Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘The fifth possibility seems to be the most likely one. I think the drugs detected in Makhija’s bloodstream are incidental. He was brutally murdered. His neck was mutilated. I saw it with my own two eyes. I’m not stupid. I know what a murder looks like. I have a bad feeling that the two people who came by the other day to pay us a visit went to the wrong flat.’

  ‘You think that maybe we should come clean about the two men to Inspector Nagpal?’ suggested Warren. ‘Tell him what that was all about, who they were and why they came here. I’m sure he would understand, after all, you can tell him that it was you that they were after, and that technically even your life is at risk.’

  ‘I’d be putting my life even further at risk if I told Inspector Nagpal anything about it.’

  ‘I don’t know, Nadeem. Maybe they’re right. People often do funny things to themselves when they’re on medication.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Warren. If he wanted to knock himself off, he would have picked a more painless way to go about it.’

  ‘Well, man. I suppose you better go down and have a word with his psychiatrist to figure out what kind of dose he was on. I had a friend whose uncle was manic-depressive and heavily into these hyper anxiety pills. Every time he would run out of them, he would go off his rocker. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house, so he jumped off the balcony.’

  ‘Did he land on his feet?’

  ‘I wish!’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it, man,’ sighed Nadeem. ‘It’s a funny world. Anything is possible. I had an uncle who was paraplegic. They put him on all kinds of painkillers. He used to act funny. He would insist on walking his dog in the evenings, even though he was on a wheelchair. One day, I was out buying groceries at Sakari Bhandar when nearby, on the pavement, I saw him trying to walk the dog. I could see that he was having some difficulty, so I went up to help him, when all of a sudden, the Pomeranian saw a female German shepherd and got excited and charged towards it. My uncle cried out for help as he was going out of control and tried to let go of the leash, only to realize that it was tied to the wheelchair. He was dragged across the road by the Pomeranian and got hit by an SUV. He’s still in the ICU in critical condition.’

  ‘I think you better go visit the psychiatrist,’ said Warren. ‘You need it!’

  Nadeem decided to go and pay a visit to Dr G.D. Vengsarkar to see what he could find out. He got down from the building and caught the number 241, which was headed to Dadar, from the nearby bus stop.

  He got off in Matunga and walked from there. Dr Vengsarkar’s clinic was a discreet, rundown little place in Dadar. A hard-headed receptionist sat behind the desk and asked Nadeem if he had an appointment. Nadeem told him that he was just there to look around. He glanced at the magazine rack next to the sofa in the waiting room. Dr Vengsarkar’s degree and practising licence hung on the wall in a glass frame. While Nadeem was examining it, the door to the psychiatrist’s office opened and an elderly man walked out. He avoided eye contact with Nadeem and was presumably ashamed at being seen at the clinic. Dr Vengsarkar stepped out with him and halted on noticing Nadeem.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked courteously.

  ‘I was friends with Mr Chintan Makhija.’

  Dr Vengsarkar looked at the receptionist and then asked Nadeem to step inside his office.

  Nadeem took a seat on the opposite side of his desk. There were drawings and posters all over the room. A bookshelf in one corner was filled from top to bottom with an array of books ranging from the abnormal to the subnormal realms of human behaviour.

  ‘Paranormal psychopathology! The psychopathic neurosis of the subnormal strata! You’ve got an interesting library out here, if I may say so,’ said Nadeem, browsing through the bookshelf.

  ‘These books are my only escape,’ said Dr Vengsarkar, dropping himself on his swivel chair. ‘They give the illusion of space. That is why I surround myself with them.’

  He wheeled himself a foot and a half back to shut a rust-coloured steel cupboard that stood beside a teak-wood cabinet of drawers. All kinds of documents were spilling out of the cupboard. After arranging all the files in their allotted compartments, the doctor closed it shut with a clang and pulled up the handle to adjust the lock in place. Checking once more, just to be doubly sure, he turned back towards Nadeem who was still busily going over the contents of the bookshelf from his chair. On noticing that he had the doctor’s undivided attention, Nadeem leaned forward to face him, hesitantly abandoning the bookshelf.

