More Bodies Will Fall

by Ankush Saikia

  Bunty’s fingers tapped out the beat of the song on the bonnet as he indulged in a spot of philosophy.

  ‘Life. What is the meaning of life? We work so hard, we run here and there, we are so busy, but what does it all matter in the end? Money, things, fame, what are these? To spend a few moments with an old friend like you, to spend some time with my children and my parents, that matters more. We are just travellers, here on earth for . . .’

  Arjun half-listened to his friend, his mind still on the case. If he had been drinking as well he would have possibly added or rebutted what Bunty was saying, but now he was content to let him ramble on.

  ‘So what do you think about that?’ Bunty asked, looking at Arjun.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Kancha, you weren’t listening to what I was saying, were you?’

  ‘I was, but this new case of mine is on my mind.’

  ‘Oh. What’s it about, bhai?’

  Arjun broke off half of a kebab and wrapped it in the remaining roti with a few onion rings and some chutney before putting it into his mouth. He chewed for a while before answering.

  ‘A girl was killed a year ago. Delhi police still haven’t caught the murderer.’

  ‘So what’s new? They haven’t even been able to catch the person who stole my wife’s Pomeranian.’

  ‘The girl was from Nagaland.’

  ‘I see,’ Bunty said, and drained the bottle. ‘I’m sure you’ll get whoever did it, yaar.’

  He got into his Gypsy to mix some more whisky and Coke. His friend’s reaction, Arjun thought, was typical of how those from the North-east were viewed in this city—with indifference, or otherwise, as he had seen the previous day, as people up to no good.

  Bunty came out with a refilled bottle and took a swig, then checked a message on his phone and let out a common Delhi expletive.

  ‘What’s the matter? Has the summons from home come already?’

  ‘You know,’ Bunty said as he typed out a reply, ‘if I were in your place I would be drinking and whoring around town. And there you are, doing nothing like a chutiya.’

  Arjun laughed. ‘Go on, abuse me. You’ll feel better.’

  A dark blue sedan with a couple of youngsters inside backed into the space beside the Gypsy. Loud electronic dance music played within and Arjun saw Bunty throw an irritated glance at the vehicle. Two girls and a boy got down from the back and went across to the pizza place beside the kebab shop, then returned a while later. They had placed the order, the girls told the muscular youth in the front passenger seat of the sedan; it would take about ten to fifteen minutes. They started laughing and joking, lighting cigarettes.

  Bunty started to say something to Arjun, then stopped. He turned to the car.

  ‘Can you turn down your music? We’re listening to something too.’

  ‘Bunty,’ Arjun called out, ‘let it go, yaar.’

  He knew how easily things could spiral out of control in such situations. Bunty raised a hand, telling him to hold it, even as he repeated his request. The three who had ordered the pizza looked uncertain, but then the muscular youth stepped out of the car.

  ‘You listen to your music, we’ll listen to ours,’ he drawled. ‘Where’s the problem?’

  Bunty stepped forward. ‘Sisterfucker, who do you think you’re talking to?’

  Arjun stepped up now. ‘Bunty, let it go, they’ll leave in a while anyway.’

  But now the muscular youth had got into the mood as well.

  ‘Looks like you don’t know how to talk to people, uncleji.’

  That set off Bunty. He stepped forward and shoved the youth in the chest, sending him stumbling back against the car. One of the girls screamed and the boy in the driver’s seat stepped out. The youth now came forward and punched Bunty in the stomach, doubling him over. He would have punched Bunty in the face as well, but for Arjun grabbing the hand by the wrist and twisting it behind him and upward, making him cry out in pain.

  ‘Listen to me!’ he told the driver. ‘If the police show up, we’ll all be in trouble. Let’s just drop this. We’re leaving now.’

  He pushed the youth forward even as he held Bunty back.

  ‘Let me go, Arjun! I’ll teach that bastard a lesson!’

  ‘You think I’m scared of the police?’ the youth demanded, coming forward again.

  This time the driver and the girls stepped in between. Arjun hastily pushed Bunty into the car and told him to start the engine even as he waved at the boy from the kebab shop. The boy took away the plates, and Arjun paid him and got in.

