Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘The educated youth,’ Tejaswini correctively added.

  ‘Yup. The educated youth! At least the illiterate are well-behaved. But these bastards with cars and contacts! Send him in later. I want to have a word with the son of a bitch. What’s his name?’

  ‘Nicky,’ she replied.

  ‘Vicky named his son Nicky! How innovative!’

  Tejaswini exited the cabin, delicately closing the door shut, fully aware of the sensitive nature of the conversation that was about to take place. Inspector Nagpal turned his attention back towards Nadeem, as he reclined in his swivel chair and made himself at home.

  ‘State your name and age.’

  ‘Nadeem Khatib. Twenty-seven years.’

  The duty officer wrote all this down. Just then, Inspector Nagpal’s subordinate, Dilip, flung the door open and entered with an urgency that seemed almost routine yet vaguely ominous.

  ‘We found out about that car, sir. There’s no insurance, no registration. It’s a Maharasthra number plate. We’ll have to file a separate case, unregistered vehicle.’

  ‘Tell them to get the car here,’ Inspector Nagpal coughed. ‘I want to see it first.’

  He turned back to Nadeem with a piercing stare. There was something about him that Inspector Nagpal didn’t like, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was the way his face was put together, his hairstyle or just the colour of his shirt. Nadeem often had that effect on people.

  ‘What’s your line of work?’ he asked Nadeem.

  ‘Property dealer, real estate consultant.’

  ‘I’ve known your kind, Khatib. You change colours and occupations at the drop of a hat. What were you doing in Makhija’s house?’

  ‘Well, sir, as Mr Feroz Machhiwaala pointed out, he had sent me to collect Mr Makhija’s rent.’

  ‘Forget about that Machhiwaala. For all I know, he could have sent you there to collect fish. What were you doing there?’

  ‘As I said . . .’

  ‘Listen, Khatib, we know why you were sent there. What we want to know is what you were doing there?’

  ‘Nothing, just looking for him.’

  ‘And you found him in the toilet.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘You have any witnesses?’

  ‘Mr Machhiwaala . . .’

  ‘Forget about that fishmonger. I’m talking cold hard facts, eye balls, evidence. Did anyone see you enter and exit Makhija’s flat?’

  ‘No. As I said, it’s on the top floor. No one else lives there except Mr Makhija.’

  ‘Save that Mr Makhija nonsense for the judge. You can call him Makhija in my presence. By the way, what was his first name?’

  ‘Chintan, I think.’

  ‘Chintan Makhija. Sounds like an upstanding citizen. I bet he’s got his name plastered on every Lions and Rotary club west of the Goregaon post office. Did he have any friends?’

  ‘None that I know of, sir. He lived alone and there’s no one else on the fifth floor except for him.’

  ‘What about the other flat? Is it empty?’

  ‘It belongs to one Naresh Raheja.’

  ‘Break the next door flat open and check the place,’ Inspector Nagpal ordered his subordinate. ‘I don’t care which Raheja owns it.’

  Nadeem thought that if this was the way they handled homicide cases, then the living had it worse than the dead. Inspector Praveen Nagpal seemed sharp and capable though, with a patience that seemed only to be a pretext for what was to follow. Nadeem, however, seemed curious about who his superior was, when he would land up and how he would behave in front of him whether he’d still have his feet up on the table in his presence, or up his ass with a feather duster.

  ‘Also,’ the inspector barked. ‘Show the house key to every locksmith in the area and check if anyone had asked for a spare to be made.’

  He turned back to Nadeem.

  ‘You said the door was unlocked when you reached there?’

  ‘Yes, the main door as well as the bathroom door, and the tap was still on.’

  ‘Sir,’ Dilip interrupted. ‘We just found out that he was last seen at the neighbourhood hardware store, Shelu . . .’

  ‘Shaalu,’ Nadeem corrected.

