The Forbidden Daughter

by Shobhan Bantwal

  “Problem, sir?” Phillip asked Patil.

  “That was my assistant. Apparently Gowda’s wife just called the station, asking to talk to me. She’s very upset.”

  “She actually managed to make a phone call with her husband listening in?” asked Harish, his eyes wide.

  Patil blew out a shaky breath. “He was not listening . . . because he . . . shot himself.”

  “What the hell!” swore Phillip and pointed to the house.

  “That shot we just heard . . .”

  “I believe that’s what we heard,” said Patil with a nod. “He supposedly shot himself in the mouth.”

  Harish flinched. “Good God!” Despite his medical training there were certain things that still made his stomach turn.

  “I think he finally realized he was finished.”

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  “The gunshot could be bogus, a plan to trick us, sir,” Phillip cautioned. “His wife could be in this as deep as he is. Her call might be a ploy to create a diversion and help him escape.”

  Patil stroked his chin, the stubble making a raspy sound as he turned over Phillip’s words in his mind. “That’s doubtful. I’ve met the lady once or twice at social gatherings.” He rubbed his chin again. “But then, it’s hard to judge someone after a few superficial contacts.”

  Harish shook his head. “Mrs. Gowda is a nice woman, decent and very devoted to her children.”

  “You know her?” Patil tossed him an astounded look.

  “Both their boys are my patients,” he explained to Patil. “I’ve never met their father, but their mother doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be involved in anything like this. That’s why when I heard Gowda was the man involved I was shocked.

  His wife is such a normal, sociable person.”

  Phillip frowned at him. “Are you sure about her? The team could walk into a trap if they think they’re going in there to find a dead man and instead he’s very much alive and shooting away like a maniac.”

  Harish pondered Phillip’s words for a long minute. What if his friend was right? After all, his own acquaintance with Mrs. Gowda was superficial, as Patil described it. He met her briefly three or four times a year when she brought the children in for their checkups and sick visits.

  The Gowda boys, about nine and five years old now, had been coming to him for the past three years. How much did he really know about their mother? Very little, other than the fact that she seemed friendly, educated, and concerned about her children’s welfare.

  “I can’t be a hundred percent sure,” allowed Harish. “But I honestly feel she’s not the type to be engaged in anything illegal, especially if it means endangering her children.” He felt sorry for the poor woman. Had she watched her husband shoot himself? And if those innocent children had witnessed it, they could end up disturbed for life.

  Patil did his chin-stroking and pondering routine one more THE

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  time and rose to his feet. “I guess I better speak to the inspector, then.”

  Harish and Phillip observed while Patil spoke to his man in whispers. Then he dialed the number written on his palm, waited for a reply, and started to talk. The conversation was brief, with Patil nodding several times. Then the two men started to converse quietly again.

  After what seemed like ages, Patil motioned Phillip and Harish to approach him. “I think the lady is telling the truth. She is sobbing, and the baby is crying in the background, so it was hard to hear everything, but it looks like he may be dead or seriously injured.” Patil threw a distressed glance at Harish. “Dr. Salvi, would you be able to examine him and see if he’s . . .”

  “Of course,” replied Harish, trying hard to keep his mind off the nausea in his stomach. This was not the time to feel squea-mish about examining a man with half or all of his face and brain missing. Salvi, you’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake! So deal with it, he ordered himself and raced to his car to retrieve his medical bag.

  The one thing that kept him moving was Patil’s comment about the crying baby. That had to be Diya. She had to be alive.

  There was hope.

  From the trunk of his car, Harish grabbed his bag and the toy monkey. By the time he started running back toward the scene, the front door to Gowda’s house was open, with two policemen guarding it against the curious onlookers. As Harish jostled through the crowd, various people bombarded him with questions, in three different languages.

  He managed to ignore them and quickly made it to the house.

  Patil pulled him inside and immediately shut the door. It took Harish’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness and gloom in the house after the bright sunshine outside. A maroon sofa and two matching chairs sat around a small oval coffee table. It was a modest drawing room.

  The familiar metallic smell of blood reached his nostrils. A doctor could recognize that odor anywhere.

  His attention immediately went to the man lying on the floor 308 Shobhan Bantwal

  beside the window. A handgun lay on his chest. Harish figured Gowda must have been standing at the window, looking outside on the grim scene that spelled his doom. A little later, having given up all hope, he must have sunk to the floor and put the gun in his mouth.

  The bile crept up into Harish’s throat, hot and bitter, the acid burning his chest. True to his expectation, a portion of the man’s head and face were missing, the bloody pieces strewn across the room. It was a revolting sight, with the nearest wall, the curtains, the furniture, and the floor splattered with blood, bits of flesh, and bone. Harish didn’t even have to look twice to know the man was long dead. More than a third of his brain was gone. His face was worse.

  God, poor Mrs. Gowda had to witness this?

  Setting aside his private thoughts for the moment, and suppressing the need to throw up, he crouched down and went through the dispassionate motions of pronouncing the man officially dead.

  Somewhere in the house he heard a woman weeping.

