A Cut-Like Wound

by Anita Nair

Gowda winced and then smiled. He’d been called Mudde Gowda at college. For a while he had been the star of the basketball court, his lean, lanky frame cutting through the defenders and slicing the air as he leapt. Shooting baskets with an ease that forever after would be his early morning dream. The lift, the heave, that amazing grace.

  ‘It’s all that bloody ragi mudde he’s been fed as a child,’ someone had overheard the visiting college captain muttering. And the name had stuck. Mudde Gowda. Ball Gowda. Gowda with the balls to grab the ball.

  ‘It was the most horrible thing I ever saw, Bob, and I thought I had seen it all in my years of service in the fire brigade in Melbourne.’ Michael’s voice drifted away as he stepped back in time to the roadside near the grove.

  ‘We have to do this formally. I think I should ask my colleague to take your statement,’ Gowda said softly.

  ‘When do we meet?’

  ‘Anytime you want. Just give me a shout,’ Gowda replied.

  Gowda’s phone rang. Michael’s eyebrows rose at the ring tone. ‘Kabhi kabhi…’ a song that Gowda had made an anthem in those college years when his world had revolved around two things: the basketball court and Urmila.

  Every day after college, Gowda and his gang, including Michael, would walk down to Breeze on Brigade Road. The jukebox there was a point to congregate around and each of them had his own favourite. Michael had Neil Diamond’s ‘Cracklin Rosie’ and ‘Song sung blue’, Satish ABBA’s ‘Dancing queen’, Imitiaz Boney M’s ‘Rasputin’. And every day Gowda would complain about jukeboxes that pandered to colonial tastes and forgot that Indians may want to listen to Indian music.

  ‘Like what,’ Satish asked one evening.

  ‘“Kabhi kabhi”, what else,’ Imitiaz laughed.

  ‘Don’t you tire of hearing that song, Mudde,’ Michael asked curiously.

  ‘Bugger off, guys,’ Gowda said with remarkable calm. You couldn’t rile Gowda those days, no matter how hard you tried.

  Later, Gowda would peel himself from the gang and go to the restaurant on the first floor of Nilgiris where Urmila would be waiting for him.

  Gowda, Michael thought, had forsaken both basketball and Urmila but perhaps not…

  ‘You know she’s back in Bangalore, don’t you?’ he murmured.

  Gowda stiffened. Then he affected a casual ease into his flesh and voice. ‘Who?’

  ‘Urmila. Are you telling me you’ve forgotten her?’

  ‘I haven’t. It’s been a long time … But how do you know?’

  ‘Facebook.’ Michael grinned. ‘We discovered each other on it…’

  ‘Oh!’ Gowda said, too ashamed to admit that he had heard about Facebook but didn’t know how it worked. Everyone he knew seemed to treat their computer like a slave, a pet, a companion, a minion that made life easier. Computers and he were on nodding acquaintance at best.

  ‘You are not on Facebook, are you?’ Michael asked suddenly.

  ‘I don’t have the time…’ Gowda put on his official voice, a bite with each syllable, then paused. What the fuck was he doing? This was his friend. Not a subordinate or an accused. ‘I am a bloody dinosaur,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s like the world changed when I wasn’t looking and I don’t know where to begin to comprehend the change. I don’t even know what this thing called Facebook is.’

  Into the silence that followed Gowda’s declaration, Santosh walked in and said, ‘Sir, the station called…’

  Gowda turned to him, eager to escape. ‘You’d better take his statement.’

  At home that night, Gowda sat in the veranda. He had studiously avoided pouring himself a drink. He could hear laughter from above. What did they laugh about so much?

  He rose and went to put on the stereo. Last night’s CD was still in it. As if on cue, the strains of Mukesh singing ‘Kabhi kabhi’ floated into the veranda and filled his head. Something lodged in his chest. He tried very hard not to think of her but Michael had brought it all back. He had been nineteen when he first met Urmila … He shook his head, trying to dispel his thoughts, when suddenly another laugh rang through the air.

  The ensuing silence filled Gowda with disquiet. That’s it, Gowda decided. He would get a dog, whether Mamtha agreed or not.

  Gowda laughed aloud, imagining the expression on Michael’s face when he told him, ‘Meet Inspector Roby. He was top dog in the narcotics department.’

  Michael would seize on the pun immediately.

  God, how he missed all of that. The asinine word games that Michael and he had played during their college years. The fools in this life he led now wouldn’t recognize a pun if it stood before them with a tea cosy on its head, waving its arms…

  All these years it hadn’t mattered that he inhabited a different world from the one he had envisioned for himself. But this evening, ever since the meeting with Michael, it was as if everything about him and his life had been held up for scrutiny and found wanting.

  His phone burst into song. Gowda frowned. He glanced at his watch. It was one of his informers from the time he had been in the Crime Branch. What was he calling about so late at night?

