Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘He used to ask me all kinds of questions about you, Irshaad,’ continued Dr Vengsarkar, ignoring Nadeem’s remark. ‘But I never told him a word.’

  ‘You don’t mean to tell me,’ gasped Irshaad, ‘that that son of a bitch stole my files from the clinic?’

  ‘I must confess,’ sighed Dr Vengsarkar, ‘that, at the moment, certain files of yours do appear to be missing. When I found out from the receptionist that Makhija had once been in my office during my absence, I immediately demanded the files back from him but he claimed to have no idea what I was talking about. I told him that I’d cancel his prescription until the files were returned. I didn’t see him after that. I had no word from him. My receptionist used to try his number on a daily basis every morning at 11 o’clock. But he’d never answer.’

  ‘How much do you want for the files, Gaekwad?’ trembled Irshaad.

  ‘I don’t have them, Irshaad,’ frowned Inspector Gaekwad. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve had two of my men tear up his entire place to search for them, but there was no sign of them. If Dr Vengsarkar would have told me about this earlier, I could have done something. Little did I know that it would take Makhija’s death to get Dr Vengsarkar to open up the books.’

  Dr Vengsarkar handed Inspector Gaekwad a large and imposing-looking file, which he opened and read from.

  ‘In one of your sessions,’ read Inspector Gaekwad, ‘you had opened up about certain things that had been troubling you.’

  ‘This is none of your business,’ yelled Irshaad. ‘How dare you divulge this information!’

  ‘Apparently you confessed to owing more than forty-two lakhs to various friends and associates of yours all over town. And that it had been weighing you down. Eating away at your peace of mind. You were worried your father would find out about it.’

  Irshaad didn’t like where this was going, especially with Nadeem sitting in. Nadeem shrivelled up, turning his face away, his upper torso in position. He looked outside the window trying to shift his attention, but he couldn’t get the sound of this conversation out of his mind, not even if it took a brain surgeon to drill it out. He had that look on him like he wasn’t listening, but Irshaad wasn’t stupid. He knew Nadeem was stuck in a soft spot and tried to do the best he could to make him feel comfortable in his chair. He didn’t for a second let Nadeem in on it that he didn’t want him there, for he had always generously endowed him with his confidences. But Nadeem knew that this was different. This was a different matter altogether that went beyond the personal domain. This had to do with the account you kept not in any safety deposit box but deep down in your own soul. That’s where all the deductions, interest and debts finally land up. Irshaad didn’t want Nadeem to see this side of him, and Nadeem didn’t want to know either. But he hoped Nadeem would understand. He had always thought of Nadeem Khatib as a nice guy, someone he could take into confidence. Nadeem got up as he could feel the mercury rise.

  ‘I think I’d better take your leave now, I have some urgent matters to attend to . . .’ Nadeem quaked.

  ‘Sit your ass down, Nadeem. You aren’t going anywhere!’ Inspector Gaekwad pushed him back into the chair.

  ‘What does he have to do with this?’ Irshaad protested. ‘All these minutes and seconds are costing him hundreds and thousands of rupees. Let him go home and sleep. The poor man has to go to work tomorrow morning. He has to earn a living.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Chipkali,’ grinned Inspector Gaekwad. ‘Even if you have some business lined up, it can wait. Sit down! Relax! Make yourself at home! Would you like anything to drink? Tea, coffee, Coke, Pepsi, Mirinda, Mangola?’

  Nadeem’s face grew pale, slowly recuperating from the blows he had received. The blood trickling down his nostrils had by now dried up, turning maroon. He scratched his scar, picking at it with the habitual absent-mindedness of a woodpecker sabotaging a spot on the bark. It was broadening, creeping over to the lines that creased his forehead and folding up as it made its ascent. He smelt the blood on his fingernails; it smelt rotten. He was beginning to sweat as he settled, shifting about in the chair that was more comfortable than what he needed at this point. Irshaad turned to Nadeem who looked more shameful that he had reason to be. Irshaad winked at him, as if to tell him to think nothing of it, and that he had everything under control.

