‘No, Inspector?’
‘No, sir.’
For several long seconds H. K. Verma sat brooding.
‘Look, Inspector,’ he said at last. ‘Consider this. Can you truly say ending the life of one person whose continued existence is a threat to the general well-being is different from ending the lives, in a manner equally violent, of six–eight–ten people on the grounds that they are somehow anti-social?’
And now a thick spurt of rage.
‘And you know who is doing that? You policewallas. Yes, you police are doing it, time and again. Any week you can read in the papers Five Die in Police Firing, Ten Die in Police Firing. And what they are calling Lock-up Deaths also, they are so common they get just one small headline. If they receive any mention whatsoever.’
Under this redoubled battering he was beginning to feel like some broken-winged, feathers-torn kite attacked by a mob of noisy, darting crows.
He shook his head.
‘Sir, I will not say that each and every death in the lock-ups has not somewhat of unjustified brutality in it. Or on every occasion Armed Police are using their rifles it is one hundred per cent correct. We in the police are human also. Mistakes are made.’
He heaved his head out of the mass of cawing, pecking attackers. Yes, here was the answer.
‘But, sir, what I will state is that such deaths are never the same as murder. Sir, let me be definite. Such deaths, however wrong, are not the deliberate, self-decided act of one single human being making up his mind to kill another. They are not Indian Penal Code, Section 302, offences. And it is those, sir, that must be tracked down to the last vestige.’
H. K. Verma glared back at him with sullen hostility.
What more was to come?
But abruptly the party leader shrugged his ponderous shoulders. Gleaming white kurta rising and falling like a huge ocean wave.
‘Well, let it be. Let it be.’
The heavily fleshed face set in a mould of chill inflexibility. The orator’s lips, so full only moments before, tightened to a hard line.
16
H. K. Verma sat where he was when at last the Bombay mongoose had taken his departure.
Very well, the little rat had shown no understanding of— Of what had happened. Well then, no way out there. No chance of being given some time. The time needed. To think. To decide.
Then let him do his damnedest while he can. He will find he is up against a man who can still fight. Better also than a jumped-up detective from Bombay-side. A man who knows what to do. Who knows the right way to go about things.
And I am entitled to some freedom. I have earned it. By all I have done and striven for since I became leader of the party, and even before. From all I have done in my life. Who is this Bombay fellow to deprive me of that?
And peace. Suddenly he longed for a stretch of peace. A time of not having to think. Of quiet. Of being without the insistent hammerings from every direction that seemed to be beating down at him.
He felt the need dragging at every inch of his body now, as if to each point of his flesh a sticky tugging line had become attached and all together were pulling, pulling him down. A sucking lassitude that threatened to remove from him even the ability to get up out of his chair. He tried to struggle against it.
Think. I must think. I must think of everything that Bombay fellow said. How much does he know? Is he keeping back some evidence he has got? Is there anywhere I should act to check him? To secure myself that stretch of time?
All right, the fellow has somehow got on to Vikram and the flight to Bombay. Bad enough. But, plainly, Vikram has stuck to the bargain Krishnakanta made. He has kept his mouth shut. And, clearly again, the Bombay mongoose cannot have found any witness that I got into that plane. Or he would have faced me with that.
But he could not have found out anything there at the Flying Club. Vikram was clever. Give him that. The way he taxied the machine to the edge of the field, opened the door on the far side from the clubhouse for me. And when I had pushed away that dog, all I had to do was crouch in my seat, head down, till we were safely in the air. And at the Bombay end the boy was as clever. No, all should be well there, despite the setback.
Plainly, too, this Ghote fellow did not have any news from Bombay. Beyond that, so it seems, they have confirmed Vikram visited some junior film star during the time we were there. Nothing from the airfield there. No new evidence from that damned Bhojpuri speaker.
So that was what the boy was doing while I was away. Seeing that film star. And more than seeing? No behaviour for a grandson of mine . . . But . . . Well, good luck to him. After all, young blood is young blood. A man is needing that from time to time.
