Tomorrow at sunrise, he thought, when the waters of Mother Ganga are lapping round me, I shall ask for something somehow to bring back for me the simple times. Those long-ago days when I had one good deed only before me.
The restaurant at the Hotel de Paris in the Mall? Yes, that should be just right. Not the height of luxury like the five-stars Taj Ganges or the refurbished Clark’s or the Ashok. A mistake to look too much of a bootlicker. But a good place nevertheless. An air of Old Banares, dating with its solid pillared front from British days. Unchanging, the height of respectability. Just what should please Jagmohanji.
It took Ghote much longer than he had counted on to find Manzoor Syed’s house. First a long, long autorickshaw ride brought him to an address which turned out to be completely wrong. Then a yet more wearisome, jostled and jangled trip took him back to the heart of the ancient, built-upon, ruined and rebuilt city. At last he was able to ring the bell beside an ancient door, its time-blistered panels framed by sombre brass studs, in a long windowless façade in a close-smelling galli.
The servant who agreed that ‘Ji haan, sahib, this is the house of Mr Manzoor Syed’ took his card and left him waiting in a sun-hammered, untended garden. Grey paving slates zigzagged with cracks. A waterless fountain. The long, rope-like roots of its sole tree, a twisted pipal, brown and dry. A pink-faced monkey eventually appearing on the top of the high wall, looking down at him, whisking away.
Then, just when he had begun to think that Manzoor Syed, alarmed at a Bombay CIDwalla’s card, had left by some other door, the servant returned. He was hurried along ancient stone-walled passages hung with portraits of long-ago muslim taluqdars, courtiers and landowners, in and out of deserted rooms where nothing seemed ever to have happened, up sharp-twisting little flights of stairs.
Once, from the arch of a crumbling stone balcony, he caught a momentary view of the city, now far below. Jumbled roofs, a temple dome, a huge hoarding advertising a film – gun-waving police inspector, full-bosomed star – with below it, hardly glimpsed, another big painted poster. Stark words in English, Don’t Play With Fire Consequences Are Dire.
At last, they came to a doorway with a bead-curtain in glowing coloured glass. The servant ushered him forward. Squaring his shoulders, he brushed through.
Facing him was a man in a long, beautifully cut black sherwani, a black muslim cap at a slight angle above a long, firm-set, narrow face set off by a thin moustache, its ends curling with an air of implacable disdain.
‘Inspector Ghote,’ he said, looking down at the pasteboard slip in his hand. ‘All the way from Bombay. What can you be wanting to see me about? You are lucky, indeed, to find me. I returned only yesterday from America.’
‘Sir,’ Ghote said, suppressing the nervous cough that had risen up in his throat, ‘I am here in connection with the death of Mrs Shoba Popatkar.’
They were the words he had prepared, as he had waited in the dry garden. Would the abrupt announcement produce a telltale reaction?
But the long, set face remained impassive.
At once Ghote knew why. Manzoor Syed must be speaking the truth in saying he had returned to India only the day before. If so, Mrs Popatkar could not have seen him when she had come to Benares. There could be nothing in her visit to cause this man to need to end her life. Or have it ended for him.
‘You are knowing that Mrs Popatkar has been murdered?’ he said, asking himself anxiously how he could get to see this cool, aristocratic Muslim’s passport and check on his story.
‘Yes. Yes, Inspector, I saw a newspaper when we landed in Calcutta. A tragic business. She and I were very old friends—’
He brought himself to a halt then, and smiled with a wry twist of his thin moustache.
‘Well, perhaps I should say old enemies.’
Enemies? But then . . .
‘But such old enemies,’ Manzoor Syed went on, ‘that in a way we had become friends. I encountered her first, you know, many years ago when she was Minister for Railways and I was at the very beginning of my career, if you can call a career the business I began when our family fortune appeared to have – well, disappeared.’
‘Yes, sir?’
But the fellow’s passport, can I just only demand to inspect? After all, if he is lying about the time he reached here, even by twenty-four hours, he could have seen her. And enemies . . . He did say that. But a person of as much influence as this man, how can I do it?