  Mrs. Gowda. A little boy’s desperate sobs mingled with hers.

  One of her sons—most likely the little one. He was only five years old. The mournful sounds made Harish wince. He looked again at the dead man. How could you do this to your family?

  What kind of insanity made you do this? It had to be insanity.

  A baby started crying. He knew that cry. Diya! Everything else flew out of his mind. She sounded hoarse, which meant she’d been howling a lot.

  He wanted to run to her and grab her in his arms, soothe away the fear. But first things first. He slowly rose to his feet and nodded at Patil. “No question. He’s dead. If you want me to sign any official papers to that effect, I’ll do it.”

  Patil remained silent, his expression turning odd. The blood seemed to drain out of his face. Was he going to pass out? A second later he pressed a hand to his mouth, ran to the front door and out onto the stoop.

  Harish clearly heard the retching sounds. Despite his police background, Patil probably hadn’t seen anything as disturbing THE

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  as this. Fortunately, his own stomach was beginning to settle a little.

  He glanced at Phillip, who stood in stoical silence, staring at the gruesome sight on the floor. It looked like good old Phillip had a stronger stomach than most people. “Enough to make anyone sick,” Phillip murmured. “God, what a waste of life—

  and all that for money.”

  “With this man it was beyond money,” Harish said, thinking out loud. “I think he was insane. He should have been in ther-apy years ago.” He shook his head. “And don’t forget, this all started with Karnik’s illegal abortions. That, too, had its roots in money.”

  Phillip blew out a deep, regretful breath. “I feel sorry for the poor widow. She’s so young. And the children are cute little boys. I just got a glimpse of them. They’re all devastated.”

  “I’m sure they are. But in the long run they may be
better off without a lunatic for a husband and father, don’t you think?”

  “Patil said he’s going to contact her relatives so someone can come over and help her cope with all this.”

  Harish thought of something else as he looked at the bloodshed around them. “From a medical point of view, I think the police department should offer her some sort of psychiatric counseling as well. An episode like this is hard to recover from.”

  Isha should have received counseling, too, he thought, after what she’d been through. Instead of getting help she’d suffered more agony. No wonder it was taking her so long to bounce back from Nikhil’s death and everything else.

  “I’ll mention it to Patil. He could probably arrange for medical help.” Phillip inclined his head toward the room where all the weeping was coming from. “So, you want to get that baby or what?”

  Harish hesitated. “Would you do me a favor? I’m just not up to facing Mrs. Gowda and her children right now. Could you go inside and bring Diya to me? Since you’re a stranger to the lady, it might be . . . you know . . . easier.” He was being a coward by avoiding Mrs. Gowda, but neither his stomach nor his brain was being cooperative at the moment.

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  Phillip headed in the direction of the bedrooms. Moments later he emerged with Diya in his arms. The instant she saw Harish, a face she knew well, she sent up a pitiful wail.

  Very few things in life had made Harish’s eyes fill with tears.

  This was one of those occasions. He blinked back the moisture.

  Seeing the baby was like nothing he’d ever experienced before—

  a rush of mixed emotions: relief at seeing her alive and well; sadness at seeing her beautiful eyes swollen from crying; rage at Karnik and the man lying dead not five feet away from him; frustration at his own inability to prevent any of this devastation from happening.

  Despite his best efforts to rein them in, a couple of errant tears spilled out. Quickly he brushed them with his fingers, replaced his glasses, and stepped forward. “Thank you, Phillip.”

  Diya literally jumped into his welcoming arms. He hugged her close to his chest and started to rock her gently. “Shh, baby.

  You’ll be all right.” He never wanted to let her out of his sight.

  He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Her fair skin was flushed pink. Her hair hung in damp curls around her face.

  He wondered how long she’d been crying so hard. He could feel her frantic heartbeat against his chest. To add to her misery, her nappy was soaked, and some of the dampness had leaked out of the plastic panty and onto her pajamas. The acrid odor of urine was strong on her clothes.

  Phillip stood with his hands in his pockets, looking on helplessly. “Is she okay?”

  Harish nodded. “As far as I can see. She’s scared, that’s all.

  Getting kidnapped and then thrust into the midst of strangers is very traumatic for a baby.” He patted her behind. “And she’s wet—maybe hungry, too.”

  “Hell, all this would be traumatic for a grown man,” replied Phillip.

  The gruffness in his voice told Harish that his friend was genuinely touched by the reunion.

  That’s when Harish remembered the monkey. Retrieving it THE

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  from the chair where he’d tossed it earlier, he handed it to the baby. “Look, Diya. Look who came to find you.”

  The transformation was almost like magic. Just like Isha had said, Diya clutched at the grinning object like a lifeline. After a while her crying subsided, although the tiny hiccups continued.

  “Good girl,” he said and kissed the top of her head.

  Phillip watched the scene with interest. “Harish, I’ve never seen you like this with any of your other patients.”

  “That’s because this baby’s special.”

  “You mean you love this one like your own?”