  ‘This where you conduct your proceedings?’ he asked, glancing about the room.

  ‘I barely step out of this room,’ the doctor told him.

  ‘I see . . .’

  ‘I am prone to the terrors of confinement. A chronic case of claustrophobia. But . . . little by little, one learns to cope with their surroundings. As you can see . . . uh . . . comfort is never a factor taken into account in my profession.’

  ‘Nor mine, doctor.’

  ‘I take it that you are some kind of a private investigator.’

  He handed Dr Vengsarkar his card, a routine exercise in his daily line of duty, but here it seemed almost out of place. It was a neat little synthetic cardboard cut-out he had printed himself. A floral design was embedded along the margins of the red and yellow lettering hewn in fantastic obligation.

  ‘Nadeem Sayed Khatib, Realty and Property Consultant,’ Dr Vengsarkar read from it.

  It was crisp and to the point, with nothing declamatory about it, just like the gash on top of Nadeem’s left eyebrow which hadn’t as yet healed. It was just that prominent enough to be assertive, yet it never announced itself. Nadeem always felt that you could tell a lot about a man’s practice by the look of the card he handed out. He had dozens of them lying around all over the place. If he reached for his pant pocket, he would probably fish out a cartload. He could afford to lose one.

  ‘I was Mr Makhija’s broker,’ Nadeem informed him. ‘More of a confidant, really. A sort of helping hand . . . I was supposed to help him pack his things and find a place to move to.’

  ‘You said you were a friend.’

  ‘If a person like Chintan Makhija could be said to have any friends.’

  ‘Then I take it that you were intimately acquainted with him?’

  ‘About as intimately acquainted as a person like Makhija would allow himself to be with another individual. Did he tell you about his marriage?’

  ‘He did mention it occasionally, from time to time.’

  ‘Was he undergoing any form of stress?’

  ‘Well, he was a relatively new patient! He had started his treatment a year ago for what he claimed was a routine case of nervous exhaustion. He said he was suffering from stress due to the excessive workload at his office, but I could sense something simmering beneath that blank expression he wore to such effect. My eyes are trained to penetrate even the most rigid surfaces. I could even tell you a couple of things about yourself!’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. I appreciate it, but perhaps right now you’d better tell me a couple of things about your patient.’

  ‘I had put him on some mild anti-anxiety medication. After a couple of months or so of medication, his condition started to deteriorate, so I had to increase his dose. It took a while before I got him to open up about what truly ailed him.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘About a month or so back. He had abruptly ceased his counselling and was absent for most of his appointments. In the last couple of sessions, though, he neglected to discuss his personal difficulties and seemed inquisitive about one of my other clients who suffered from a similar condition. He insisted on taking a look at some of his files out of idle curiosity, or perhaps, I suppose, to be sure of my credentials and working methods. I, of course, refused and told him it was out of the question, that I’d be putting myself into a great deal of legal trouble if I did so.’

  ‘If I may ask . . . are you a practising psychiatrist?’ asked Nadeem,
nonchalantly.

  ‘Well, I have my degree,’ Dr Vengsarkar said, pointing towards the wall. ‘As you can see, I have spent the last fifteen or more years with the Nandlal Pramod Functionality Centre. Counselling isn’t exactly my area of expertise. My field is more inclined towards cognitive disabilities and emotionally debilitating disorders.’

  ‘Have you been a practising clinical psychiatrist in the past?’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m a practising clinical psychiatrist now. I have my licence.’

  ‘I’m afraid this licence only applies to the Nandlal Pramod Functionality Centre, as you call it. It only applies to the patients of the institution.’

  ‘It’s not an institution. It’s a reform centre.’

  ‘In which case, you have no medical background in the field of clinical psychiatry?’

  ‘I . . . well have been practising here for the last couple of . . .’