‘Yes, Inspector.’ Manzoor Syed smiled with a touch of ruefulness. ‘Let me tell you what happened. There was I, a young man desperately in need of some capital, and, to tell the truth, not much worried about how I might get it. But I was still in those days innocent, or partially innocent, shall we say? And it never occurred to me that anyone would be proof against the offer of a bribe, provided only the bribe was big enough. Now, I knew the new Minister for Railways was a woman without resources, and so, when I wanted to secure a contract to provide seats for new rolling-stock the Ministry had sanctioned it seemed simple just to have what we call “a frank talk” with the Minister. And she rebuffed me, Inspector. In no uncertain terms. I can hear her words now. Mr Syed, it is the duty of every man, woman and even child in this world to do right, and what you have proposed to me is nothing more than bare-faced doing wrong.’
The eyes in the narrow face opposite lit up with what could only be delight.
‘Yes, Inspector, I was given a fine shelling, I can tell you. Not that it did me any good. I have found, you know, ever since that bribery, combined with a certain ruthlessness, almost always works altogether admirably in business.’
‘Yes, sir.’
What else to say?
‘But then . . .’ Manzoor Syed went on. ‘Then, and this is the cream of it, Inspector, a few weeks after that terrible shelling I learnt my quotation for the seating, which was as a matter of face decently low, had been accepted. It was the beginning of such success as I have had.’
And then the happy light went out of his eyes.
‘But why, Inspector, have you come all the way to Banares to see myself in connection with Shoba Popatkar’s death?’
Ghote felt sweat spring up at his hairline.
‘Sir,’ he said, spinning out the words. ‘First of all, I was finding your name in Mrs Popatkar’s address book.’
‘I am not surprised, Inspector. Mrs Popatkar did not hesitate to take advantage of the weak position I was in frequently to demand money from me. For the highest reasons, of course. She was president, you know, of a charity for blinded rail workers, and we Muslims have an obligation to help all unfortunates, particularly, I don’t know why, the blind. So, over the years whenever she asked I have given. Quite generously I think.’
‘I see, sir, yes.’
But he was not sure he did see, or not very clearly. How could it be that this man, not ashamed to admit he had bribed and browbeaten his way to fortune, could still be happy to answer charitable requests when long ago he must have become immune to Mrs Popatkar’s mild moral blackmail?
‘But the mere finding of my name in that address book, Inspector,’ Manzoor Syed went on, ‘can hardly have been reason to suspect me – because you do, don’t you? – of killing Mrs Popatkar. Or, I suppose, of paying to have her killed?’
‘No, sir, no. I am also having evidence of an individual speaking Hindi with many overtones of Bhojpuri seen in the vicinity of Mrs Popatkar’s residence, and also I was learning Mrs Popatkar had made a sudden unexplained trip here to Benares just before her death.’
‘Had she indeed, Inspector? Now I wonder why that can have been. It certainly was not to see me. I was on holiday in America. Oh, but wait—’
A smile.
‘You will not have believed that, will you, Inspector? So, simple answer. Let me show you my passport.’
He turned to a tall, heavily carved almirah behind him and pulled open one of its doors.
‘Oh, no, sir, no. Quite unnecessary I am assuring you.’
‘No
, Inspector. Absolutely necessary. When you are dealing with such an unscrupulous fellow as myself. Please look.’
He thrust the little green book forward. Ghote took it, flipped it open, saw what he knew must be there. The fresh, blotchy but plainly readable stamp making it clear that Manzoor Syed had returned to India only yesterday.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘So, Inspector, your journey here has been fruitless. However, you are a good Hindu, no doubt. You can at least take the opportunity of disembarrassing yourself of any sins you may have committed with a plunge into the waters of the Ganges.’
And, as the heavy old door to the rambling house was swung to behind him, Ghote realized with dismay he was now going to be very much later than he had promised in learning from the Senior Superintendent what help he was to get in this altogether exasperating city.