  ‘Tell me,’ he murmured into the phone.

  ‘Sir, Gowda sir…’ The voice was hesitant. Unsure.

  ‘What is it, Mohammed? Go on…’

  FRIDAY, 5 AUGUST

  By now Gowda had worked out every moment to perfection in his head. The corner was important. It couldn’t be just any corner of any room. The corner had to be flanked by two cupboards. Preferably the olive-green steel Godrejs. Or even a grey metal filing cabinet. The purpose was to create an alcove in which the man would be forced to crouch with no room to escape.

  Then there were the boots with spikes. Sturdy black leather boots polished to a gleam, with dagger points for spikes. When he slipped the boots on, they would hug his feet and ankles, so when he stretched his leg and kicked the creature in the corner, he would feel the impact at the back of his skull.

  The impact of all eighty-three kilograms of him slamming into a spot. The crunch of metal against bone. The shredding of skin and laceration of flesh. Kick. Kick. Kick. Till it screamed for mercy.

  Gowda tried hard not to slouch, and allowed his pet fantasy free rein. This time the man in the corner had a face. Assistant Commissioner of Police Vidyaprasad. IPS Cadre.

  Gowda had known a few fine IPS officers in his time. But ACP Vidyaprasad was not someone Gowda could summon any deference for, let alone admiration or respect. The man was a bloody joke. And what added to Gowda’s ire was the thought that this fool was so much younger than him, with not even half the experience Gowda had in the field. And yet the ACP talked down to Gowda as if he were a recalcitrant child who needed to be made to toe the line.

  ‘What’s this I hear about you going to meet the witness in his house?’ the ACP snapped. The senior officer had summoned Gowda to his office for his monthly quota of advice, recrimination and threats.

  ‘Why? Is something wrong with that? I have always seen that a witness is less guarded in his own environment.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘What?’ Gowda asked carefully.

  ‘When you talk to me, you need to say sir. Do I have to remind you that I am your senior officer?’

  ‘Oh!’An image swam into Gowda’s mind: the howl of pain from the ACP’s smashed mouth as Gowda’s boots slammed into his ribs once again. It offered a soupcon of comfort that would allow him to mouth the hated ‘sir’. With a devilish gleam in his eye, Gowda murmured, ‘Sir, if that’s all, sir, may I, sir, leave now, sir?’

  The ACP frowned. Was he being ridiculed? Gowda was a problem. Always had been. The man was a good police officer. If only he would stick to procedures and established police practices. Instead, he made it hard for himself and the department by choosing to do as he saw fit. Surely the man should know by now when he ought to back off.

  The wireless crackled. The ACP cocked an ear. Gowda sighed.

  ‘What about that burns case? Don’t waste too much of the depa
rtment’s time on that, do you hear me? Close it as quickly as you can. There’s no need to waste the department’s time or money on scum.’ The ACP flicked the case sheet in front of him and peered at the name. ‘You don’t even have a name for him, I see. This lowlife is of no consequence, alive or dead.’

  ‘A man was murdered. Whether he’s a lowlife or not shouldn’t matter,’ Gowda spoke quietly.

  ‘That’s precisely it. He is … no, was lowlife.’

  ‘That’s beside the point.’

  The ACP’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know, as I do, that it’s going to be a C report. We have nothing to take it forward with. Not even a missing person’s complaint. What I am pointing out to you, if you want to know, is the likelihood of the DCP coming down on me. I don’t want to have to answer for your squandering of time and resources. Besides, it’s Ganesh Chaturthi soon. Do you realize that half of Bangalore is going to descend on the lakes near your station house to immerse their Ganeshas?’

  Gowda thought of the giant painted Ganeshas; pink torso-ed, with painted-on gold jewellery and green robes, mounted on a truck and led through the roads with much singing and dancing to the lakes in his station zone. Ganeshas who would dissolve into a heap of mud and carcinogens, killing the fish and polluting the water. For which he was to stand guard and aid the process. Gowda grimaced.

  ‘I want you to concentrate on law and order for that week when the Ganesha immersion begins.’

  ‘It’s almost a month away…’ Gowda murmured.

  ‘Well then, there’s Independence Day coming up … And there’s some information on illegal betting in your jurisdiction area. There’s a great deal you need to do, Gowda.’

  Gowda stared into the middle distance. On the wall behind the ACP’s chair were a few framed photographs. The national leaders at their benevolent best. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something,’ Gowda said suddenly.

  ‘What?’ The ACP tried to fathom Gowda’s expression.

  ‘Why do you have these photographs here?’

  The ACP counted to ten under his breath. ‘Go, Gowda, just leave, will you?’

  When Gowda was out of the room, the ACP pulled out a strip of Deanxit and popped one. How could any man get under his skin with such little effort?

