very life depended on it.
Summer had begun in earnest and the heat pressed down on man, animal, building and tarmac. The fruit sellers and kulfi vendors did brisk business. Some of the stalls offered fruit juices, milk shakes, faloodas and lassi in tall cold glasses. People thronged around, allowing the cold sweetness to quench their thirst and dull the edge of the heat. Some others drank tea. The old timers knew that worked better than the cold drinks. The hot tea made you sweat and kept you cooler longer.
David manoeuvred the jeep carefully through the evening traffic, finally finding a parking spot near the Basilica.
Gowda turned to Santosh. ‘So we are here again.’
Santosh nodded. It had all begun here: Bhuvana and what followed. He stumbled as he walked away from the jeep.
Gowda grabbed his arm, ‘Are you all right?’ he asked softly.
‘I am,’ Santosh said. ‘I tripped, that’s all.’
Santosh turned abruptly and walked back to the Bolero. He opened the door and leaned inside.
‘Looks like he has forgotten something,’ ACWO Ratna said.
Gowda nodded. For a fleeting moment, their gazes met and both of them looked away. Neither wanted to acknowledge that Santosh stood with his back to the Basilica.
They heard a door slam. PC David had stepped out of the Bolero, giving Santosh the space to compose himself. Gowda felt a rare sense of pride. Such tacit understanding from his men filled him with a glimmer of hope.
He thought of a film he had watched a long time ago, in which a policeman had proclaimed: ‘There is a heart beating beneath this khaki uniform.’
The theatre had erupted in a sound cloud of boos, jeers and cat calls. Policemen were expected to be boors, and most of them lived up to that image with no real effort.
Santosh gripped the edge of the seat to steady himself. He felt a flutter in his chest. For the last seven months, he had told himself that when he went into Shivaji Nagar next, it wouldn’t affect him. The place had nothing to do with what had happened to him. In the sanctuary of his home, he had sipped his herbal concoction and told himself that when it was time, he would hold himself upright and let everyone see that Santosh may have been scarred in the battle but he hadn’t lost the war.
But now that he was here, the horrific events of the evening of 8 September came back to him. Bhuvana and he in the autorickshaw. The still factory. The manja thread cutting into his throat. He shuddered and felt beads of sweat pop up on his brow. Get a grip on yourself, he muttered again and again like a mantra. Within his head, his inner voice that had taken on Gowda’s cadence and timbre drawled, ‘Are you going to make us wait here all evening?’
He clenched his muscles and turned around. He shut the vehicle door gently, took a deep breath and walked towards Gowda and Ratna. ‘I just needed a moment,’ he stated baldly.
Gowda nodded. Then he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘Where is the flower seller?’ he asked.
Santosh felt Ratna dart a glance in his direction. He pretended not to see it as he matched his stride with Gowda’s. He soon felt her at his side. ‘This way,’ she said, leading them towards a line of handcarts piled with vegetables and a mountain of pineapples. The flower seller, a thin woman with a beaky nose and her hair pulled back in a bun-like knot, sat amidst them on a stool with a slightly larger upturned crate in front of her. On it were balls of jasmine garlands and one of bright yellow chrysanthemums. She was talking animatedly to a man who stood by her side even as her fingers worked on their own, weaving a garland of jasmine buds – two buds in one hand, and with the other hand knotting them in place with banana fibre. The man disappeared as he saw them approach.
She frowned when she saw Ratna.
‘Let me speak to her,’ Rat
na said under her breath to the two men, afraid they would say something that would make the flower seller mutinous and uncooperative.
Gowda nodded. He paused near the cart of pineapples, close enough to hear what was being discussed. Santosh hovered by the cart of vegetables. Gowda saw Santosh examine an eggplant. Did the boy really know how to buy vegetables? But taking a cue from him, he picked up a pineapple.
‘What now?’ the flower seller said through clenched teeth as she bit through the banana fibre.
‘I want you to describe the woman to the police artist,’ Ratna said.
The flower seller’s eyes narrowed. ‘What if I don’t remember?’ she said, starting on another mound of buds.
‘Are you saying you don’t remember or you choose not to remember?’ Ratna’s voice was hard.
Santosh flinched at her tone. Gowda smiled. The girl had balls. Sweet-talking her wouldn’t get Santosh anywhere.
The woman shrugged.
Ratna leaned forward and hissed, ‘You really don’t want me poking around your buds and flowers, bra and petticoat, do you?’
The woman’s eyes darted this way and that. It wouldn’t do her reputation any good to have a young girl talk to her in that tone of voice.
Ratna straightened. ‘Get someone to sit here and mind your business.’
The woman sighed. ‘It’s peak time …’
Ratna folded her arms. ‘Your peak hours are from 8 p.m. onwards. You know that as well as I do. No one’s going to buy your little pouches of ganja in broad daylight. Neither you nor they are so stupid. We’ll have you back by the time your real customers turn up.’
Santosh expelled his breath in admiration. She was only as old as he was, perhaps a few months younger, but she seemed to have all the worldliness of Gajendra when dealing with criminals. In a strange way, her feistiness excited him.
What did she have on the woman, Gowda wondered.
The portrait artist Shenoy was on his way to a restaurant nearby that Gowda had decided on. It looked more like a park with gazebos and a garden space around, Ratna thought as she and the flower seller walked towards it while Gowda and Santosh followed in the police vehicle. She realized that Gowda had chosen it for that very reason. They wouldn’t be noticed.