4
H. K. Verma woke suddenly from his after-lunch nap.
I was dreaming of it, he thought. I was there in that horrible tiny plane Vikram was piloting. That dog he is taking everywhere with him – What he is calling it as? A German Shepherd – lying behind us, quiet like a lamb. But not always behaving so well. Not when Vikki, as he insists to call himself, is inciting and instigating it to chase the servants. Even to attack anyone coming into the compound not wearing decent clothes.
But did Vikki – no, Vikram, Vikram – believe it when I said I was having urgent secret political business in Bombay? He might have. He must know from what his father has said I am at last on verge of joining Government. Not that he takes any interest. Just only jumping at the chance to fly all the way to Bombay. With myself paying each and every cost.
‘Broke, Grandfather. Broke as usual. Hundred per cent karka.’
‘But your father makes you such a generous allowance. I am often telling him it is too much.’
‘And I am often telling him it’s not one half enough.’
‘A college boy should not have so many needs.’
‘Oh, Grandfather, you know perfectly well I have left college. What good is it to me to be a BAABF?’
And, in his urgency to get to Bombay he had foolishly humoured the boy by asking what the string of letters meant.
‘Grandfather, don’t you know that even? BA Appeared But Failed.’
At least he had had the sense not to rebuke the boy for his idleness then, provoking some endless argument. Instead, had just asked what the Bombay flight would cost. And had hurried to the bank, enormous though the sum seemed.
But what after all can the boy be doing with all the money Krishnakanta gives him? Running a posh sports car. And there was something the other day about some crash or accident. Something they were quick to hush up before me.
But at least the boy was there in Bombay waiting for me when I came back from— From that place. Where that happened. And he asked me nothing when I said I must return here at once. But he must have seen I was altogether agitated, if only because I had stopped berating.
Oh, if it truly had been somewhat of politics in Bombay. If that had not happened . . .
‘Well, Inspector,’ the Senior Superintendent said, ‘you are later coming than you told.’
‘Yes, sir. There was a gentleman I had to question, and I was having very much trouble finding his place.’
‘But you were making an arrest?’
‘No, sir. No. The gentleman in question was out of India itself until yesterday.’
‘I see. And you believed what this gentleman, whoever he is, was telling you?’
‘Sir, I was examining his passport.’
‘Hm. Well, I am glad to find a Bombay CIDwalla knows his job. Now, despite your setback, you are still wanting to carry on investigations here in Banares?’
‘Yes, sir.’
But the question had not been put with the plain hostility his earlier request for assistance had met. It seemed now, somehow, his determination to stay on in Banares was not as unwelcome as before.
What it is he has got in store for me?
‘Well then, Inspector, let me tell you what I have been able to do by way of providing you full assistance. I cannot, of course, allocate you one of my regular officers. I was telling how much of pressure I am under at this post-monsoon period. Banares is getting up to one million pilgrims per year, you know, and the majority come just now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But there is a former officer in my force who has agreed to help. One Inspector Mishra. A true Banarasi, born and bred. Knowing the city from top to bottom. Its history from the most early times. One mine of information only. He would be just the man for you. I have put him fully in the picture already.’
A sharp ping on the shiny domed bell beside the neat piles of papers on the desk.
‘Send in Inspector Mishra.’
Ghote saw a man in his late fifties dressed in a brightly cheerful pink shirt, with a bold-featured round face, full-lipped and fleshy, his greying hair curling almost riotously down to his neck.
Smiling broadly, he thrust out a hand to shake.
‘Welcome to Banares, city of light, city of temples, the Golden Temple, the Monkey Temple, the Tulsi Manas Temple, the—’
‘Thank you, Inspector, thank you,’ Ghote broke in.
Would this wide-smiling fellow want to take him into each and every one of those?
‘Welcome, welcome.’ Inspector Mishra still pumped enthusiastically the hand he held captive. ‘Welcome to Banares, city of holy ghats from the Asi, where Goddess Durga dropped her sword after she was slaying the demons Shumba and Nishuma, past the Panchgama where there is meeting five holy rivers (four mystical), on to the Varuna, last of the sacred bathing spots.’
