Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘Who? Taufiq?’

  ‘No . . . I mean, as in . . . him . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The little guy?’ Warren murmured, his eyes shying away.

  Nadeem froze. He slowly turned his head towards Warren, as it dawned on him. ‘He called on your phone today afternoon.’

  ‘I know,’ said Warren. ‘I got like a hundred missed calls. Why don’t you just tell him to call on your number? By the way, do you know what happened to my phone? There seems to be a scratch on the corner,’ he said, examining his phone with the keenest precision.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Nadeem mumbled. ‘I think it fell or something.’

  Just then, Warren’s phone lit up, glowing into a silent ring. It vibrated even though it had been put on silent mode. Warren glanced at the number in reflex and looked at Nadeem. ‘What do you wanna do?’ he asked, his mouth open wide and his face evidently stricken by what he had just seen.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who do you think!’ He spoke from the corner of his mouth, holding the screen up for Nadeem to take a good look.

  ‘Oh!’ The number had been stored as ‘IGNORE’ in the contact list, in big, bold capital letters that were tough enough to ignore when they appeared on the screen in the first place. There were barely any contacts in Warren’s phone, as it had recently been purchased at a discounted rate from a sardar who ran a second-hand mobile repair shop on Fifteenth Road, but Nadeem’s phone had been his weary companion through all his sordid years—long enough to list everyone who had had the misfortune of having encountered him. His contact list was practically a black book. It contained the names and numbers of every crooked, thieving, conniving scumbag in the city. So being, the mobile phone had acquired a position of karmic significance—a source of income, as well as a faint cosmic promise to peace of mind. If he received a call from anyone out there in the universe, it meant that he had more than himself to fend for in the passing moment. And just so long as it didn’t ring, what went on outside the enclosure of those four walls didn’t matter, one way or another.

  The Little Guy

  As far as he could remember, Nadeem Chipkali had always been known to keep the wrong kind of company. He was constantly hanging around with the wrong kind of people and making the wrong kind of friends, friends his parents never approved of but who could always spare a quick buck, such as Taufiq Maharaj’s son, Irshaad Ahmed Sheikh, alias Irshaad Batla.

  ‘Batla’ was a name Irshaad particularly resented, as it meant short or small. Most of his adversaries revelled in calling him just that, but over time he had learnt to laugh at it. After all, he had carried that nickname since he was a kid. He had had enough time to get used to it. But, somehow, it was always a matter of considerable uncertainty as to how he would react to being called ‘Batla’. Nadeem was one of those select few who had a long-standing acquaintance with him and had been granted the privilege of referring to him as Irshaad ‘Batla’. Otherwise, Irshaad ‘Bhai’ was the name he generally preferred.

  He had been apprehended once under the charge of half murder. He and his cronies had tailed an A7 that had overtaken them in a rash manner on the Eastern Freeway. They caught up with the car, made the driver pull over, smashed the windscreen, removed the bumper, tore down both the side view mirrors and left the person in the passenger seat with a dislocated collarbone.

  Naturally, he was the kind of person Nadeem’s parents didn’t want him to associate with. Given Irshaad’s family’s involvement in nefarious activities, he had acquired the reputation of being an intimidating presence in affluent society. Although Nadeem had only known him socially before going to work for Taufiq Bhai, he was acquainted with him well enough to engage in real estate brokerage. Apparently, his old man was thinking of moving into the building and construction business, and Nadeem helped facilitate a few transactions of land purchase in the Navi Mumbai region. Having impressed Taufiq Bhai with his resourcefulness, Nadeem was put to work first as a sales manager for property dealings and later in the book keeping department. Invariably, due to his proficiency with the financial side of things, he went to work on their accounts and the loans that they gave to those unfortunate enough to require them. Eventually, his job entailed collecting overdue payments and tracking parties that were absconding. No one ever took a rupee from Taufiq Maharaj and didn’t pay it back, especially as long as Nadeem made sure of it. He could find out where a person ate, slept, walked, hung out and parked his rear end sooner than the person himself knew where he was going. Tracking people was something of a specialty, and when put to use in service of his former employer, always yielded consistent monetary output. Little did he know that one day he would find himself at the receiving end of those strong-arm tactics he himself had once employed to such effect.