  ‘So you plan to put a murder charge on me, is it?’ he asked.

  Inspector Gaekwad’s stolid eyes grew suddenly thoughtful. The corners of his lips quivered, as he tried to put together an adequate reply, ‘That’s the idea.’

  Irshaad glared at Nadeem, his bulging eyes softening into a kindly stare masked with apprehension.

  ‘Rohini will be called in to testify,’ continued Inspector Gaekwad. ‘She’ll be asked to supply the jury with all the sordid details of your brief yet tempestuous affair. That, added with the fact that her late husband owed you money, and that you owed money elsewhere, should provide enough of a motive. Also, your psychiatrist would be called in to testify about your character, and judging by his impression of you, I do not think his testimony would be favourable in your defence. I can only sincerely hope that you acquire the finest lawyer that money can buy, if you manage to settle your loans in time.’

  ‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer in the morning.’

  ‘I already heard from him,’ Inspector Gaekwad smirked.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. He called on account of your pending trial for the half-murder case. Said he’d like to meet me to discuss the case. I told him to go take a hike.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Irshaad smiled. ‘I didn’t ask him to.’

  ‘Perhaps he did it of his own accord.’

  ‘Strange. I’ll have a word with him tomorrow.’

  Irshaad got up from the stool and looked out of the window, lost in thought. He then nodded with a customary shrug of the shoulders and signalled to Dilip and Srikant to tell his men that he was on his way out.

  ‘Don’t have to spend the night in judicial custody?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll give you that much leeway,’ Inspector Gaekwad smirked with satisfaction. ‘Twenty-four hours to say goodbye to your friends and family. I just hope to God you don’t flee the country like your old man before I can get my hands on you!’

  ‘Careful. Don’t go on my family. You wouldn’t like it if I went on yours.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be standing on your own two feet if you did.’

  ‘I guess I’ll see you in court,’ Irshaad laughed.

  ‘I guess you will,’ said Inspector Gaekwad.

  Irshaad looked towards Nadeem and then at Warren.

  ‘Can I take these two with me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t think you have any use for them since you seem to have made up your mind.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Inspector Gaekwad. ‘Feel free to take them, provided you don’t knock them off.’

  ‘Rest assured,’ laughed Irshaad. ‘You have my word. I wouldn’t want a double homicide.’

  The Kiss-off

  As Irshaad left the interrogation room, followed by Nadeem and Warren, Inspector Gaekwad asked Inspector Nagpal if it was possible to get a cup of tea for Dr Vengsarkar and himself. Inspector Nagpal called out for one of the junior constables, as Dilip and Srikant escorted the three men out.

  Irshaad was silent all the way through the long walk past the corridors and out of Malad (West) police station. When they got to his car, the maroon Honda Civic that stood outside the main entrance, Irshaad put his arm around Nadeem.

  ‘Why don’t you get back to work for me, Chipkali?’ he groaned. ‘I’ll pay you twice as much as what this son of a bitch Gaekwad is paying you.’

  ‘Look, Irshaad,’ mumbled Nadeem, ‘I didn’t tell him a goddamned thing about you!’

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ Irshaad blinked, ‘and he didn’t tell you a goddamned thing about me. Not a word, you understand?’

  ‘Not a word!’

  ‘I didn’t kill Makhija.’ />
  ‘I know you didn’t!’

  Irshaad’s tense face unfolded into a jovial smile. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know, I just know. You don’t kill people without good reason.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘But we’ve got to find out who the hell did. Otherwise it’s your ass on the line and the actual culprit will walk off scot-free.’

  ‘I can do without the publicity. By the way, I hope you know what he said about me owing money all over town is all a load of horseshit.’

  ‘I know that, Irshaad. Of course.’

  ‘If my dad asks you anything . . .’

  ‘I haven’t heard a word of this conversation.’

  ‘Take it easy, Chipkali,’ said Irshaad, as he got into his car. ‘Keep out of trouble. That goes for you too, Paolie. Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do that,’ said Nadeem.

