by Vivaan Shah
The building was called Little Heights, and although it wasn’t the kind of place their friends would refer to as fashionable, he felt reasonably secure there. The law had given him a second chance after teaching him what the cool icy breeze of a lock-up felt like. He wished to never experience it again and tried to start afresh from scratch, knowing fully well that his name would be forever engraved in stone in the registers and files stacked away in some sessions court. Nadeem Khatib, aged twenty-seven, no insurance, no former employment, no marital status in hand or in the pipeline. Just him and his balcony, looking far and wide into the Goregaon skyline hovering imposingly over the Western Express Highway, into the hordes of disenchanted flyovers and up the bylines of the BMT subways.
Nadeem Chipkali
Nadeem Khatib, alias Nadeem Sayed Khatib alias Nadeem Sayed alias Nadeem Khabri alias Nadeem Chipkali, was a tipper by trade, a debt collector by profession, a broker by disposition, but a student by practice. He was always eager to learn a thing or two about another person, provided it paid off in the long run. He knew how to size up a stranger before he learnt how to shake hands.
Information was his racket: information of all sorts and in all shapes and sizes, anything that mattered to a party enough for them to purchase it. Although it was his obligation to lend his services in favour of law enforcement, his adeptness at procuring hard facts had brought him to the attention of every thug and lowlife in town. Even the stray dogs that slept in the sewers practically knew him by his first name.
He had been on the payroll of Inspector V.M. Gaekwad of the Byculla police station, ever since he got busted at a nakabandhi off the J.J. flyover with Rs 12 lakh cash in hand. He was nabbed by a constable who shone a torch into his red Honda City and asked him to open the briefcase that lay on the passenger seat. An imported semi-automatic Double Eagle was also found in the glove compartment. He was first taken to Byculla police station and then transferred by the authorities concerned to the Crime Branch where he was attended to by DCP Sumant Rao Kaambli, an officer who was known and famous (or perhaps infamous) all over town for his methods of persuasion.
The money belonged to Nadeem’s former employer, Taufiq Ahmed Sheikh, alias Taufiq Maharaj. Nadeem had been appointed with the painful task of having to collect it for him from a builder in town by the name of Sampath Bhaveri. Nadeem even half considered that the builder might have tipped them off at the police checkpoint, knowing fully well that there was just one route for him to take back from Pydhonie towards the suburbs, which runs over the J.J. flyover, where a nakabandhi is usually set up at night. He did, at first, think it irregular for the cop to shine a torch through his window and demand to have the briefcase opened. ‘Suppose it contained something personal,’ he thought. But he kept his mouth shut and didn’t make a fuss about it. He didn’t want to say anything more than what he had to.
After spilling the beans on Taufiq Ahmed Sheikh, he didn’t have anywhere else to go except inside. So, he served his time, spent two months in Arthur Road Jail until he was fortunate enough to have his flatmate, Warren, pay his bail. They let him off with a warning, which was certainly more agreeable than the five-year stretch for money laundering they were initially threatening him with, prior to his decision to cooperate. The briefcase containing the money was seized and was currently in the custody of the Customs, locked away in some cupboard, probably long forgotten about.
Nadeem had told them the addresses of three of Taufiq Sheikh’s major sites. He had given names too: Irshaad Ahmed Sheikh alias Irshaad ‘Batla’, Naved Sheikh alias Naved ‘Pathla’, Adnan Sheikh alias ‘Lamba’ Adnan, Siraaj Mukadam alias Siraaj ‘Kaalia’, Ehteshaam Siddique alias Ehteshaam ‘Ghapchi’, Ehsaan Khurshid alias Ehsaan ‘Khujli’ and Sufiyan Nathani alias Sufiyan ‘Khapthi’.