  ‘Now drive, Bunty!’

  He did as he was told, but not before letting off a string of expletives at the youth, who responded with a few of his own.

  ‘Why did you stop me back there, Arjun?’ Bunty demanded as he drove past the GK-II M Block market. ‘I would have broken that asshole’s head.’

  ‘Or he would have broken yours. You don’t have to react to everything, Bunty!’

  Bunty dropped him off near his flat and drove off, still in a bad mood. Arjun walked back to his place. He switched on the lights and threw himself down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. The adrenaline from the encounter still lingered within him. The stupid machismo of this city, he thought, there was no escaping it.

  His hand trembled slightly as he tapped the cigarette on the ashtray. Alone now, at the end of the day, the unease he had woken up with that morning returned. It wasn’t the case he was on. Rather, it was his past, with the army, in the North-east. The dream two days ago, before the man from Nagaland had come to meet him—that was where it had started. There were things he had kept buried for a long time, and for good reason.

  After dinner Arjun was in the bedroom reading a magazine when he heard the voices again, after almost a year. Even before he switched on the lights again in the sitting room he knew there was no one there. The voices in his head had returned. He tried not to panic, tried not to think at all. Bringing the razai from the bedroom he put on the news on the television and lay down on the sofa. He could almost believe that the female presenter was talking to him.

  15

  HE HAD A DISTURBED SLEEP, and still felt tired in the morning. After the maid left, he took a shower and ate his breakfast, then opened the notes on his laptop. The case he was on offered him distraction from himself, but at the same time there was the danger that it would drag things from his past out into the light.

  What sort of a girl had Amenla Longkumer been? He had a mental picture of the three girls now: Chon, the one who would get the most looks from people; Abeni, the down-to-earth one; and Amenla, the quiet one. The third girl. Had she felt the dislocation from her tribal roots the most intensely? He brought the shoebox to the table and looked through the things in it once again. Could she have gone to the Hungry Rabbit with Cooper Grant on a date? It seemed unlikely that the embassy guy would go to such a place, unless maybe he was looking for a discreet meeting.

  Arjun had informed Computer Baba that he would be coming to pick up the CDRs of Amenla’s number, and at 10 a.m. he left the flat to catch an autorickshaw to Nehru Place. He had a larger car now, and parking was always a headache there—in most places in Delhi, for that matter.

  Making his way through the crowds and hawkers at Nehru Place, he climbed up the packed high-rise where his computer expert had his office. Walking along the open corridor, Arjun looked around at the surrounding high-rises, their Soviet-style grubby-grey facades pockmarked with computer-shop hoardings and air-conditioner outlets. He felt like an ant within a hive.

  Computer Baba was at his desk talking on his phone about motherboards, surrounded by posters of laptops and desktops and gods and goddesses. From time to time he would shout out a query to his two co-workers above the false ceiling, and relay the answer over the phone. Baba looked different today, and it took Arjun a moment to work out why. The long, greasy hair had been cut and shampooed, the stubble on his bony cheeks was gone; he was wearing a clean shirt and his fingernails
had been trimmed. As he spoke, he rummaged inside his desk with the other hand and produced a box of sweets which he pushed towards Arjun, who helped himself to a badam barfi. It had been his favourite sweet as a child.

  ‘Are you Computer Baba, or has he been kidnapped?’ Arjun asked when Baba put the phone down.

  Baba laughed. His teeth though were yellow as ever, Arjun observed.

  ‘I am still your humble servant, Manu Sharma. I got married, Arjun bhai.’

  ‘What? You just got back from Bangkok a few months ago.’

  Baba laughed again. ‘She’s not from Bangkok. She works here in Nehru Place.’

  He took out a photo on his phone and showed it to Arjun.

  ‘We had a court marriage two weeks ago. Her name is Rekha. I’ve known her for some time.’

  Arjun looked at the short, fair girl in a red sari, Baba smiling beside her. He felt oddly disappointed at not having known, and not having been invited. He handed the phone back.

  ‘So you better behave yourself now, Manu.’

  ‘You know me, bhai, I’ve always been a good boy. Now, as for your work . . .’

  He rummaged within his desk once again and produced a printout.