  Harish smiled down at Diya, who had buried her face and the monkey into his shoulder. “Her father was Nikhil Tilak, but she feels like mine,” he said, stroking the baby’s back. “I saw her when she was less than twenty-four hours old, and I fell in love.”

  “I can see why. She’s a beautiful child. But what about her mother?”

  “What about Isha?” Harish recognized that incisive look in his friend’s eye. Phillip had guessed about his feelings for Isha.

  There wasn’t much he could hide from Phillip. They’d been close friends since elementary school and had very few secrets between them.

  An amused smile flashed across Phillip’s broad face. “So, that’s how it is, huh?”

  “That’s how it is,” Harish confessed. “I want to marry Isha—

  whenever she’s ready—if she’ll ever be ready.”

  Just then Patil returned, looking much better. His stomach was obviously on the mend. He looked at the baby. “Found the child, I see. Is she all right?”

  “Yes. And thank God for that,” said Harish. “I’m very grateful to you, Mr. Patil. The baby’s mother will be very relieved.”

  Patil shrugged and shifted his gaze to the body on the floor. “I wish it had happened differently. Two men are dead . . . and one is in the hospital, and we may never have the answers to many of our questions.”

  “Why not? All this started with Karnik and he can provide 312 Shobhan Bantwal

  you the details, can’t he?” said Harish. “I hope the old man rots in prison for what he’s done to so many innocent people—not to mention a few hundred female fetuses.”

  Patil seemed to mull it over. “Karnik may not be in any condition to stand trial for several months. Perhaps never. Apparently his condition is very serious.” His looked at Diya’s tiny back, still convulsing with hiccups. “But I’m glad the child is okay. Otherwise her grandfather, Mr. Tilak, would never forgive me.”

  “If you don’t need me here, I’ll take Diya back to her mother,” said Harish.

  “Our forensic staff is on the way to pick up the body and transport it to the mortuary, so you are free to leave,” said Patil, and then rubbed his belly, as if the nausea was still bothering him.

  Meanwhile Phillip closed the flap on Harish’s bag and picked it up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Thanks.” Harish raised his free hand in a casual salute to Patil and headed out. The chattering spectators still lingered on the periphery, despite the policemen keeping an eye on them. They went silent the instant they saw the two men emerge from the house. They stared at the baby in awe for a second. Then they barraged him and Phillip with questions.

  Once again the two men ignored the crowd and kept walking. Phillip waved away a pesky news reporter.

  Diya’s hiccups began to diminish and her heartbeat became softer, steadier, as Harish walked back to the car. She was going limp as she lay with her head on his shoulder. She was obviously falling asleep. A good thing, too. A little rest would go a long way in washing away the trauma of the last several hours.

  Inside the car, he seated the slumbering child upright in the front passenger seat and buckled her in tight, with the monkey pressed snugly against her, while Phillip stowed his bag in the trunk.

  Harish turned to his friend to shake his hand. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all your help, Phillip.”

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  Phillip shrugged. “What are friends for? But next time, try and give me some advance notice—at least enough to get out of my pajamas,” he said with a wry smile.

  “I’ll try,” Harish promised with equal dryness. “Get in the backseat. I’ll drop you off at my house so you can take a bath and grab some sleep.”

  “No need.” Phillip put his hands in his pockets. “I have my car here. Patil took me by your house so I could pick up my vehicle before he and I got here.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.”

  “Actually, I asked for the favor. So I think I�
��ll just drive back home right away.”

  “Are you crazy? You haven’t had a wink of sleep all night, and no food, either.” Seeing the bleary-eyed look of exhaustion on Phillip’s face, Harish pulled his house keys out of his pocket and pressed them into Phillip’s hand. “Doctor’s orders! You’re going to my place. I’ll deliver Diya to her mother and meet you there. If I’m late, help yourself to whatever is in the fridge and then sleep in my guestroom.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” conceded Phillip, suppressing a yawn.” Pocketing the keys, he pulled out a mobile phone from his other pocket. “I’ll ring Cece and tell her.” Cecelia was Phillip’s wife of two years.

  “Will your boss get upset with you for taking an unexplained day off? I can have Patil give him a ring.”

  Phillip shook his head. “I’ll tell him I was involved with a case in Palgaum. He’ll find out from the radio and newspapers anyway.”

  “Hmm.” Harish recalled the photographer and reporter at the scene. The news flash would reach the public within hours.

  The crowd around Gowda’s house was gradually thinning out.

  When he’d arrived here, it was with the certainty of seeing a bloody shootout and the fear of discovering that Diya was killed. He was prepared for injury to himself as well. Neither of those things had happened. He was immensely grateful on both counts.

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  Flipping open his own mobile, he dialed Isha’s number. She answered on the first ring. The desperate note in her voice nearly choked him with emotion once again.

  “Is she . . . is Diya . . . ?”

  “She’s all right,” he said.

  “She’s alive!” There was a long pause.

  Harish gave Isha plenty of time to digest the good news.

  “She’s fine except for a wet nappy and a little exhaustion. Right now she’s asleep in the passenger seat—with her monkey.”