The nausea at the morgue has shaken me. I am not averse to the dead but the sheer numbers at the morgue have a different impact.My first brush with a dead body is too vivid to forget. As a courier for a chartered accountant, I had one day found out that a man had been electrocuted in the office. My boss made me help him get the man to a doctor after checking for a pulse.
We got to the doctor in a taxi with the man surrounded by me & my boss on either side in the back seat. The doctor was a heart specialist & my boss suspected that the man had suffered a heart attack due to the electric shock. We waited nervously as the doctor examined him in a separate room. He came back quickly and said coolly. “He is dead. You have two options. Either you take him to a government hospital for dead on arrival certificate or I call the police to do it here. You have 10 minutes.” We never saw the doctor again. It also meant that there would be no assistance from his clinic. My boss knew too well what the doctor’s calling the police would mean.
We checked around for an ambulance but none was available. So we propped him at the shoulders on either side. Made a show of catching a taxi again. Never before had I felt the convenience of having an office at the ground floor of a building. We had to walk three steps & around 15 meters to the road. My boss made a story of the man being unconscious to the cab driver as he drove us to the government hospital. The man’s head bounced with every speed breaker & ditch on the road. I reflexively steadied it every time, realizing a moment later that it was useless. Once at the hospital, things took care of themselves. But it was quite an experience. A dead body propped up by my shoulder & my thigh in a seating position inside a taxi. That 30 minute ride is hard to forget.
As the over bridge to the station nears I gaze at my FastTrack digital watch. It is 7 pm. I step sideways from the steps to the over bridge into the “Sai-Suman” bar. I need a drink today. This might be my last drink at Dadar. My transfer is back in my thoughts.
Though bearing the name of the most famous & humane saint of Maharashtra, this place is ideal for a lonely drink. The overall ambience is dark. There are small steel chairs & wooden tables. The lighting hides the faces enough to avoid identification from a distance. There are no windows. The management has tried to squeeze in as many tables as possible. Most of them are taken. At places like this, it is common in Mumbai to have to share a table for a drink with complete strangers. I find the smallest table in a corner where only two people can seat facing each other. It is empty. A waiter dressed in white shirt & a black waistcoat approaches the table as soon as I take my seat. I order a large one of Blender’s Pride and soda. I am yet to decide on the dinner so he promises to get me the complimentary snacks to kick things off.
The drink arrives shortly as I ponder on the various possibilities about the murder & probable courses of action. I get the waiter to fill my glass with 5-6 ice cubes & top it with a little water. Watered drinks suit me better. The fumes off the ice cubes remind me strangely of the vapors from the freezers in the morgue. Generally, I don’t start drinking unless the snacks are on the table too. I don’t want to wait today. I close my eyes & take a long sip. I am still relishing the taste of the whisky when I hear a voice.
“Can I join you Inspector Jagtap?” I recognize the voice but open my eyes to confirm it. Smiling at me against the eerie lighting is Pulkit Jha.
There seems no harm in that. And frankly, I don’t think I have the choice anymore. It is a bar, in a crowded city & in a democracy. An empty chair will always have aspirants. So it could actually be better if I let an acquaintance, however shady, occupy it. That would keep me alert. So I return his smile with a special one of mine.
“Please Jhaji, I hate drinking alone.” I gesture to the empty chair. The ji at the end of his surname makes this sound like formal talk. I hope this talk remains formal.
He occupies the chair. Unlike mine, his underweight body fits perfectly in the seat. The lighting adds the odd feel of his head being too big for his body. He is wearing the same Kurta & jeans from the morning. The Shabnam, the Indian equivalent of a satchel still hangs by his shoulder. He does not remove it even as he seats.
“Thank you Jagtapji, I too tend to find drinking alone boring.” He straightens his back against the chair as if stretching it & then puts an arm over it. Much like Amitabh Bachchan in Agneepath.
“What can get you?” I ask.