  ‘Oh,’ smiled Irshaad, ‘I’ll have a brand new Samsung S6 sent to you in the morning.’

  ‘New car?’ asked Nadeem.

  ‘Yeah. I got this baby souped-up. K&N air filter, rims, halogen, spoiler, 1.8-turbo charge, the works. The modifications set me back by half a peti. Forty-five G’s to be precise.’

  ‘Well, I hope it was money well spent.’

  ‘I’ll let my dad be the judge of that.’

  ‘Goodnight, Batla!’

  Irshaad got into the front seat and one of his guys closed the door for him and got into the back. Kaashif Bhai pressed his foot down on the accelerator sending the car growling off into the night.

  Visitors

  On their way home, Nadeem and Warren stopped at a 24x7 to get a packet of chips, but all they found there was moong daal, aloo bhujia and chana jor garam. They stocked up with namkeen and a bottle of Sprite, and headed home in the autorickshaw they had caught outside Malad police station. The autowaala was unduly inquisitive and asked what they were doing there so late at night, but they weren’t in the mood to entertain his queries.

  As soon as they had paid off the fare and entered the gate of Little Heights, Warren’s phone started ringing.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Nadeem.

  Warren looked down at his phone and noticed it was Rohini’s number. They had exchanged numbers in the waiting room at the hospital. She had asked Warren to call her if he needed some help later with Nadeem, as she had anticipated his condition to be far more serious than it actually was. Warren showed Nadeem the screen of his phone and put it on silent as they walked up the stairs past the lobby. Nadeem asked Warren to hand him the phone. Kishorie Lal was fast asleep. Once they reached their door, Nadeem called back on the number while Warren fished out the house keys.

  ‘Hello,’ said Nadeem into the phone, as he entered the flat. He closed the door shut and latched it from the inside.

  ‘Hello,’ he spoke again, louder and clearer as he could perceive a faint voice coming in from the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Rohini. ‘Nadeem?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rohini here,’ she spoke in a soft voice.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I just got a call from your number.’

  Nadeem raised his eyebrow higher than the crease of his forehead. He wondered how that could be possible as his phone had been smashed into bits in front of his own eyes. Just then, he remembered that Irshaad had stashed away his SIM card before doing so. Perhaps he had inserted it into his phone and called Rohini.

  ‘Are you with Irshaad?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘I was,’ he said. ‘My SIM card is with him. Did he prank call you?’

  ‘He told me to come over to his house. He said you were there with him and that it was an emergency.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘That they had found your body and that I was the last person seen with you.’

  ‘Well, I’m alive and talking to you, aren’t I?’

  ‘Can I come over to your place right now?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Rohini.’

  ‘I think he might have sent some people after me. He knows my address.’

  ‘Listen, take it easy, Rohini.’

  ‘Are you at home?’

  Nadeem thought twice before giving an answer.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, hesitantly.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Listen, where are you, Rohini?’

  Before he could get an answer to his question, she had cut the call. He sighed and threw Warren’s phone back to him. He was not in the mood to deal with her. He lay down on the couch in front of the television and switched it on, as Warren spread out a mattress on the living room floor.

  ‘What does she want?’ he asked Nadeem, wearily.

  ‘Irshaad Batla called her from my number.’

  ‘Has he got your SIM card?’

  ‘I forgot to collect it from him,’ said Nadeem. ‘Do one thing. Try calling my number from your phone.’

  Warren dialled Nadeem’s number but was told by a mechanized voice that the Vodafone customer he was trying to reach had switched off his mobile phone.

  ‘It’s coming switched off,’ said Warren, tossing his phone aside and stretching out on the mattress. His yawn had in it all the noise and dreariness of exhaustion, but was beginning to reflect the absence of constant arduous employment and honest toil.

  As Nadeem kicked off his shoes to put his feet up on the couch, four loud knocks were heard on the door.

  ‘That was quick,’ thought Nadeem, as he got up to answer the door. ‘She reached already.’