  ‘In which case, you are not authorized to prescribe any sort of medication to any of your patients! You can only offer them your infinite wisdom and hope to enlighten them with counselling, or advice in this case.’

  Dr Vengsarkar was growing increasingly alarmed at Nadeem’s insinuations, and as he took out his folded handkerchief from his chest pocket to wipe the sweat off his forehead, he practically broke down.

  ‘Look,’ he pleaded. ‘He couldn’t sleep for months! I had to do something for him!’

  ‘Don’t worry, doc. You are not on trial here. You don’t have to start getting all melodramatic about it. I would prefer it if you remained strictly clinical. That’s the way I like to operate. I haven’t seen any of your victims alive enough to make a comment, but I’m sure you function fine that way.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I must confess that the nature of this case baffles me. No clues, no fingerprints, nothing to go on except the coroner’s report.’

  ‘There’s nothing unusual about what happened. Mr Makhija was just a difficult person and exhibited all the symptoms of the terminally troubled. What happened to him was bound to happen sooner or later. I couldn’t figure what it was that truly ailed him, and it’s not my job too either. My job is to provide help, not an answer. For all you know, he may have used my services for ulterior purposes, such as to procure pharmaceutical drugs to ease the pain.’

  ‘What pain?’

  Dr Vengsarkar leaned back in his chair, involuntarily swivelling around until it came to a halt. He looked at Nadeem with a wry chuckle and answered, ‘The pain of existence. You see, when a person’s moral compass collapses, there is no turning back from the point of no return. He had committed a crime, stolen money, embezzled, lied to his wife and purchased a stolen automobile for half its market rate. After a point, there’s not much help I can provide to lighten the burden of that on one’s soul. Thereby, it’s only logical that he took his own life, given the odd behaviour he had been exhibiting over the past month.’

  ‘Or so it may seem, doctor. To enhance our effectiveness, we must take into account the unseen—the inadmissible: the certain degrees of temperament which do not lie within the realm of human behaviour!’

  ‘In order to do that you would be asking me to refer to something that I have kept under a strict oath of confidentiality.’

  ‘Confidentiality to what? A piece of paper on an office wall?’

  ‘Look, I have already had a word with the police. I have told them everything they needed to know about him. My job is thoroughly thankless, as I presume yours is, which is why you are here with a psychiatrist who spends his whole life trying to solve the misery of others. I do all the dirty work while the others sit back and send the kids to school! It is only those that ride the bus that learn to live happily. Not the bus conductor.’

  Nadeem didn’t understand his double talk. He looked around the office trying to make sense of the doctor.

  ‘Are you?’ he asked Nadeem.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know, doc. It’s really difficult to say.’

  ‘Isn’t that what sets us apart from them then?’

  ‘From whom?’ asked Nadeem, getting progressively more puzzled.

  ‘From the happy!’ replied Dr Vengsarkar. ‘The ones who sit in the bus and enjoy the leg space! But who repairs the bus when things go wrong? Who changes the wheels when the bus has a flat tyre.’

  ‘When was the last time he visited you?’

  ‘I’ll have to check in the files. You can come visit me tomorrow any time. By then, I will have all the details of Mr Makhija’s previous visit for you.’

  Nadeem could sense that Dr Vengsarkar was trying to brush him off.

  ‘At the moment, I am afraid you are going to have to excuse me. I’m extremely busy. I’m sure you can understand,’ he said to Nadeem.

  ‘What did the police ask you?’

  ‘I’m not privileged to lend out that information to you, sir. I run an honest man’s business. I help people with their problems, and we try and keep things nice and quiet so no one finds out. Least of all the police.’

  Dr Vengsarkar was sweating profusely, even though the AC was on full blast.

  ‘Please excuse me. I cannot help you. I’m extremely sorry.’

  He suddenly got up from his chair, showing Nadeem the way out.

  ‘I come to you for help to try and understand one of your patients and you show me the door,’ said Nadeem, dead serious, like he really meant it.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you are going to have to leave. I have an appointment for 4 p.m. and my patient must be waiting outside.’