Usha.
The thought burst in his mind like a star shell. And with it the burden of lassitude was lifted away. Why should he not go, now even, to Dal Mandi? Find Usha and gain with her at least some peace? She knew how to give him that. None better. Lost in her lively arms.
Ghote, emerging from the house, took automatically the turning leading down towards the Ganges. It was not that he hoped to gain a new access of strength at the ghats. He wanted, simply but passionately, not to have to go anywhere.
He wanted to think.
His mind was full of half-realized impressions. Time. He must have a little time to sort them out. To discard the mere imaginings. To examine the more substantial hints. Search for the hidden meanings, and the half-hidden ones.
He came to a halt just round the corner where a faded, red-painted wall slogan read Please to Vote for Communist Party (Marxist). It was hardly the quiet spot he would have wished for. There seemed to be more people in this holy city even than in Bombay. The narrow lanes to either side were two boiling torrents of humanity, pilgrims of every shade and hue, every garb and headwear under the Indian sun going to the ghats or returning from them, priests, vendors, beggars, shoppers, all-but-naked sadhus, tourists. And everybody talking or shouting out at the tops of their voices. Nor were many of the words he caught what might be expected from people whose ears must be full of the tonk-tonk-tonk of the hanging bells jangled as worshippers entered temples, large and small, and of the singing of holy bhajans emerging from doorway upon doorway or distantly wowing from the loudspeakers down at the river. ‘How much it was?’ ‘I have been three times cheated.’ ‘We must take one of those paans to eat, bed-smashers only.’ ‘You have paid twice too much, you fool.’
What a city.
Something brushed against his legs. He looked quickly down, suspecting a pickpocket. It was a bent-double widow, another one, white sari draped over gaunt limbs, fuzz of grey hair on shaven head, hobbling past with the aid of a staff She must be the hundredth at least he had seen. The patient attenders on death in death-loving Banares. Eking out the barest of existences, until the end came. The last minutes with Ganges water washing over some part of them, then the flames.
But none of that. Think. Think.
What did I learn in that talk? Number One: that I am not up to outfacing a man like H. K. Verma. Well, let that pass. Number Two: that H. K. Verma is at least a very, very worried man. One moment shifting in his chair, the next holding himself rigidly still. Sweat, too, on his face. You could smell sweat on him also, the sweat of earlier hours on his body.
But what exactly was causing him worry? Because he had been that night to Mrs Popatkar’s flat? Or is it, after all, for some altogether lesser reason? Something to do with politics even? It could be that. In the Times of India yesterday there was a lot of comment on how Government had only just now got out of some difficulties. How they might have needed to make concessions to one of the smaller parties to keep their majority but in the end had contrived to placate a faction inside the party itself. They could have wanted the votes H. K. Verma controlled, however few. Have even offered the man himself some post. He had said something, half-said it. It had sounded like When I am Minister . . . Perhaps he had been offered seat in Cabinet, and at the last moment offer had been w
ithdrawn. That would be enough to have made him worried.
Or would it?
And, Number Three: that famous hypothetical case. Was he truly speaking about himself? Sounding me out to see if I would call off investigation? If he was saying he had committed murder but for some good reason, then he might have thought I would listen.
And if he had come out with it fully, would I have given way? To the plea of a good man? Should I have given way?
No. No, murder is murder. Let the judges look at mercy. That is their duty. I have mine. And it is no more than to find who was killing Mrs Shoba—
Wait. Look, there. H. K. Verma himself. At the corner. And seeming in one hell of a hurry.
Is he escaping only? Did what I was saying, what I was refusing to say, make him . . .
But never mind Is he and Did what. After him.
He pushed his way against the stream of people rounding the corner. Yes, there, already some distance away, was the broad back in the white kurta he had just glimpsed. He forged after it. Almost at once a ribby white cow, slewed right across the narrow galli, blocked his way. He squeezed to the side, put a hand on one of its horns, swung round, pressed on. A beggar thrust a dirty hand almost into his face, then up to his own mouth, beseeching.