  ‘Shaalu. We have the receipt,’ Dilip continued, handing the bill to the inspector. ‘We spoke to the owner of the store. He said Makhija had last visited them the week before last, had purchased a 4x4 sheet of sandpaper, a roll of masking tape and aluminium foil, a box of rubber bands, a plyer, a screwdriver, a pair of tongs, a grinder and a four-foot-long strip of jute rope.’

  ‘What the hell was he trying to do,’ asked Inspector Nagpal. ‘Tie himself up?’

  ‘I know that Shaalu,’ said Nadeem. ‘He must have tried to peddle everything under the sun to him.’

  Dilip opened the watchman’s register and read from it.

  ‘Apparently,’ he stated, ‘two men came by the day before yesterday to pay you a visit. You forgot to mention that.’

  ‘I didn’t think it had anything to do with this case. That’s my business. It’s private.’

  ‘Nothing’s private here,’ Inspector Nagpal reminded him. ‘What’s your business is our business. Who were these two men?’

  Nadeem didn’t answer. He had the right to remain silent. He couldn’t dream of an advocate and he hoped he wouldn’t need one.

  ‘According to the watchman,’ said Dilip. ‘They looked like goons.’

  ‘And according to the building secretary,’ added Inspector Nagpal, ‘you seem to have had quite a bee in your bonnet regarding this Makhija character. She said you called her up two hours before the body was discovered to lodge a complaint.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with any of this,’ Nadeem protested. ‘That was before I found him.’

  ‘And next thing you know, the guy winds up dead,’ Dilip smirked.

  ‘One hell of a coincidence,’ Inspector Nagpal said.

  The door burst open again and, this time, Nagpal’s deputy Srikant charged into the room with far greater an urgency than Dilip had displayed. He looked wound up, his whole face was flushed with an approaching anxiety. He leapt across the room to Inspector Nagpal’s desk and leaned over to whisper into his ear. Inspector Nagpal immediately shot up and told Nadeem to step outside the office. Srikant informed Nadeem that Warren was outside in the waiting room. Nadeem wondered why they had brought him along, as the duty officer escorted him out of the office towards the waiting room. He hoped Warren wasn’t in any trouble and looked back towards the inspector’s cabin where his two deputies were huddled around his desk. The three men were looking evidently secretive, as if something had hit the fan. The duty officer pulled Nadeem away from there and, yanking his arm tighter than he would have liked, dragged him all the way to the waiting room where he left him with Warren.

  ‘What’s the big idea?’ Warren gasped. ‘Sending up a bunch of paandus to summon me to check Makhija’s car. I had to open up the entire bonnet and inspect the axle. I usually don’t like to get my hands dirty unless I get paid for it.’

  ‘They were only doing their duty,’ murmured Nadeem.

  ‘And what makes you think I wanted to be a part of it?’

  ‘You ought to do your bit for society every once in a while.’

  ‘I pay my dues and keep my nose clean. I wasn’t sent to planet Earth to make the police force’s job easier for them.’

  ‘Sometimes, I’m not sure what planet you were sent to. A couple more hours in front of that television screen and they’ll be hauling your carcass down the stairs.’

  Warren looked around trying to make sense of the ongoing activity.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ Nadeem asked, nudging him. ‘Why did they bring you?’

  Warren hunched down low and whispered. ‘Kishorie Lal told them that some guys had come to the flat while you were away and that I was upstairs in the building when they had come. Although I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of this, they still had to call me d
own for questioning about this. Apparently, they are the only unidentified visitors in the register for the last two or three days.’

  ‘Tell them you were sleeping when they came and that you didn’t answer the door.’

  ‘What happened to Makhija?’ asked Warren, visibly agitated.

  ‘That’s what they’re trying to figure out,’ said Nadeem, looking down at the floor.

  ‘You don’t think those two guys who came to pay us a visit the other day could have had anything to do with it?’ Warren asked, breaking into a sweat.

  ‘I doubt it, considering they had more pressing matters on their mind. If they wanted to make an example, they could have picked our neighbours and they wouldn’t have had to go all the way to the fifth floor. But . . . on the other hand, supposing they picked the easiest option. Taking care of a single middle-aged man wouldn’t make too much of a noise and it would make their point considerably clear.’