  ‘Doc,’ Nadeem whispered, ‘I need Makhija’s files. Only if I find out what was bothering him will I be able to make some sense of what happened to him.’

  ‘It is my life’s most important and meaningful principle to maintain complete confidentiality in whatever my clients tell me. I can’t say a word to anyone!’ said Dr Vengsarkar animatedly, as he opened the door.

  ‘You’re going to regret this, doctor,’ said Nadeem, as he stepped out.

  ‘Thank you! Goodbye!’

  Dr Vengsarkar closed the door and locked it from the inside. Nadeem turned his head away in disappointment, stepping into the waiting room. The receptionist still sat in the same position, his face buried in a Marathi newspaper, trying to solve the crossword puzzle on the back pages. Nadeem tried smiling at him in an attempt to make some kind of contact and interact with him on a human level, but it was of no use. He tried to get him to open up with a couple of friendly questions, but the only replies he got were monosyllabic. He finally turned to exit the clinic with a defeated smile. Just as he waved goodbye to the receptionist, he noticed a man seated on the sofa. He was covered by a newspaper and did not look like he was reading it, but instead, using it to conceal his identity. He glanced up by mistake, or perhaps out of curiosity to take a quick look at who had come out, when he noticed Nadeem. He threw the newspaper to the side and got up.

  ‘Nadeem!’

  Nadeem stopped dead in his tracks as he registered the face behind the newspaper. It was Irshaad Batla.

  Irshaad Batla

  Irshaad literally jumped at Nadeem and grabbed him, hugging him in a brotherly embrace. He rejoiced at the sight of his old friend and made a big display of his affection. Two of his cronies who had been waiting outside entered the clinic on hearing their boss’s loud voice. They too recognized Nadeem, but did not say a word.

  ‘How are you doing, buddy?’ Irshaad yelled.

  ‘I’m good, man!’ Nadeem replied.

  ‘How’ve you been, brother?’

  ‘I’ve been okay, brother.’

  Nadeem looked at Irshaad’s cronies, who looked back. Nadeem looked away as soon as they made eye contact. The receptionist was intrigued by the familiarity with which Irshaad Batla had greeted Nadeem.

  ‘Where you been, man?’ Irshaad asked Nadeem. ‘I have been trying to call you since God knows how long. You don’t pick up your phone!’

 
; ‘I was waiting to get in touch with you once the heat blew over. My phone was tapped. I didn’t want to get you into any trouble.’

  Irshaad burst into uproarious laughter. He nearly choked as he bent down trying to control himself.

  ‘Me? Into trouble? You would never do a thing like that, would you, Nadeem?’

  ‘No, Irshaad. I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course, you wouldn’t.’

  There was an excruciatingly long pause. Irshaad signalled to one of his cronies to check the area outside.

  ‘So,’ Irshaad broke the silence, ‘you came here alone?’

  ‘Yes, all by myself.’

  ‘What brings you here? You all right? Anything troubling you? You know if you ever need anyone to talk to about anything, I’m always there for you. Feel free to call up anytime if you need to talk.’

  ‘Of course, Irshaad.’

  ‘You know you’ve always been like a brother. You’re like a little brother to me.’

  ‘Of course, Irshaad. I consider you my elder brother.’

  Irshaad hugged him a little tighter than normal and showered him with more affection than what Nadeem was accustomed to from him. He then pulled his cheeks a little too hard, patting him on the back, going on about how he was like a younger brother and how he should not hesitate to give him a call if he ever needed anything. He didn’t even mention anything about the cops or Nadeem getting busted. He just went on cackling at the top of his voice and bringing up old times. The receptionist asked them to be silent. After all, it was a doctor’s clinic, not a nightclub.

  ‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Irshaad, with a phony politeness that bordered on sarcasm. ‘I’m very, very sorry. I didn’t mean to create a racket, it’s just that I’m meeting my friend after so long that I couldn’t help myself.’