‘Maaf karo.’
Forgive me. And on. No hope of running. Not in this narrow lane, three abreast at most between the tall, sky-seeking buildings. But at least the bulky shape ahead in dazzlingly clean white could go no faster.
A young man paddling his way along on a bicycle, dabbing at the paving stones, ran over his foot. Looking up in fury, he saw H. K. Verma had succeeded in hailing a cycle rickshaw.
Was he going to lose him?
He flung himself forward, careless now of any damage he might do, squirming and sliding sideways, ducking and weaving.
On a grey-white wall a bright painting of a tiger almost pouncing on a long-horned deer, red mouth ready to sink into soft flesh. Would the tiger he was ever get as near to his prey?
He got within twenty yards. Pointless to call out ‘Halt’ in this bedlam of noise. And H. K. Verma, haggling ended, was clambering heavily on to the rickshaw’s narrow double-seat. At once the rickshaw walla, an old grey-haired veteran, sunken chested but wiry in every limb, set off.
But at no great speed. Hardly possible in the jam of people to go any faster than a sharp walking pace.
Plunge on then.
But soon the old rickshaw walla was contriving to go at a better speed. H. K. Verma, leaning forward, urging him on.
Where was he making for? The Cantonment Station and a train? A train to anywhere. Or was he aiming to get just far enough out of the lanes to pick up a taxi to the airport? But he would hardly get a flight at a moment’s notice. To the Flying Club then. But there he would need his grandson to pilot him. So, to his son’s place, and Vikki Verma’s sports car in the garage there?
Ah. The unmistakable black hood of an autorickshaw. Not much further ahead. H. K. Verma had passed it, evidently not thinking it worth switching to the faster vehicle.
Push forward.
Let no one take it. Please God.
No one had.
Hardly able to speak for shortness of breath, he gasped, ‘Cycle rickshaw. There. Man in white-white kurta. Follow.’
‘Ji haan, sahib.’
The driver, young and shining-eyed, seemed delighted to have been set on a chase. But, jerk his engine from the usual puttering to a frenzied clatter though he might, shout at people blocking him, hoot hoot hoot on his horn, the way in front was still so crowded there was no question yet of overtaking the hard-pedalling, bell-ringing cycle rickshaw walla ahead.
Then, as the lane broke out into a wider road, they began at last to gain ground. But not much, even though, motorized vehicle versus pedalling legs, they were heading sharply uphill now. Far too much traffic for any real progress. Pedestrians walking happily in the roadway. Hawkers at the kerb pushing carts and trays out into the passing stream. A pack of donkeys trotting in the opposite direction and spilling all over the road. Scooters, other autorickshaws, long unwieldy handcarts, horse-drawn ekkas, trucks.
But the road was becoming steeper and steeper. Noisy two-stroke began to gain faster on bare feet straining at pedals.
Now, what to do? Can I arrest him? Arrest H. K. Verma? Hardly. Still no proof he has committed his crime. So just only bring his rickshaw to a halt? Confront him? Escape unexpectedly stopped, will he break down? Blab out something, anything, making it clear what he has done?
Then, crossing straight in front of them, came a long procession of sadhus, naked bodies ash-smeared, striding out, eyes fixed at some point in the far distance, in blank silence. Only an occasional clashing jangle when one of their tridents struck another. And going on for ever.
At last they were out of the way. And, ahead, no sign at all of the broad back in the dazzling white kurta.
‘Where has he gone?’ Ghote shouted. More a cry of despair than a question expecting an answer.
But in his driver the heat of the chase was running hard.
‘He would have turned off, sahib. Not many places to go. We would find.’
He set off again, briskly as the traffic would allow, glancing at every narrow turning.
Ghote did not see their quarry. But the driver did.
‘There. There. Into Dal Mandi itself.’
