Club You to Death

by Anuja Chauhan

  His mind turns back to Roshni Aggarwal. Roshni’s ‘secret’ must be connected to her problematic son. Stands to reason.

  Picking up his phone, he calls the criminal data base team at Tis Hazari. ‘We want information on an Aryaman Aggarwal,’ he says. ‘Take down his details.’

  Presently, he hangs up, his mind now on Behra Mehra.

  Mehra’s ‘secret’ is probably to do with young Ganga and her estranged husband. Where is that fellow now? Have he and Ganga broken it off entirely? Or does he still get drunk and visit her? How to find out? He can ask Bambi Todi, but she … she is clearly biased towards the girl. He drums his fingers on the table, then sits bolt upright, his grey hair rumpled.

  ‘PK!’ Bhavani Singh roars. ‘PK!’

  The inspector rushes into the cottage. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Interrogate all the staff at the Todi house next door. Find out if any of them were friendly with Leo Matthew.’

  Padam Kumar snaps to attention. ‘Yes, sir!’

  Bhavani looks him up and down, taking in his height, his broad shoulders, his fair complexion, and the innocent ruddiness of his face. Yes, PK will do. He will do very nicely, actually.

  ‘And one more thing.’ He smiles cosily at the unsuspecting inspector. ‘There is a kirana store inside the club itself, called Daily Needs. Go in there and strike up a conversation with the young lady behind the counter, one Ganga Kumar. Find out, very subtly, who and where her husband is.’

  Padam Kumar baulks. ‘But, sir, how?’

  ‘Arrey, you are meeting a lot of girls nowadays, aren’t you?’ the ACP replies, a touch irascibly. ‘Go meet this one too. She is separated from her husband. Maybe you will fall in love with her. Maybe that is why the Fates have conspired to bring us here!’

  ‘A separated woman!’ Padam Kumar gasps. ‘What are you saying, sir!’

  Brushing off these protests, Bhavani waves the scandalized inspector out of the cottage, then sits back to muse on Urvashi.

  What could her secret be?

  Hadn’t she protested too strongly against his suggestion of intimate photos? Insisted too vehemently that she wasn’t a pathetic middle-aged woman having a mid-life crisis? Because it did make sense for Leo to have been blackmailing her – with the DTC election and Chrysanthemum’s Rs 50 crore funding on the line, the stakes for her had been super high.

  It’s just a question of gathering proof. He presses the intercom.

  ‘Haan, Ram Palat, suno.’

  He gives the young computer operator some instructions. Then he hangs up, sits back on the floral couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table again, crosses his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes.

  ‘Enough,’ he murmurs. ‘Easy does it, Bhavani. Do nat strain. If you strain, all you will get is haemorrhoids of the brain …’

  Meanwhile, Padam Kumar trudges down to Daily Needs, feeling rather awkward and resentful.

  Trust Bhavani sir to make a joke out of everything! He can’t meet just any girl! One with a vanished husband, at that, belonging to God alone knows what caste, having what astrological chart, and what background!

  But when he reaches the store, he perks up slightly. The girl behind the counter, placing a palmful of jasmine flowers into a lapis lazuli bowl before Saraswati ji is as graceful as Saraswati ji herself. She is dressed in a meticulously pleated cream sari, with her black hair oiled and combed into a smooth plait, and gold studs gleaming against her glowing dusky skin. Padam Kumar checks her on the mental shade card he carries inside his head, calibrated from Ajay Devgn to Alia Bhatt, and decides that though she is not as fair as he himself is, she is definitely not on the Devgn side of the scale either.

  This important point settled, he smiles at her, and then, as she smiles inquiringly back, he experiences both a mild electric shock, and an epiphany. She looks just like the girl at the end of the Jungle Book movie – the girl who drops her waterpot to get Mowgli to speak to her.

  ‘Huh hullo ji,’ he manages to say.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice is low and musical, and clearly, she is not uncomfortable with English.

  ‘I … am …’ He licks his lips and looks about the shop. A display of Valentine’s Day cards catches his eye. ‘I am with Archie’s Gallery, akchulli. We are doing a survey. How much interest do you get in consumers for Valentine’s Day?’