Taufiq Ahmed Sheikh—who had been extradited from the country as an undesirable alien—was currently in Abu Dhabi and had made the necessary arrangements to live there for the rest of his days. He was not the object of Nadeem’s apprehensions, at least not in person. The more palpable threat lay amongst the many members of his vast and sprawling family who were situated at different corners of the coastline. One in New Bombay, Vashi; one in Mandwa, Alibaug; one in Rey Road, at the dockyards; two in Sewri, two in Nagpada, three in Antop Hill, Wadala; one in Malwani number three and one in Dongar. They ran dens, matka parlours, small-time book keeping outfits and loan-sharking operations. They bribed the cops, collected hafta from every shop, peddler and hawker in their areas, and were generally considered public enemies by most respectable citizens in the neighbourhood. Scrap metal had been their trade (what was less euphemistically referred to as bhangaar), but they had infiltrated other areas of enterprise as their accumulations swelled. The bhangaar was used as a front for stuffing transport vehicles and sailing vessels, so that other illicit goods concealed within could go undetected. They started small, smuggling everything from electronics to chaandi (silver), then moved up the ladder gradually as they made inroads into the warehousing trade, providing godowns and storage facilities for industrial hardware and equipment, import–export cargo for local merchants, sometimes even contraband such as arms, ammunition, drugs, and uncut gold, which proved to be the most profitable. They knew where Nadeem lived, that he had rented a one-BHK in Malad (West), just off Fire Brigade Road in Jankalyan Nagar 2, where he put up with his friend Warren, a Catholic from St Paul’s Road.
It wasn’t long before their landlord, Feroz Machhiwaala, took note of the disreputable activities his tenants engaged in. Nadeem would return to the flat at odd hours, was never present for society meetings and his association with the aforementioned parties had threatened to tarnish every equation he had attempted to cultivate, even the one that was in danger of crumbling as soon as the front door was opened.
Feroz Machhiwaala kept pressing his finger against the doorbell repeatedly. He had been trying to reach Nadeem since the morning but Nadeem couldn’t be bothered. The thought of having to see his face again was a most bothersome prospect. Many a tranquil afternoon had been disrupted by the intrusive inquisitiveness of the landlord, and Nadeem was only returning the favour to the secretary of the building with the call he had placed earlier.
The peep-peep-tring-tring of the ambushing bells blasted through Nadeem’s skull. After having hung up the intercom, he slapped on a moist, urine-soaked white T-shirt and stumbled out the door, closing it shut behind him. Feroz Machhiwaala stood stubbornly outside his door, breathing in some of the mechanical noises that escaped the flat. His demeanour was rigid yet tolerant even to the most atrocious displays of indiscipline. But he still couldn’t figure out how two able-bodied young men could spend the entire day cooped up inside the house, vegetating. As Nadeem had anticipated, he had been summoned by his landlord to answer a few questions pertaining to his current source of employment.
‘I’m currently working as a real estate broker, Mr Machhiwaala.’
‘Really? Then maybe you could be of service to me by finding a tenant for 201.’
‘I don’t think I can do that, Mr Machhiwaala! My work pertains mainly to acquiring building sites for construction, not for habitation.’
Feroz Machhiwaala glared at him in reproof, gradually turning towards the closed door of his flat. They didn’t want to let him in as yet. It was too early in the day for them to even consider tidying up. The exact time according to the broken-down alarm clock was 3.15 p.m., but in actuality it was half past three. Nadeem had set his clock fifteen minutes early so that he could be two jumps ahead of everyone.
‘What the hell were you doing in there?’ Mr Machhiwaala inquired. ‘I’ve been trying to call you since morning.’
‘I’m sorry, I was sleeping.’
He looked Nadeem over from head to toe in disgust, laughing silently to himself before proceeding with a remark, which he put forth with a backhanded matter-of-factness.
‘I heard that you used to be a debt collector for Taufiq Ahmed Sheikh!’
‘I use
d to be a lot of things,’ Nadeem laughed, evading the intent of the question by trivializing the whole matter with a smiling shake of the head.
‘Not exactly the kind of tenant the rest of the society would approve of,’ said Mr Machhiwaala, raising his eyebrow even higher than was customary.
‘What made you approve of this tenant then?’