  ‘Well, I guess you’d have to call Taufiq Maharaj to figure that one out, but I still have my doubts. Even bhaigiri has it scruples. They don’t randomly harass strangers who mind their own business.’

  Nadeem leaned back and looked out the window.

  ‘By the way,’ said Warren, summoning his attention. ‘He wasn’t single. He may have lived alone, but he was a married man.’

  Nadeem turned towards Warren and sat upright.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘While I was downstairs checking the radiator,’ mumbled Warren, ‘a lady showed up.’

  ‘What lady?’

  ‘Name of Rohini Makhija. Considerably younger than he was, all dolled up like she was out shopping, and not in the least bit perturbed about her husband’s death.’

  ‘When did she turn up?’

  ‘Half an hour after you guys left the building compound. She wasn’t dressed appropriately for mourning, I can assure you. Not that I’m a great judge of character, but her blank face hinted that she didn’t give a damn, one way or another.’

  ‘Were they divorced? Separated?’

  ‘How should I know? All I know is that no one’s ever seen her visit this building, Machhiwaala included. In fact, he said that Makhija had lied to him about his marital status.’

  ‘Are the cops bringing her here?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain they are. They kept bowing and scraping in front of her as if she were the crown jewels. They didn’t question her, just showed her around the flat, and she felt free to pick up anything that caught her fancy, claiming it belonged to her.’

  ‘Did Machhiwaala question her?’

  ‘On the contrary, she questioned him. She wanted to know all the sordid details. He kept offering his condolences and saying he was sorry, but she didn’t look sorry. She just looked bored.’

  Nadeem got up and went to one of the hawaldars standing in a corner next to the head constable’s desk. He first requested the hawaldar to tell him what was going on, but the hawaldar just ignored him. He barely looked at him and didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Nadeem then politely asked if he could be permitted to leave, but he was simply told to sit down and wait for Sub-Inspector Dilip, who would be with them shortly. Nadeem’s patience was wearing thin. He did not want to spend the next two hours waiting. It was only a matter of minutes before he started making a fuss. He yelled and hollered at the head constable, said he had contacts in the department that could strip off all their uniforms in a heartbeat. He claimed to be personally acquainted with the Additional Commissioner of Andheri police station. Finally, Dilip came out of Inspector Nagpal’s office to silence him. He told Nadeem that if he continued his bellyaching, he would spend the night in remand. But Nadeem was adamant. Eventually, it came to a point where he had to be physically restrained by two constables.

  When Warren was called in for questioning, the two constables took Nadeem back to his seat, trying to calm him down. After a couple of deep breaths and reconsideration, Nadeem realized that it was best to just toe the line and wait for however long he had to. He didn’t want to dig himself any deeper into the hole he seemed to have got himself into. He asked the constables if they could escort him out for a cigarette, which they refused. He pleaded with them, begged even, but they had orders to keep an eye on him and not to let him leave the confines of the waiting room until further notice.

  As the chaiwaala came by on his rounds, Nadeem summoned him with a whistle. He trotted up to him grumpily, yet dutifully. He didn’t like being whistled at, especially by people who were there not by choice, and he made his dislike quite apparent. He raised his eyebrow at Nadeem, asking him what he wanted.

  ‘Make it one cup!’ He grumbled. ‘Actually . . . no, wait. Make it two.’

  ‘That’ll be ten bucks.’

  Nadeem looked towards the hawaldars assigned to him and asked if this was their idea of a joke.

  ‘What kind of police station makes you pay for tea?’ he scoffed.

  ‘This one does,’ said the chaiwaala under his breath. ‘Do you want it or not? I don’t have all day.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks!’ Nadeem snickered, ‘Cheapskate!’

  ‘Keep quiet!’ The hawaldar barked at him.

  Just as the chaiwaala was about to walk away, he called him back and told him to pour him a cup.

  ‘How many? One or two?’

  ‘Make it one,’ said Nadeem, handing him a five-rupee coin.