  Her eyebrows rise. ‘This is a kirana shop,’ she replies. ‘We don’t get much excitement on Valentine’s Day. Some of the younger crowd – green card members or dependent children – come in and buy chocolates and a few cards or a single-stemmed rose. That’s it.’

  Padam Kumar nods, starting to feel quite pleased with himself. ‘I see, I see … and you, ma’am? What are your plans for Valentine’s Day? Do you, uh … have a date with somebody special?’

  She doesn’t reply, just crosses her arms in front of her chest and stares at him steadily for so long that his face starts to turn red.

  ‘Should I call security?’ she says finally. ‘Or would you prefer to leave quietly with your dignity intact?’

  ‘I … uh … no, no, I’m not a … You are misunderstanding!’

  Her eyebrows rise even higher. ‘Really? You’re from Archie’s Gallery? Can I see some ID?’

  Stung to the quick at being taken for some sort of cheap Lothario, he sullenly pulls out his police ID and lays it on the counter (though not without a flourish).

  The change in expression is dramatic. Her face pales. She seems to shrink. Eyes wide with apprehension, she looks at him as one would a poisonous snake.

  ‘What … what do you want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Padam Kumar says, now feeling rather flustered and foolish. Bhavani sir didn’t specify if he should reveal his identity to the girl or no.

  She stares back at him, uncertainly, dark eyes wide.

  ‘Is it … about the murder?’ she asks. ‘Because I don’t know anything about it!’

  ‘Are you married?’ He gathers the shreds of his dignity to ask.

  Her hand goes to her bosom, brings out the mangalsutra half hidden in the folds of her saree and holds it before her like a talisman. ‘Yes.’

  Padam Kumar feels an entirely disproportionate amount of disappointment at the sight of the black and gold beads.

  ‘Okay,’ he says curtly, then turns on his heel and walks out the shop, his cheeks flaming red.

  DIRTY TRICKS CLUB?

  Elections at the uber exclusive Delhi Turf Club, once a dignified affair, have been turning murkier and murkier in the last decade. This year’s election has already been in the news with stories of one of the candidates for president, Lt Gen. Mehra (retd) PVSM AVSM Yudh Sewa Medal, holding large, lascivious parties with fancy alcohol and fancy women to woo the two thousand-odd permanent members of the club, doing the rounds.

  And now his opponent in the election, Chrysanthemum founder -president Urvashi Khurana is in the news too, after her trainer, with whom she was rumoured to be having an affair, was found dead in the Club’s gym. A connection with the upcoming election cannot be ruled out.

  Businessman Gagan Ruia, who was not allowed to enter the formal dining room at the DTC recently because he was wearing traditional Indian shoes, said, ‘It is clear that the rot runs deep in the DTC’s systems. It needs to be placed under some kind of government control.’

  From: d.bhatti@dtcdelhi.in

  To: dtccorecommittee@dtcdelhi.in▼

  SUB: DTC CORE COMMITTEE MEETING

  Dear Members,

  PFA the attached clipping from the India Post’s ‘Gossip and Gupshup’ section. We need to come up with an action plan to deal with this brewing crisis.

  Equally importantly, a date needs to be fixed for the postponed Club elections. That will be the main agenda of today’s core committee meeting.

  Please be at my residence at 12.30 p.m. sharp. I shall be serving snacks and lunch.

  Warm rega
rds,

  Devendar Bhatti

  President

  ‘What do you think we should do, Balbir?’

  The core committee is sitting in Devendar Bhatti’s large, well-lit living room, sipping Scotch or nimbu pani as per their medical restrictions, in pleasant anticipation of more solid sustenance to follow. Their average age is sixty-five-plus.

  ‘I think you should postpone the election by a couple of months, sir,’ Brig. Dogra says at once. ‘I mean no offence to either candidate, but any one of them could be involved in this thing up to their eyeballs, and our by-laws state quite clearly that nobody embroiled in a criminal case can stand for Club election till they are clean-chitted.’

  ‘Or we could hold the election with two new candidates,’ murmurs Bambi’s father, industrialist Pankaj Todi – a short, fat, very fair man with a smoothly shaven head, long-lashed, beautiful eyes and fleshy lips. ‘Gen. Mehra and Urvashi can take their chances next time around, when this whole jhamela has blown over. What d’you say, Bhatti?’