“Oh, thanks but I am a regular here. I have a khaata here.” He winks at me. If this place offers him a tab, it has two implications for me. First, the guy is here everyday because it is hard to get a tab at a bar in Mumbai unless you are visiting it daily for a sustained period of time. Second, I need to find a different place next time. But his declining a free drink is a hint of self respect.
“How come you are alone? I was told you & Gosaviji are inseparable.” Pulkit observes as the same waiter who served me returns with a nip of McDowell whisky, a glass & ice. He proceeds to make a drink for Pulkit. He has also got separate plates of salted peanuts for both of us. I pause to make sure that Pulkit is looking at me and not at the drink. Then I give him the most sarcastic smirk that I can manage. That is the wrong direction for the conversation Mr.Activist. No personal talk.
He gets the idea. He brings up his drink forward & as in every clichéd bar meeting, we clink our glasses.
He picks few nuts from the table plate & proceeds to peel them by rubbing them hard. Then he blows into them away from the table. Then methodically starts tossing them one at a time in his mouth. I don’t attempt to further the discussion. I concentrate on my drink. His drinking is quick. He finishes the drink before me & the waiter appears out of nowhere for a refill. I ask him to repeat my drink too.
“You must try the Chicken65 here. All my friends swear by it. Tastes like the real one from Hyderabad.” Pulkit says before the waiter can leave. I nod my head at him. I didn’t have a decent lunch. A couple of vada-pavs before starting for Miraroad was all. So Chicken65 would be nice. No, it does not have 65 pieces of chicken, but they are enough for nibbling along with a drink. The waiter leaves with a new purpose.
“Jagtapji, I am certain that you have heard about me.” He is looking into my eyes. The drink seems to have loosened him up. But I have seen many people play this out. Talking as if the alcohol is allowing them to do something they could not do without it. But I know another thing about such behavior. It means you can claim complete ignorance of the conversation in future, citing the fact that you were drunk.
“My occupation or business as it is called by many in your department is not dudh ka dhula. ” Milk white. ”You might know how the system works or rather how it does not work. So to get it moving, I have to get the right tool to fit its parts.” He sure has a way with words. “My methods are not always moral, I know that. But my intent, at least by and large is. ” I remember all the stories about him that go around.
Pulkit came to Mumbai around 15 years ago. A graduate from the Patna University, he was a student at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences. He completed the program with honors. But during the program he was appalled by what he saw in Mumbai. He started out as a genuine social worker with an NGO. It would seem that the pace or lack of it in social improvement changed him. He wanted a more active role. He then resorted to investigative social causes. A man with grassroots approach & hardnosed vigor, he has been finding facts that people in high places want to be buried for good. Illegal civil service appointments, land grants, budgetary irregularities, kin favors, criminal charge dilutions have all been captured by his acute brain. And with that power, he has also been working for himself.
He has blackmailed many government officials in the past years. Of all ranks & from almost every civil service. His modus operandi is startlingly simple. He finds irrefutable proof of a fraudulent or criminal act by the victim. Then confronts him with it & strikes a deal. There have been rumors that many such deals involved exchange of money and very few of those victims have opted for retirement soon after running into Pulkit. How he
gets the proof is also a matter of debate. I am sure all his methods may not be legal. He has been targeted with witch hunts & even attempts on his life. The personal threats against him & his family have been so high that his wife has left him. He was once left for dead in a gutter with almost every bone in his body broken. But he has come back stronger. And is alive & kicking.
“I have accepted what I need from my business. I am still accepting. Hell, you can’t live in Mumbai on the charity that we social workers receive.” He has finished his second drink. I get it Pulkit, but why are you telling this to me? The waiter is back with Chicken65 & refills for Pulkit. I taste the chicken and it truly is good. The softness marinated in soya & chili sauce melts in my mouth leaving a spicy taste.
“But I do give back. In my own small ways. Ways that are not exactly approved of by many.” He continues his monologue while I focus on the chicken & my remaining drink.