The frail vehicle swung round, careless of whatever was coming on behind, just scraping an immense sacred bull lying contentedly in the roadway. Beware of whores, bulls . . . Its purply-black sides much scarred by less skilful drivers of car or rickshaw.
Dal Mandi, Ghote thought. The prostitute quarter. So was . . .
They plunged into the new area of tight-packed gallis.
The crowds here were different. Almost half the passers-by were chuklas. Everywhere there were bare arms clinking with heavy bangles, large glinting glass jewels in noses, ears dragged down by showy earrings. Eyes deeply ringed with kohl looked at this autorickshaw passenger speculatively. Lips glaringly red from chewed paans mouthed invitations, insults. Predatory men moved among them, assessing, jostling, spouting out crude jokes.
And, plain to see ahead, there was the cycle rickshaw moving onwards, the broad white back.
It came to a halt beside the ruins of an ancient temple. H. K. Verma got down, looked round once, waddled determinedly towards a house opposite.
Ghote noted the doorway he went in at, paid off his driver – a gratefully generous tip – and settled down to wait.
H. K. Verma, stumbling at last out of the house, told himself that this must be the last time. He was too old, had seen and done too much, had lived his married life, had taken his wife to the burning ghat. It was no longer right to be doing that. Oh, yes, Lord Krishna had had his loving gopis. But he had been then a young man, not married.
And coming to Usha as he had today, coated black in misery, cushioned away at last from all his cares had he in sheer relief talked too much?
What had he said? No, he was too tired, too battered by everything, now to remember it all. Oh, he had told her about Jagmohan Nagpal and the honey jar of high office that had been smashed at his feet. But Usha, for all her crooning sympathy, would have hardly understood. But there had been something else – Was it when I was . . . The second time? – something that had come from the seat of all his troubles.
From that.
But what exactly had he said? Or done there with Usha? Or was it something he had tried to do? Had it been anything definite? Anything too definite? Because that was a part of life she would know about. She would not let anything she had heard about those hours in Bombay glide over her.
So, if . . . If, as was hardly possible in the worst of nightmares . . . If somebody, that Bombay detective, cornered her and asked what he had said, would she be able to pass on anything, something, that would finally betray his secret?
Would she? Would she?
But it was impossible that should
ever happen.
Altogether impossible.
17
Darkness was beginning to descend on the holy city. Ghote was still perched on the ledge where he had been keeping observation on the house H. K. Verma had gone into almost three hours before. He was doing his best to pretend to be listening to a pair of street musicians who had settled just beside him with their battered old harmonium and tasselled drum. Then he saw his man come out.
At once he dropped into a sitting position where he would be concealed by the little crowd watching the entertainers. No point in confronting his man now, when he knew he had not been absconding.
He had had a better idea.
Waiting there, it had been an inescapable life-size wall-drawing opposite that had put the notion into his head. A crude sketch of a man with an aggressive moustache standing upright in the plain act of intercourse with a woman, round-breasted as any stone carving from ancient days. Why not see if the prostitute H. K. Verma had been with for such a long time had learnt anything from him? She might even know something to lead him to the hard evidence he needed.
The old sannyasin’s story of the wicked Mandapa came back to him. How he had hidden from his fellow goondas in the house of a prostitute and, after he had been beaten almost to death, had repented and become as much of a doer of right as he had been a wrongdoer before. H. K. Verma, might he have repented? Be no longer wicked as Mandapa? Be ready, presented with just one more fact telling against him, to confess?
He sat crouched where he was. The raucous singing of the harmonium player still deafening in his ears. At last he calculated H. K. Verma must have turned in the other direction to find a rickshaw to take him home.
Then, not at all liking what he had to do but pushed on by a sense of duty – You are going to Banares, beware of whores – he went slowly along towards the house H. K. Verma had come out of. Mishra’s boast, the first time they had talked, about Banares whores being ‘most tickling in all India’ came back into his mind. What lay ahead?
Doing Wrong (Inspector Ghote) Page 15