  ‘Don’t pick up!’ Nadeem instructed Warren.

  ‘Okay . . . You gonna go on dodging his phone calls forever?’

  ‘I can get a new number,’ he said, rolling up his shirt to scratch his belly like a baboon.

  ‘Maybe you should just keep my phone. Whaddaya say we exchange phones?’

  ‘No thanks. I have no intention of exchanging identities with you of all people. I’d prefer someone loaded, with a house on Marine Drive and a platinum membership at CCI.’

  ‘I’m loaded!’

  ‘Yeah, with lice,’ Nadeem stuck his hand into Warren’s formidable locks and plucked out a handful of hair. Warren pushed his hand away.

  ‘Don’t touch my hair!’

  Nadeem smirked. ‘Like it’s the prime property of Sunsilk or Pantene Pro-V.’ He reached for an unopened Pepsi can from the fridge and plonked himself on the couch, taking his shoes off. He had had a long day. He popped open the can, spilling the froth that fizzed out of it on to the floor. He got up to wipe it with a cloth and took a couple of newspapers out to soak up the soda.

  ‘There’s gonna be ants crawling all over the place by the morning,’ Warren yawned.

  Nadeem took off his shirt and sat back on the couch in his vest, snatching the remote control from Warren and taking a swig from the can. Just as he had settled and was beginning to feel at ease, his phone began to ring. It was Inspector Gaekwad. He sat upright and promptly answered it, with a trace of sycophancy in his voice.

  ‘Hello.

  ‘How on earth did you manage to get yourself into this mess, Chipkali?’ boomed the voice on the other end of the line. ‘We’ve had enough trouble trying to keep you off the radar.’

  ‘I was sent up by my landlord to collect his rent.’

  ‘Apparently, Inspector Nagpal checked your police record and came across my name in your files.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘That’s immaterial. I have my sources. Apparently, the son of a bitch had the audacity to ask if I was a crooked cop.’

  ‘You? Crooked?’ Nadeem giggled. ‘That’s a laugh! I suppose you’re about as straight as a Philips screwdriver.’

  ‘You better get down to the headquarters, pronto. I have a couple of questions I want to ask you.’

  ‘What? Now? It’s 1 a.m.’

  ‘If you hurry to the station, you’ll make it in time for the last local.

  Nadeem slid his shoes back on, put on his T-shirt and threw the can into the dustbin.

  ‘Where you going?’ asked Warren, as Nadeem opened the door.

  ‘Out. Hopefully, I’ll be back before dawn.’

  Downstairs, he asked Kishorie Lal about what he had told the police.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, puzzled. ‘I just told them that you had some guests over the other day. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You said they were hoodlums.’

  ‘Well,’ he winked, ‘weren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know who they were or what they had to do with me. I don’t know anything about them.’

  ‘They came here the day before yesterday, didn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me! I wasn’t here. You’re the
one who keeps track of whoever enters and exits the building.’

  ‘I was lucky enough to get a look at the body,’ he smirked. ‘Judging by the condition, I’d say he had been lying that way for about one or two days, not more! That means the day before yesterday.’

  ‘So?’ Nadeem stuttered. ‘What about it?’

  ‘The day before yesterday is the day those two came here, the day you weren’t here. And the day before that, you were the last one to come back to the building. Around 2:30 a.m., wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Everything that passes through this lobby is my business, Nadeem. It is my duty as an honest, law-abiding citizen to supply the authorities with whatever facts I am aware of. As I told them before, no resident of this building, with the notable exception of yourself, has had any visitors over the last few days, and no one else has been known to be awake at this hour of the night. At least as far as I know, not taking into account the tossings and turnings of our various strained marriages.’

  ‘So, I fit all the characteristics.’