  ‘Here. The CDRs for that number. I’ve marked the outstation numbers.’

  The last call, on the evening of Amenla’s death, was an incoming call from a familiar number: Abeni’s. Arjun went through the rest of the printout. Rohit Chaudhry’s number came up a few times, as did Mr Longkumer’s. The out-of-Delhi numbers had been underlined and the telecom circle of the number written beside: Shillong, Mokokchung, Dimapur and Kohima, he had expected, but what caught his attention was Churachandpur marked a couple of times a week before the last call.

  ‘Where is this Churachandpur, Arjun bhai?’ Baba asked.

  ‘It’s a district in Manipur.’

  ‘Oh. And this name Amen-la. What sort of a name is it?’

  ‘The name of a girl from Nagaland.’

  ‘Hmm. Very dangerous places, aren’t they?’

  ‘Not as dangerous as Delhi, my friend.’

  He counted out a couple of notes from his wallet and gave them to Baba, who flicked through them and raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you made a mistake, Arjun bhai?’

  ‘No, there’s something extra. Consider that to be your wedding gift.’

  X

  Arjun walked towards the cinema hall at the rear of Nehru Place, opposite the metro station. He would catch an autorickshaw from there. Who could have called her from Churachandpur? he wondered. It was a Kuki- and Paite-dominated district in the south of Manipur. Tony had been from Manipur, according to Amenla’s cousin. Could he have called her?

  ‘Arjun!’ someone called out to him.

  He turned to look, and it took him a few seconds to recognize the tall, bearded man at the entrance to an electronics store as his cousin Gurmeet, his father’s brother Yashpal’s son. The lack of enthusiasm must have shown on his face, for he came forward with his son in tow and said, ‘Your brother, Gurmeet! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me?’

  ‘No, not at all. How are you, Gurmeet?’

  ‘I’m fine. Came to give Shiv’s laptop for repairs. Shiv beta, your uncle Arjun.’

  The boy regarded Arjun coldly. At least his reaction was genuine, Arjun thought.

  ‘He keeps downloading this and that. I told him his laptop would crash one day. And that’s what happened! Luckily it’s still under the warranty period.’

  Arjun listened to him, wishing he could get away. Gurmeet was a decent enough person, but Arjun had long decided that it was better to keep his relatives at a distance. First they would get close, and then they would start making comments—about his mother, about his wife.

  ‘You stay somewhere nearby, don’t you?’ Gurmeet asked.

  ‘Yes. I had some work here.’

  ‘We didn’t see you at Mehak’s wedding. Uncle and Aunty had come though. How are they? Haven’t seen them since then.’

  ‘They’re fine. I was travelling at the time of Mehak’s wedding,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh, I see. Arjun, come join us, we were going to have some dosas at that restaurant.’

  He pointed at a small south Indian fast-food outlet called Banana Leaf.

  ‘I have to rush,’ Arjun told him. ‘I need to get back to my office. Bye.’

  With that, he strode away, leaving a bewildered Gurmeet behind. He caught an autorickshaw and lit a cigarette, irritated at the encounter, and even more irritated with his reaction. If he had joined them, the usual questions about Sonali would have followed. Still, Gurmeet had been one of his friendlier cousins. Why was he running away from him as well? ‘I am what I am,’ he thought with bitterness, ‘unfit for human company.’

  When he got back to the office there was a short, bespectacled man in a knitted half-sweater watching the television news in the outer room. He rose when Arjun walked in.

  ‘What a nice office you have, Arjunji,’ the man said.

  ‘I have to keep up appearances, Tinkuji. Come in.’

  He went into the inner room followed by the chemist. Tinku was a nickname for Brijmohan Gulati, a chemist who had spent time behind bars in a fake-medicine racket. Arjun had met him during the course of an inquiry into a businessman’s disappearance.

  ‘So, did you find out anything?’ Arjun asked, taking a seat behind his desk.

  The chemist took out a glass vial, inside which were the remains of the red tablet.

  ‘Methamphetamine. High quality. There’s some caffeine in it too. Where did you get it?’

  Meth: it was something Arjun had suspected. He had heard of the drug coming in from Myanmar through the North-east. But was it connected to Amenla’s murder?