‘Well, beggars can’t be choosers. I needed a tenant for 303. It was lying empty for as long as I can remember, ever since Mr Saluja abruptly vacated without any notice.’
‘Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of having his leftover MTR packets, plastic wrappers and toiletries for company.’
‘He always was a particularly messy sort of fellow.’
‘Not an ideal tenant?’
‘Questionable activities, not that it’s any of my business, mind you! But a landlord does have certain responsibilities. Take the esteemed Mr Makhija, for instance. He doesn’t have much time left on his lease, and it would be only appropriate if we started looking for a replacement once those dreadful formalities are taken care of.’
Mr Makhija, the tenant of 502 on the topmost floor, was single. He lived all alone and had the good fortune of occupying a barsati, a terrace flat, which he liked to refer to as a penthouse. It was about as agreeable an accommodation one could possibly come by in a building such as this, and he had acquired it at quite a modest rate, much to the chagrin of Mr Machhiwaala. He, however, was two months overdue on his rent, despite the monthly amount being much to his approval.
According to Mr Machhiwaala, he was a stingy man and scarcely settled his bills at the bania at the end of every month. He had been living with them for nearly a year now, and the other members of the society had wearied of his reclusive nature and tiresome ordeals. He never paid his society dues, had to be reminded five times before he showed up with the rent and was not the kind of person they wanted to have around. He was generally considered undesirable by each member of the society.
‘When do you want to kick him out?’ asked Nadeem.
‘Once his lease expires, which would be by the end of the month. His notice period starts now.’
Nadeem thought about it for a moment, considering the proposition. If he was clearing the flat by the end of the month, that left him with another fifteen days in which to show the flat to potential clients and put the word out in the market that there was a lucrative deal on a barsati in Little Heights, provided they settled on a reasonable commission or brokerage for him.
‘What about Howard’s flat?’ he asked, ‘How much is he making off it?’
‘Those are some merchant navy clients,’ said Mr Machhiwaala disdainfully, ‘Money is not an issue for them. They’re paying twice as much as what you’re paying me!’
‘Well, they’re a family and a two-BHK!’
‘Which reminds me . . . uhh . . .’ Mr Machhiwaala coughed.
‘Yes, our rent! I know.’
‘When can I expect it?’
‘As soon as possible, I’m on it!’ With that, Nadeem did a swift about-turn and began prancing off towards his door.
‘By the way, two guys came by the other day,’ Mr Machhiwaala mentioned, ‘They told Kishorie Lal they were going to 303. They even signed their names in the register.’
‘What’d they look like?’ Nadeem turned around, suddenly interested.
‘According to Kishorie Lal, one was tall and thin, in his mid-forties, the other was short fat, stocky, hair slightly balding, with a handlebar moustache. They were both wearing sunglasses and were dressed in formal office attire. Checked rayon full-sleeved shirts and black synthetic trousers.’
‘Great! Did he say what kind of shoes they wore?’
‘Gucci. Fake.’
‘Old Kishorie Lal has quite an eye for detail!’
‘He doesn’t miss a thing on you either! I get a complete rundown at the end of the month.’
‘How reassuring!’
Mr Machhiwaala winked at Nadeem sympathetically, with the intention of winning him over to his side.
‘Why don’t you go and pay Mr Makhija a visit?’
‘Who? Me?’
‘Yeah. Tell him it has been two months and he still hasn’t paid, and that his lease is closing in. He doesn’t have much time left.’
‘Not like he doesn’t know it.’
‘Yeah, but you could go as a reminder.’
‘Something you can’t do yourself?’
‘I’ve already been five times last week.’
‘What makes you think my telling him will make him budge a square inch?’
‘Maybe you could help him pack his bags.’
‘I’d rather help him do his laundry first.’
‘Oh, come on, Nadeem! You know how to do this kind of thing. You’re a professional. Or at least you used to be.’