“You might be wondering why I am telling you this. Well, I find most of the Mumbai cops to be apprehensive of me.” You are right about that.”So I make it a point to tell guys like you that you have nothing to be afraid of.” I continue munching the chicken and stare at him. Afraid of you?
“Don’t take it personally but I know many of your colleagues who would have been scared shitless if they were to share a drinking table with me. Cops made nervous by a thin, middle aged social worker. ” His left hand moves top to down from his neck to the seat of the chair as he describes himself. I may not be able to take this any longer.
“But not you. I have my ways Jagtapji. I exploit people who break and twist the laws they are meant to enforce. But honest people like you, I leave alone. That is the way it should be for the society.” He finishes his drink with a relish. He is looking at the chicken with an intensity that I cannot classify. So I push the plate towards him.
“ No, no. You heard in the morning. I am a vegan, have been for all my life.” I remember & pull the plate back immediately. I don’t wish to talk any further with him as I have not understood his approaching me & the explanations. This could be a tricky beginning.
“I need to leave. It was nice talking to you.” I rise from the table without giving him a warning or offering a handshake. I am already walking towards the hotel counter when he loudly says.
“I meant everything I said.” No heads turn towards him or me. That is a feature of bars like this I guess. I walk straight to the counter. The urge to pay for Pulkit is strong but I overcome it. After leaving a tip for the waiter with the manager, I step out & start climbing the steps of the over-bridge.
***
I am about to reach my home in the Fort Police colony an hour later. It is 9.30 and the chicken that I ate is long digested by my body. The walk from the CST to the colony has left me in a coat of sweat. I look at the apartment I live in and a strange serenity takes me over.
My home is on the second floor here. It is not a large one but is more than enough for me. Built almost 30 years before, it is a Shapoorji Pallonji project from the time when it was the only thing that you would want to know before you signed the check to purchase a home. Located in one of the most exclusive areas of Mumbai, it is also a testament to the strong middle class presence of mind. This plot of land was purchased by a group of police officers by pooling their savings. It was made available to them by the government. Though the government was allotting land to individual police employees, they demanded that they be given a larger piece the size of their combined entitlements. The government agreed to it. The payment for the land was deducted from their salaries by the government over a 20 year period.
After acquiring the possession of the land, the group approached Shapoorji Pallonji directly through the then Commissioner of the city for its development. Shapoorji Pallonji was more than delighted to develop the plot in a prime real estate with some of the developed portions for themselves. This was before housing cooperative societies were made a law. Many of the original officers still live in this building. There are other buildings that were built around that time in the colony. But none matches this. It is named as ”Ekjute Sadan” Unity Home.
Another advantage of this building that every apartment, though identical does not conform to the conventional Mumbai residential blueprints. It does not follow the Bedroom-Hall-Kitchen minimalism. Every house has 2 bedrooms, a large kitchen, a guest room, a hall & an open balcony that is 10x8 feet in size. Needless to say there are attached toilet & baths to the bedrooms & the guest room. Technically, it is a waste for me to be having such a large house all for me but that is one area that I get my space in. How did I get a lease to this house? Well, that is the point isn’t it?
Leasing a house like this in Mumbai is only for royalty. The officer who owns the apartment has retired long back to his ancestral place in Kerala. So he does not care much about the money that he makes from the lease but insists on thorough background checking of the tenants who like everyone in the colony have to be serving cops. After my posting in Mumbai, I was recommended to him by two persons. Mr.Patil & Mr.George, a Malyali. Mr.George was the then Deputy Commissioner of Police, Mumbai. He had been my trainer at the Police Academy & was on his last leg of duty before retirement. When I had confided in him about my wish to stay in an apartment rather than the government allocated quarters, he had suggested my name to Mr.Varma, the owner. After listening to his curt voice over a telephone at the police station, I had thought that there was no way he was going to agree.