  ‘Of course you do. Unemployed, bachelor, criminal record. You ought to take a look at yourself in the mirror every once in a while, Nadeem, and groom yourself better. The way you present yourself makes a hell of a difference where I come from. I’m telling you for your own good. The way you look to a person is bound to affect the way he talks to you. I bet Inspector Nagpal didn’t talk to you the way he spoke to Mr Machhiwaala, did he? Or for that matter, the way he spoke to me? You know you ought to talk to me every once in a while, I could tell you a couple of things.’

  Nadeem flicked his fingers at the watchman, telling him to shut his trap. He had heard enough. He stormed off towards the gate, which was locked and which Kishorie Lal would have to open for him. He stood there silently, trying to ignore his presence. There wasn’t a soul in sight except the Gypsy parked outside, and they weren’t going to give him a ride. The streets were empty and there wasn’t much likelihood of finding an auto rickshaw anywhere around the building at this hour. Nadeem’s tired eyes wandered all about the compound, as Kishorie Lal fumbled with the keys, searching for the right one. To the left of the gate, behind the watchman’s cabin, along a brick margin, was a column of shrubbery and vegetation that the mali would tend to on a daily basis. Often, the children would clamber through it in pursuit of a lost cricket ball, stamping over half the saplings and ruining his day’s work. The plants were swaying wildly in the escalating night breeze. It was their time to play now. The bushes rattled vigorously, the leaves quivered into their corners and the uneven grass danced in the wind. It was almost as though they were alive, in rebuke to the stillness of the night.

  Nadeem’s gaze lingered on the plants. Suddenly, his eyes froze and his mouth curved downwards in disbelief. His ears perked up, scanning the area around him. He could vaguely perceive a presence lurking about in the vicinity. The crumpling of dry leaves was followed by the shake of a branch. Whatever the night concealed could be found out only by way of instinct. Prowling about the premises at this time was not a wise idea, given the circumstances. So, he paid no further attention to it and turned away from the momentary distraction. But just as Kishorie Lal managed to yank open the front lock, Nadeem’s neck snapped back towards it. He was certain that he heard something rustling within the shrubs.

  ‘What’s that?’ Nadeem whispered, pointing towards the plants.

  ‘What?’ The watchman did a swift about-turn, brandishing his torch almost instantaneously. He shone it into the shrubs, trying in vain to detect a presence in the darkness.

  ‘Probably a cat,’ he said.

  Nadeem continued looking at the plants as he stepped outside the gate. Even after Kishorie Lal had closed and locked it from the inside, Nadeem stuck his chin in through the spokes on top. He couldn’t see much over the gate, despite him standing on his toes. It was at a height of six and a half feet and not easy to scale from the outside. He wondered why they even locked the damn thing. ‘Who would want to rob this building anyway?’ he asked himself, as Kishorie Lal trotted off towards the lobby.

  Nadeem strutted down the empty streets, annoyed and exhausted. He was not in the mood for a trip to town. It was a long way from Malad and he had had enough of police stations for one day.

  He managed to make it just in time for the last Churchgate slow train that was crossing Malad. A couple of bums, beggars and hobos lay along the floor of the second-class compartment. For once, he felt as if he was alone on the train and had it practically to himself. The seats were weathered because of the daily commotion and crowd that inhabited the compartment during the day. An empty local train, he thought, was like a horse carriage with no one to steer it. The wheels kept moving, but for whom and for what no one knew.

  He got off at Mahalakshmi and hopped on to a bus bound for Byculla. It, too, was empty. One stray eunuch sat in one of the front seats, gazing out of the window in a tired stupor. His hair was dishevelled, his make-up smudged. He didn’t even have the energy to clap his hands and ask Nadeem for a tenner. He probably thought Nadeem was broker than he was, by the looks of him.

  Midnight Summons

  The Byculla police station was unusually up and about at so unearthly an hour. It was almost as if it was used to being fully functional in the wee hours. All kinds of lowlifes hung around the railings of the front porches and a drowsy hawaldar was shaking his head in the form of a ‘no’ quite furiously at arbid requests. Nadeem was on a first-name basis with almost all the staff at the police station. After all, he had spent more time there than he had at Little Heights. It was like a second home, an orphanage of sorts for lost souls—a place with room and board free of cost. Inspector Gaekwad’s deputy, Hiren, escorted him into the former’s secluded office on the first floor, next to the interrogation room. A polished nameplate on the left side of the doorway proudly proclaimed: Inspector V.M. Gaekwad, Crime Branch.