  Bhatti looks at Todi with open hostility. ‘You are the reason we are in this situation in the first place,’ he says. ‘If you hadn’t brought that clown Gagan Ruia to the Club, then he couldn’t have kicked up such a fuss about his ruddy juttis, and we would still be flying under the government’s radar like we’ve been doing for seventy years!’

  Todi’s jaw drops at this blunt attack. ‘But I was just trying to … help the Club,’ he says. ‘Matlab, being on good terms with the current dispensation is important, isn’t it?’ He looks appealingly about the room.

  There is a subdued, but unanimous murmur of agreement from the rest of the gathering.

  Bhatti’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down agitatedly. ‘Crass commercialism!’ he says slightly incoherently. ‘Populism! Majoritarianism!’

  Behra Mehra puts down his drink and sits forward. ‘You’re being a little naive, Bhatti,’ he says smoothly. ‘Like it or not, the IJP is firmly in the saddle now, and going to be calling the political shots for a while. A good club president would understand that it pays to be on their right side.’

  Bhatti makes a sound that is half-snort, half-squawk. ‘And you’re that “good club president” I presume? Because Gagan Ruia’s father and you are as thick as thieves!’

  Mehra bows. ‘I have been privileged enough to serve under Ruia bhai, and yes, we do have a good equation. I think that can only help the Club.’

  ‘He does have a point, Bhatti,’ rumbles Balbir Dogra. ‘It would be in the interests of the Club to have a sycophant like Mehra as president. I’d vote for him.’

  Mehra, not sure if he should be insulted or pleased, wisely decides to turn his famous deaf ear to this remark.

  Bhatti gives a finicky little nod. ‘Very well. I shall anyway be spending more time at the IIC once my term is done! So, coming back to the point – should we postpone the election by two months or choose two fresh candidates as Todi suggests?’

  ‘Postpone by two months,’ Mehra says decidedly. ‘The lovely Urvashi is, of course, forever young and beautifully immortal’ – he bows gallantly in her direction – ‘but I may not even be alive two years from now! I want to take my chances this year.’

  ‘Well, you’ve blown up so much dosh on expensive parties, it makes sense for you to collect on it now, when it’s still fresh in people’s minds,’ Balbir Dogra says bluntly. ‘In two years these buggers are quite capable of demanding a whole new round of parties from you.’

  Mehra throws back his head and laughs, baring large, yellow teeth. ‘Brilliantly put, sir!’

  ‘The general overestimates both my youth and my beauty.’ Urvashi smiles tightly. ‘I too, would like to contest this year – if you could continue for perhaps a month or two more, Devendar, I would be so grateful.’

  There is a general chorus of agreement from around the room.

  ‘Very well, very well, at your kind insistence, I will continue in this post for two months more.’ Bhatti smiles thinly. ‘Ah, here come the snacks!’

  A rather elderly looking bearer comes in with tray of appetizing-looking starters. Sizzling, crispy kebabs, loaded, multicoloured canapes and garden-fresh vegetables served with a creamy dip. Everybody digs in.

  ‘Amazing dip, Bhatti!’

  ‘Is that mutton? Or beef? It’s buff! You’re serving buff with an IJP government in power, you crazy bastard!’

  ‘You’re welcome not to eat any,’ Devendar Bhatti says with a sly wink.

  ‘Give it here! Oh, delicious! Try some, Urvashi!’

  ‘Thank you – I am enjoying these delicious vegetables! So very fresh!’

  Bhatti’s face brightens. ‘All the vegetables here are from the DTC’s organic kitchen garden!’

  ‘Set up by Todi Corp when my wife was on the horticulture committee,’ puts in Pankaj Todi.

  ‘And me,’ Behra Mehra says at once. ‘I was on the horticulture committee with her! We set up that garden together!’

  ‘Then you can both take a bow,’ Urvashi says smilingly. ‘These beetroot canapes are delicious! Such a deep, rich red colour! What’s the secret ingredient?’

  Todi and Mehra look at each other hesitantly.

  ‘What?’ Urvashi asks, lowering a half-eaten ruby-red canape from her mouth. ‘What is it?’

  The general nudges the industrialist. ‘You tell the lady, Todi.’

  Pankaj Todi pats his fleshy lip with a napkin then leans forward. ‘Well, good old Guppie Ram – the old maali you know, God rest his soul – was sometimes sighted er … irrigating the vegetables with his personal, patented fertilizer!’