He had said that he trusted George but George knew me only for 2 years. He demanded more references. So I blurted the first name that came to my mind. Mahadev Patil. That did it for me. Mr.Varma had spent his last 10 years of service at Mumbai. This continuous time at a single place meant he got to successfully pursue his master’s degree in science at Mumbai. It was a long awaited goal of his. So he went back to the college in his early fifties. Must have taken a lot of guts & efforts for him. Also for his teachers. Guess who was his thesis guide at the Mumbai University? Mr.Patil. So the deal was struck immediately & I have been a good tenant since then. Though the rent is reasonable, it is still a significant portion of my salary (Even after the recent pay commission revision).But as I said this is one indulgence I can’t stop myself from. I unlock the door to my flat automatically. It is another reason I can’t think of leaving Mumbai.
The hall or the entrance to the flat is a wide room with tiled flooring. The tiles are maroon in color with white & black specks on them. The walls have an off white paint which is scrupulously redone every 3 years on Mr.Varma’s expenses. The windows have old styled grills which are three vertical cylindrical bars of steel & three horizontal bars dividing their height. The windows are large ones starting two feet above the ground & ending a foot below the nine feet ceiling. Street light is percolating into sketchy patterns across the floor.
I switch on the lights & rest in the cushioned chair close to the door. As I bend to untie the laces of my shoes, the holster in my armpit pushes hard into my ribs. That reminds me of the other gun that is Velcro fastened to my right ankle. I remove that one and keep it in my hand. There is a sofa set in the center of the hall guarded by two matching chairs & a glass top teapoy. It is one of the furniture pieces that Mr.Varma keeps in the house. It was handcrafted by a Malyali carpenter in the days when custom furniture was a rage. I keep it in use. From what I know though, it is superb to relax on individually or in pairs. Each of the chairs is comfortably wide & the table has held up my dinners & drinks without fail. Oh, about the paired action on the sofa, I forgot to mention that all my neighbors are very progressive. Not many keep a tab of who visits me, particularly if the visitor is a female. And those who try to, well I just point them in the correct direction. That is any direction away from me.
A TV unit occupies an entire wall opposite the sofa. Along with my 2 year old, 29” Sony Bravia, the unit also holds my books in the vertical cupboards on the sides. Trophies of my departmental achievements lie arranged in the glass covered storage
at the bottom. There is a long but open glass top above the TV that runs the length of the unit. It holds three large photographs spaced close to each other. One shows my parents & me cradled in my mother’s arms, the other shows a portrait shot of my grandmother & the third one was taken on my last visit to Dharangaon. The 5 wise men along with Mr.Patil & me. I move down the corridor past the sofa. On the left is the door to the guest room. Right next to it is the kitchen. I get into the first door on the right which is my bedroom. I open the wardrobe to put my holster and the other gun in a drawer. I strip down to my underwear & dump the clothes in a canvas basket by the bed. I would like a bath but I am hungry & in no mood to order food over phone. I take a quick wash in the bathroom & return to the kitchen after putting on a T shirt.
I put two fistfuls of rice in a small pressure cooker, add another fistful of Toor dal to it & rinse the grains under a running tap. After washing the mixture twice, I pour some oil in it directly from the bottle, add some salt & pour water in the cooker till the grains submerge by a height that is equal to the phalange of my index finger. You see, it is an art that has been passed on to me & I try to get it right every time. I fire up the gas stove with an electric lighter & setup the pressure cooker on its burner. It is a two burner stove placed on a long stone kitchen top that is supported by brick work on either side. The place created below it houses the LPG cylinder & few containers where I store my rations. I take a sip of water from the refrigerator & open the window on the opposite side of the kitchen top. I have 15 minutes before the meal is cooked. So I return to the hall. I stretch out on the sofa & think about my day.
The initial jolt of the “Thanda” time was hard. The transfer threat is curdling my brain. Dimag ka dahi. But the surge of adrenalin to lead an investigation was identical to the hot cases. A murder case to solve was a good challenge even if the victim was a footpathiya. Immersing myself into it fully is the only way forward. I will take a decision when the transfer order is handed to me.
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