  On opening the latch, he was greeted by two men who stood purposefully at the door in height order. One of them was a tall wiry gentleman of about forty and the other was small and stout, slightly balding with a receding hairline and a handlebar moustache. They certainly fit the description and exhibited all the characteristics he had heard about from Mr Machhiwaala, and much to his amusement, Kishorie Lal had not left out any details in his description of them. Nadeem gladly welcomed them in.

  ‘Mr Ganpat Shukla, I presume,’ joked Nadeem.

  ‘The name’s Jayant Naagre,’ said the shorter one, as he flashed a badge.

  ‘And I’m Mangesh Raut, Crime Branch.’

  ‘Plainclothesmen,’ said Nadeem. ‘Why, it’s a pleasure to have you two at my house. What can I do for you?’ he asked, sarcastically.

  Warren immediately sat up on noticing them enter the house. The two of them looked around with an air of warrantable contempt. The tall one, Mangesh, shut the door and turned to Nadeem.

  ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Khatib,’ he said.

  ‘You two work for Gaekwad?’

  ‘That’s beside the point,’ said the shorter one, Jayant.

  ‘The point is,’ began Mangesh, ‘you’re meddling with and snooping around what is potentially police business.’

  ‘Where are the files, Khatib?’ barked Jayant.

  ‘What files?’

  ‘You know what files! Don’t try and be funny!’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! Call up Inspector Gaekwad and ask him. I was with him just half an hour ago.’

  The two of them started to look around the living room. Jayant immediately went to the dustbin and checked some of the crumpled up papers that had been thrown into it. They went over all the drawers, through each cabinet, folder and cupboard in the house.

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ complained Nadeem. ‘I’m going to have to report you to Inspector Gaekwad.’

  They didn’t care about his idle threats and went about their search with much ease and tidiness, quite unlike their predecessors—Nagpal and Srikant—who practically tore apart the entire flat.

  ‘So, you had two of your tippers living in the same building,’ Nadeem sneered in defiance, looking at them go about their duty with contempt. ‘How convenient! I’m surprised you’ve only paid us a visit once. J
ust for the record, when you guys signed in and told the watchman you were coming to meet me, who were you actually here to meet? Me or Makhija?’

  The two men paused their rummaging, stood absolutely still and remained silent. As they straightened up, they looked at one another and then spoke, interrupting each other’s sentences.

  ‘We had actually come down,’ began Jayant, ‘to have a word with him.’

  ‘And to collect the files,’ added Mangesh.

  ‘But unfortunately, we had to give your name to the watchman as we did not want to draw attention to him.’

  ‘Why, of course, he was one of your most treasured informers, your prized possession,’ said Nadeem. ‘Inspector Gaekwad’s personal courier. I’ll tell you what I think. I think you two have been visiting this building more often than you say. But not by the front door, by the windows. The mali saw a man hanging off the parapet of the fifth floor. He thought it was the plumber, but I have some second thoughts about that. The terrace of the adjoining building slants right into the edge of the fourth floor balconies. A small jump is all it would take to leap from terrace to balcony and, with the help of the pipes, you could have climbed up to the fifth floor, straight up to 502.’

  ‘It wasn’t the plumber,’ said Mangesh.

  ‘And it wasn’t one of us either,’ added Jayant.

  ‘Then who was it?’ asked Nadeem, confoundedly.

  ‘It was him,’ sighed Mangesh. ‘Makhija! That’s where he used to hide his stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘His main pipeline,’ began Jayant, ‘which descended from his tank on the terrace and was connected to his bathroom, had a valve on the portion that converged with the fourth-floor pipeline. By rotating the lever, the knob opened up into another more complex network of smaller pipes, which constituted the combined pipeline supply of the building.’

  ‘What did he stash there?’

  ‘If what he stored there burst into the main pipeline, then the whole building’s water supply would contain something unthinkable.’

  The two of them looked at each other, wondering whether or not they should let him in on some of the facts. They didn’t want to defame the dead, but Mangesh proceeded anyway with the necessary reserve required to prevent it from sounding like an unfairly inaccurate description.