  The Widow in White

  As the chaiwaala walked off, offering the others tea, making a sound under his teeth, he nearly collided with Senior Inspector Chetan Raane who charged in from the main entrance. A convoy of senior constables followed him, escorting a rather timid-looking lady. Nadeem glanced at her, as did everyone else in the waiting room. She pretty much fit the description Warren had given him earlier of Makhija’s wife.

  She sported a white salwar, had a yellow dupatta draped around her shoulders, a gaudy purple bindi plastered on her forehead, a silver chain around her neck—which she wore like a dog collar—and enough grief in her carriage to let the world know that she had just walked out of a Fabindia sale. Each move she made sounded like a wind chime. Every time she swept the hair off the side of her forehead, her bangles, earrings and other paraphernalia would jingle. She had a pair of dark glasses on, so it was difficult to tell whether or not she had spent the last two hours crying. But there was something about the delicacy with which the police treated her, which hinted that she had displayed some emotion in one form or the other. She seemed stoic, however, with a resolute grimace that ran across her tightened jaw. The constables asked her to sit outside the inspector’s cabin, as Senior Inspector Raane entered, shutting the door behind him. A female constable sat beside her.

  Nadeem kept a firm eye pointed in the direction of the door. In a couple of seconds, it opened and Warren came out. Srikant then asked the woman to come inside.

  ‘What did they ask you?’ Nadeem asked Warren frantically as he sat down next to him.

  ‘Nothing. Just a couple of questions about Makhija, and also about you.’

  ‘What did they say about me?’

  ‘They asked if you associated with any questionable characters. I, of course, said no . . .’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘Also, if you had any personal quarrel with Makhija. They asked why you had called up the secretary to complain about him. Was it about the water? Apparently, the tap had been left on at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘This is ridiculous . . .’

  ‘Again, I said that I didn’t know anything about that, and that we’ve never really had any water problems except day before yesterday . . . but I don’t know, man . . . this sucks! The last thing I wanted was to get myself mixed up in a murder investigation. Today, out of all days, when Mortal Kombat: Annihilation is coming on Star Movies at 9 o’clock.’

  ‘Well, we’re gonna miss it.’

  ‘They should be out there questioning the watchman and that stupid landlord of ours! What the heck have they brought us here
for?’ Warren shook his head in bewilderment, adjusting his spectacles. ‘That Nagpal’s got something on his mind,’ he whispered, ‘I don’t know what it is.’

  Now, Nadeem was really tense. He was hoping that he wouldn’t be counted as a suspect, given the circumstantial nature of the case. He thought that his being the person who discovered the body was enough of an alibi in his favour, but despite that he could be certain of absolutely nothing. He felt that Inspector Nagpal was conducting his investigation in the most unorthodox manner imaginable and was presenting and evaluating the facts with the least objectivity possible. To accuse the very person who brought the incident to light went beyond common sense. It went beyond stupidity. Just because he didn’t like Nadeem wasn’t enough of a reason for him to hang the case on him.

  Ever since he was a kid, Nadeem Khatib would constantly be beaten up for things he didn’t do—being punished for crimes he didn’t commit and paying prices that were far beyond his means. But this was different, this meant getting mixed up in something that smelt of twenty years to life. He didn’t like the look of this and he didn’t like the direction in which the investigation was headed either. He thought it would be better if he got a whiff of the conversation taking place inside. He asked the hawaldars seated on either side if he could shift to the chair near the inspector’s cabin, the one Rohini Makhija had just vacated. They saw no reason to refuse his request. He settled himself on the chair right outside the closed door. He could faintly hear what was going on inside. He first leaned his head against the wall, pretending that he was trying to get some shut-eye, and then discreetly, when no one was watching, turned his head sideways to stick his ear to the door. He could hear bits of what was being said. He closed his eyes as he listened. No one noticed that he had put his ear to the glass and was eavesdropping. They thought he had dozed off.

  ‘How long have you known Chintan Makhija?’ Senior Inspector Raane asked Mrs Makhija who was seated on the opposite end of Nagpal’s desk.