Nadeem looked at him for a second longer than he usually liked to. The corner of his left eye twitched in retaliation. It was quite apparent from the momentary hesitation in his squint that he had taken it personally. He resented the inference. He was too young to be called a wash-up. He liked to think that he was still as bright and fast as he was, maybe the brief stint in the cooler had slowed him down a little, but he hadn’t lost any of his bearings. He knew in which direction the wind blew and he had his finger on the barometer ever since he got his head bashed in by a paandu (cop) at the Byculla lock-up. He carried the scar like a medal.
‘Why would I wanna do anything for you, Mr Machhiwaala?’
‘Perhaps it has something to do with the elapsed time period for the payment of your rent.’
‘You mean you could extend it a little if I went and strong-armed Makhija into moving out?’
‘I could consider it.’
Nadeem patted his landlord on the shoulder confidently and thumped his own chest, assuring him that he was the man for the job.
‘What do you want first? The payment or his rear end in the lobby?’
‘For now, just last month’s rent will do. I have a couple of debts of my own to settle. Just go and have a word with him, talk to him a little, see if he listens to reason. If not, then be firm and take necessary measures.’
‘I’m sorry!’ Nadeem laughed. ‘I left my hockey stick in the last flat I vacated.’
Makhija
Nadeem turned upon his heel to return to his flat with a newly acquired sense of purpose. This time, he didn’t care to knock or ring the doorbell as he was certain that his flatmate hadn’t bothered to lock the door from the inside when he had left. As soon as the door creaked open wide enough for him to enter, Warren jumped out of the couch as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.
‘Sorry!’ said Nadeem. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb your afternoon nap.’
‘Ah! It’s okay,’ Warren yawned. ‘You got any Fevikwik? The toilet seat’s busted.’
‘No doing of mine.’
Nadeem walked over to the fridge, which was usually an object of desolation. It never contained anything of any specific household value. No eggs, bread, milk, fruits or even curd, just ice cream and Thums Up. They even had a box of Taj Mahal tea, which was probably as old as the Taj Mahal itself, stashed away in the cabinet over the kitchen platform with a packet of milk powder.
The house was in a shambles. Not the kind of environment a person in Nadeem’s line of work would want to conduct his business proceedings in. If only his clients could see the kind of tinhorn accommodation he shacked up in, they’d probably get a better idea of what kind of person their broker was.
The ringing of the intercom had finally ceased, the cable had come back on, the battery of the alarm clock had probably died, Warren’s mobile phone, which lay on the floor, had been put on silent mode, and for a brief flicker of a moment, there was absolute silence in the living room.
And then the bell rang. Warren didn’t budge from his position in front of the television. He was too engrossed in WrestleMania III to even consider lifting a finger. Nadeem got up to open the door, taking a swig ou
t of a bottle of three-days-old, flat Thums Up. It was the courier guy with Warren’s Vodafone bill. Nadeem signed for it and slammed the door shut.
‘What’s the point of having a cell phone if you’re not going to use it!’ Nadeem hollered at Warren. ‘You don’t even pick up the goddamn phone, man! Every time I try to call you, the only answer I get is from the lady who says, “The number you are trying to call is not responding.” If you were to count the number of missed calls that you’ve accumulated, you could build a house with them.’
‘Look, man, stop nagging. You’re not my mom.’
‘Sometimes, I wish I was.’
Nadeem sat down on the beanbag next to the couch in front of the television. He flipped the channels past the NBA game on ESPN, went through several spiritual leaders on DD Astha and Mahua, a rerun of an old Centurions episode on Cartoon Network (which was to be followed by Swat Cats at 3.30 p.m.) and Power Rangers on HBO (which he had seen thrice), before settling on a car racing programme which seemed mildly interesting.
‘Warren!’ he called out to Warren who had practically dosed off.
‘Warren!’ he yelled louder.
‘What?’ Warren awoke with a scowl.
‘Did two guys come by the other day?’
‘What two guys?’
‘One short and fat, the other tall and thin!’
‘Laurel and Hardy, sure. They come by every Wednesday at 8 p.m.,’ said Warren, pointing to the tube.
‘Apparently, they signed their names in the register.’
‘If they came looking for you, they probably signed fake names.’
Warren had a point.
‘Were you around when they came by?’