  Urvashi’s eyes widen suspiciously. She puts the canape down. ‘Matlab?’

  ‘Matlab, the chap was a raging alcoholic and not above pissing into the plants!’ Behra Mehra says.

  ‘Ewww!’ Urvashi puts her plate away, looking queasy.

  The two men roar with laughter.

  But Devendar Bhatti is not amused. ‘Urvashi, please, the man’s been dead for a year or more. There is no way he could’ve urinated over this current crop of beetroot! It’s such a deep red because the gardeners put so much onion peel in the compost, that’s all! Urvashi!’

  But she has already put a hand to her mouth and rushed out of the room. The men all look at each other.

  ‘How can this lady run the club?’ Todi asks in a low voice. ‘Seriously? She’s much too delicate!’

  ‘You’re a crass fool, Todi!’ Devendar Bhatti snaps angrily. ‘Urvashi Khurana is a highly intelligent woman with a strong sense of aesthetics—’

  ‘Which is why she married Mukki!’ Somebody sniggers.

  ‘And unlike you, Todi the toady, who can’t think beyond toadying up to the Ruias, she has a great vision for the club!’ Bhatti concludes forcefully.

  ‘What’s her great vision, I would like to know?’ Mehra demands. ‘All she wants to do is set up a new rainwater-harvesting system!’

  Urvashi re-enters the room, perfectly composed, and takes her seat.

  ‘Did someone say rainwater harvesting?’ she enquires as she picks up her Scotch and soda and gives it a rather militant swirl. ‘You, general?’

  ‘The Club doesn’t need a new rainwater-harvesting system.’ Mehra picks up the cudgels at once. ‘The current system is quite adequate.’

  Urvashi’s clear, beautiful eyes start to sparkle. ‘Are you serious? The current system is a joke! The new one will halve our water bill!’

  ‘You just want to make me look small!’ Mehra roars. ‘That garden is dedicated to my dead wife, madam! It’s named after her – The Shrimati Savitri Mehra Udyaan!’

  Her eyebrows rise. ‘I assure you I have no such intention! It’s just that the assessment team recommended the kitchen garden – because it’s low-lying, and perfectly accessible to all the run-off pipes. They say it’s the cheapest and best spot. And so, though we all know how much you loved your wife—’


  His eyes bug out. ‘Are you being sarcastic, madam?’

  ‘What?’ Urvashi draws back, startled. ‘No! No at all!’

  ‘Because I will not tolerate any disrespect to my spouse!’ Behra Mehra waggles a celery stick in her face.

  Urvashi’s eyes kindle. ‘Well then, general, you should think twice before disrespecting other people’s spouses! What the hell do you mean by telling the ACP that Mukesh has a mental health issue?’

  There is a collective intake of breath at this. Mehra looks a little ashamed of himself.

  Backing down a little he mutters, ‘I was just genuinely concerned … for Mukesh. He behaved so oddly during tambola that day.’

  Urvashi gives a short, disbelieving laugh.

  There is tense silence.

  ‘What do you want?’ Mehra says finally, offensively. ‘An apology? For voicing genuine concern about your husband’s mental state?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods, as regal as a queen. ‘And for spreading rumours about my affair with Leo Matthew! A double apology!’

  Mehra licks his lips. ‘Well, you aren’t going to get it.’

  ‘Just do the gentlemanly thing and apologize, Mehra,’ Bhatti says testily. ‘You’ve no business gossiping about Urvashi.’

  ‘Well she has no business to trying to desecrate a garden laid in my wife’s memory!’

  ‘Yes, but if you win the election, she won’t be able to!’ Bhatti sounds quite fed-up. ‘So why not just beat her in a fair fight and leave it at that?’

  Urvashi gives a tinkling little laugh. ‘Gen. Mehra hasn’t fought fair in his life.’

  The general stares. ‘What do you mean by that, madam?’ he demands. There is actual foam on his lips.

  Urvashi looks amused. ‘Exactly what I said,’ she says coolly. ‘You prefer to have an unfair advantage over people.’

  He leans forward. This is his game face. The one that Amitabh Bachchan had so much trouble replicating in Jhelum Bridge. ‘What are you alluding to?’ he hisses.