  Inspector Gaekwad was wide awake and on the phone. He smiled at Nadeem as he entered, gesturing him to sit down and signalling Hiren to leave. Hiren exited, shutting the door purposefully after asking Nadeem if he wanted tea. Nadeem graciously refused the offer and turned around to face the inspector who, after saying many goodbyes and laughing in falsetto, cut the call he was so strenuously engaged in.

  ‘Alright, Chipkali! What have we got?’

  ‘Homicide by the looks of it.’

  Inspector Gaekwad opened a large brown file on his desk and flipped through the pages. Nadeem eyed it closely before finally mustering up the courage to ask.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Autopsy report.’

  ‘So soon? How did you manage to get your hands on it?’

  ‘It just came in. I had my people go to the morgue and go over the matter personally.’

  ‘Even Nagpal hasn’t gotten the forensic report yet and he is the officer in charge of the case.’

  ‘No case goes by his desk without me laying a finger on it.’

  Inspector Gaekwad licked his fingers as he turned the pages, reading out the report.

  ‘We have got an entire chart of the chemical reports, blood tests, DNA samples and iodine levels. According to Dr Laabru’s preliminary examination, there are signs of chemical imbalance in the bloodstream. The drugs detected in the autopsy were not any of the ones mentioned in the prescription, which till now is their only conclusive lead. Instead, 12 mg of Mandrax and 25 mg of Dexadrine were found in the blood samples.’

  He handed the files over to Nadeem for him to take a good look. After going through the files, Nadeem was astonished at what he took to be a case of criminal negligence.

  ‘It says overdose!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, sir. It didn’t look like an overdose, there were multiple neck wounds!’

  ‘Ah! Flush that old overdose story down the toilet. Forensic scientists! What do they know? For them, looking at a dead body is like sitting on the shit pot with a cu
p of coffee and reading the morning paper. Here’s the medical report.’

  He tossed another set of files, which landed on Nadeem’s side of the table with a thud.

  ‘Cause of death,’ Nadeem read out, ‘Overdose resulting in paralysis and collapse of the central nervous system. Sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ sighed Gaekwad, ‘it is the official statement for the press. We can’t argue with that. It’ll be in the morning papers by day after tomorrow. And if the officer in charge of the case decides to conduct his own investigation and arrive at his own set of conclusions as to how the overdose occurred, it might not be so good for you. After all, you are the only one in the building known to have questionable guests over. It’s right there in the register. Every name, time, phone number, address and detail. They even clock your time of entry and what time you come home at night. If they start to run a check on some of your pals, they’re bound to wind up with something or the other . . .’

  ‘I don’t call my friends over. The only one that’s been to our place is Warren’s cousin brother, Howard.’

  ‘But what about your personal conduct? Once they find out about your underworld connections, it won’t be long before they put two and two together. Mandrax is one of the primary drug-running operations of the Mumbai underworld. They ship it wholesale and sell it to peddlers and smackies off Colaba Causeway and Grant Road, to hookers on Falkland Road, and to beggars, freaks, cripples and ragpickers in Churchgate. The whole city’s infested with addicts—every kind, from the two-rupee variety to the rich kids in SUVs. The Dexedrine he could have easily obtained from any shady chemist or quack in town. If I was in charge of this case, the first thing I would do is to check your apartment for drugs. I would turn the entire place upside down, even plant something if I had to.’

  ‘A man’s record goes a long way, doesn’t it?’

  ‘In this case, it does. A senseless crime. You don’t know how it is for us. We have to answer to superiors who are far less sympathetic to us than we are to you. If I’ve learnt one thing from all my years in the force, it’s this. The mechanics of law and order, especially on a small scale, tend to be governed by convenience. If something looks right, it ought to be. All it takes is a hunch.’