  ‘It’s just a sample,’ he said. ‘I needed to have it tested.’

  ‘If you know where it came from . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe from Manipur or Nagaland.’

  Tinkuji nodded. ‘I’ve heard of people coming down from there. They book large consignments of pseudoephedrine tablets from drug factories in Uttarakhand. The tablets are transported by truck or train to the North-east, and then sent over to . . . what is the new name for Burma?’

  Negi had come over to listen, and he gave the answer: ‘Myanmar.’

  ‘Right. They’re sent to Myanmar, and there the ephedrine is extracted from the tablets and used to make methamphetamine tablets. Those are smuggled back into India.’

  ‘What is pseudoephedrine?’

  ‘It’s an ingredient in common cold medicines. India is one of the few countries where it’s still legal.’ Tinkuji leant forward on the desk. ‘They say some people in the security forces are involved in this business.’

  ‘That would hardly be a surprise,’ Arjun said. ‘How much would a tablet like this cost here in Delhi?’

  ‘Maybe five hundred to six hundred rupees.’

  ‘And how much would it cost in, say, Manipur?’

  ‘On the border, just fifty to sixty rupees. That’s what I’ve heard. You wouldn’t know where I could . . . get more of this stuff, would you?’

  Arjun grinned. ‘You want to go behind bars again, Tinkuji?’

  ‘No, no, Arjunji. Just asking. It’s good to know things connected to our trade. For instance, I’ve heard there’s a demand for Betnovate cream over there. Do you know for what?’ Tinkuji smiled and answered himself. ‘It seems they repackage it across the border and sell it as a skin-lightening cream.’

  ‘There was a marking on the tablet. “WY”, it looked like to me. What is it?’

  ‘Sort of a trademark. WY stands for “World’s Yours”. Double eight, “88”, is another one.’

  ‘I see. Thanks for helping. You’ll have to sign an invoice outside for your payment.’

  The chemist left. Negi picked up the vial and studied the red–pink grains.

  ‘Do you think this is connected to the girl’s murder?’ he asked Arjun.

  ‘It could be,’ Arjun said, and then remembered so
mething. ‘While you’re looking into Rohit Chaudhry, look out for any drug-related stuff, okay?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  He took out the printout Computer Baba had given him, and dialled the Churachandpur number. Something told him it was no use even before the recorded voice said the number was switched off, and for the same reason he didn’t bother to call Baba to ask him to find out whose number it was. It would most probably be a prepaid SIM, activated with a fake name and address from Dimapur or Imphal. The question was, had Tony Haokip used the number?

  16

  THE APPOINTMENT WITH THE STUDENTS’ association president was at 3 p.m. at Connaught Place. Before leaving the office Arjun sat down for lunch with the three other members of Nexus Security. They had their tiffin lunches—Liza’s prepared by herself, Negi’s and Chandu’s prepared by their mothers—and he ordered noodles and chilli chicken from the next-door Kolkata Hot Pot. The shutter was half-downed, and they spread out the food on the table in the outer room. Arjun sampled a bit of all of their tiffins. Liza’s food as usual was the best, but he made it a point to praise all the dishes and complain about what he had ordered. His secretary was still annoyed at having to pick up the newcomer’s routine assignment, but not too much. She even had some suggestions about how Negi should go about collecting information on Rohit Chaudhry.

  He left at a quarter past two in the afternoon. There was a long line of traffic under the Chirag Delhi flyover going right. Arjun thought about how the chemist’s report had given a new dimension to the case. From what he had heard of Amenla so far, there didn’t seem to be any indications of drug usage or experimentation. And yet . . .

  Half an hour later he was lighting a cigarette at a paan-wallah’s kiosk that stood along the colonnades of F Block in the inner circle of Connaught Place. Opposite it was a doorway that led up to the editorial offices of an English weekly newsmagazine. He called the number again, explained where he was, and a while later saw two young men approaching him. They were both smartly dressed in striped shirts and dark trousers, and wore their straight hair cut spiky short. Arjun guessed the fairer one was the Arunachali, possibly an Adi, while the duskier-complexioned one looked to be a Meitei from Manipur.