‘Thank you,’ Ghote said again, managing at last to slide his hand from the moist grasp.
‘And not forgetting,’ the Banarasi inspector swooshed on, ‘our five burning ghats where we are all hoping to end this life. Yes, welcome to the city of death.’
‘That will do, Mishra,’ the Senior Superintendent put in, not without a certain sharpness.
Outside, Ghote felt it was time to assert himself. He saw now why the Senior Superintendent had been so pleased with the assisting officer he had found for him. Evidently he saw Mishra as conveniently drowning this interloper in an ever-rolling muddy historical-geographical sea.
But history and geography were not what he had come to Banares for.
‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘I have much to do in such time as I am able to be here. Already I have found one good lead exhausted. But, even while you were most kindly welcoming, I had thought of some other lines to take.’
Inspector Mishra’s large and lazy eyes blinked up and down.
‘Yes. Now, first of all, the unknown culprit I am suspecting when he came to Bombay was asking questions in Hindi very much tinged with Bhojpuri. So, one, we are looking for a Bhojpuri speaker.’
Inspector Mishra broke out into a laugh that was, plainly, rather more a giggle.
‘Oh, Inspector,’ he said, ‘we are having, then, a marathon impossible task.’
He did not seem displeased at the prospect.
‘What impossible?’ Ghote snapped out. ‘Inspector, there is not much that cannot be dealt with by plenty of hard work.’
‘But finding one man with a Bhojpuri accent to his Hindi here in Banares,’ Mishra replied, a little sobered, ‘I am thinking that truly would be impossible. Half the inhabitants of the city will speak Bhojpuri. You can hardly arrest each and every one of them.’
Ghote pursed his lips in angry defeat.
‘Very well.’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, Inspector, I am one hundred per cent convinced the key to the murder of Mrs Shoba Popatkar must be found in the visit she made here immediately before her death. She was here, you know, just only for one day. Now, where exactly it was she was going? No clue at present existing.’
‘Hopeless case,’ Mishra said comfortably.
‘No, no. What must be done is to trace so far as we are able every st
ep she was taking in this city of yours.’
‘But— But so many steps she could have taken. To any single one of the ghats, to perhaps her favourite temple of the two thousand, or even to buy some of our many world-famed handicrafts. We are having very good brass idols, you know, depicting almost each and every god. Also silks, shawls, brocades and embroideries. Perhaps she was coming for one of our famous saris, so fine you are able to pull the whole through a small gold ring.’
‘No,’ Ghote snapped, stemming the tide as best he could. ‘Mrs Shoba Popatkar would not have made a twenty-eight hour rail journey just to be buying frivolities. She was not at all such a person. No, we must look altogether elsewhere.’
‘But where?’ Mishra asked, his round face still bearing the hurt look that had come on to it at the word frivolities.
‘At the station, of course,’ Ghote replied. ‘She was starting her stay in Banares there. It is there we must start our following.’
‘The station? The Cantonment Station? But that is not the most pleasant places in Banares for you.’
‘That I am already knowing, Inspector. I had hardly left my train this morning when I was accosted by a so-called panda wanting money to lead me through rituals beside the Ganga, and I was seeing there also very many bad-looking characters, even one very much unsavoury white hippy fellow.’
‘Oh, but it is not for the bad things I am saying Cantonment Station is not pleasant. It is that there you would find nothing of majaa, of fun, and especially nothing of our best Banares gift which is masti.’
‘Masti? What masti?’
‘Oh, hard to explain our Banares masti, Inspector. You must see for yourself. Experience for yourself. Best I can say is deep enjoyment of all that life is offering. Banares is famed for its masti. Even our goondas are undertaking their wicked doings with utmost enjoyment. Our whores also, in Dal Mandi, they are the most tickling in all India. And our paans. Oh, Inspector, not for nothing was the great film star Amitabh singing, The sweet betel-leaf of Banares/Makes me want to set the world aright.’
Doing Wrong (Inspector Ghote) Page 3