  Gowda glanced at his watch. He had asked Mohammed to meet him at Chandrika, at the junction of Cunningham Road and Millers Road. No one would recognize Mohammed there. Or him for that matter. He smiled as he thought of the expression on the ACP’s face. He had known his question would have the ACP foaming at the mouth. And that he would be asked to leave.

  No one looked kindly on informers, not even their own families. And Mohammed was scared that if he was discovered, the wrath of the powers that controlled Shivaji Nagar would descend not just on him but on his biwi and their children. And so, when it had seemed that the ACP was going to keep him there all morning, Gowda had known it was time to speed things up. He grinned, thinking of the play of emotions on the ACP’s face as he walked out of the room.

  Gowda saw Mohammed enter the restaurant. He stood by the cash counter, his eyes darting this way and that, swooping on each face and discarding. In the twelve years of their association, Gowda and Mohammed had met only five times, and each time they had spent barely fifteen minutes together. Gowda sipped his coffee and waited. Mohammed would eventually spot him. A few minutes later, Mohammed stood at his table. ‘Sir, I didn’t recognize…’

  ‘Sit down, Mohammed.’

  The vendor hesitated, then, seeing the impatience in Gowda’s eyes, he pulled out a chair and perched on it gingerly.

  ‘When did he go missing,’ Gowda asked quietly.

  A waited sidled up to their table.

  ‘What will you have?’ Gowda asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Mohammed shook his head.

  ‘Get him a badam milk. You like that, don’t you?’ Gowda said.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Our badam milk is very good,’ the boy said, shoving his pencil behind his ear. ‘Nothing to eat?’

  Gowda wanted to box his ears. ‘Just get the drink,’ he growled.

  Mohammed looked down on his hands that rested on the table top. ‘Sir, I am fasting … it’s Ramzan.’

  Gowda nodded. ‘That’s fine. I’ll drink it. So, when did this boy go missing?’

  ‘I saw Liaquat on Monday night. It was late. I asked him to go home with me. He had been shooting up. The boy seemed unhinged. I was afraid he would get into trouble … he hasn’t come home yet.’

  Gowda nodded. ‘But that’s not all, is it?’

  ‘Someone said they saw him go into the lane near Siddiq’s Garage. It is a small lane with a dead end. I don’t even know why I went there. But I did, and I found this.’ Mohammed laid out a silver talisman on a black thread. ‘This is his. I got it blessed by the mullah at the dargah near my home in Bijapur. Liaquat’s from there. That’s why I feel responsible for him. He’s only nineteen.’

  Gowda touched the talisman thoughtfully. ‘You’ll have to come with me. A body has been found. A young boy, of about that age. No one’s come forward to claim it. I hope it’s not your Liaquat but we need to start somewhere.’

  Mohammed put his head in his hands.

  ‘Walk up Millers Road near the Carmel College ground. I’ll pick you up from there.’

  Mohammed didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His face was ashen. His lower lip wobbled as he sought to bring some control to his emotions. ‘Why, sir?’ he whispered after a while. ‘Why would anyone do this?’

  Gowda shrugged. ‘Are you sure this is Liaquat?’

  Mohammed nodded. ‘Liaquat had a sixth finger on his left hand. It was attached to his thumb. There was an extra toe on his left foot too. And he was the same height and build as this…’ He gestured to the nearly charred corpse laid out in the mortuary.

  ‘No one has come forward to claim the body,’ Gowda said quietly.

  ‘No one will,’ Mohammed mumbled. ‘Liaquat’s an orphan and Razak’s in jail.’

  ‘Who? Chicken Razak?’

  Mohammed looked away. ‘Hmm…’ His voice dipped again. ‘Liaquat was Razak’s frooter.’

  Gowda frowned. Razak’s catamite. That changed things. Was this part of a gang war? The homicide showed all indications of it, right down to the manner in which they had tried to dispose of the body. Yet, somewhere in Gowda niggled a worm of disquiet. What about the manja string? And Kothandaraman, the other victim – what could he have had to do with rowdy gangs? Twenty-four years of police experience had honed his instincts to follow a hunch when he had one. In this case and Kothandaraman’s, that was all he had to go on.

  ‘What happens if no one claims the body?’ Mohammed asked suddenly.

  ‘It will be sent to the crematorium.’ Gowda sighed.

  ‘Would I be able to claim the body?’ Mohammed looked up at Gowda. ‘We are from the same village. He’s a Muslim, sir. He has to be buried according to our customs. It is against our religion for the body to be cremated. We have to bury the body quickly, before it is night. That is what our religion says we must do.’

  Nineteen. A boy. His son was the same age. What if it had been Roshan? How would he have borne it? Gowda shuddered. ‘You’ll have to claim some kinship. Tell everyone he’s your uncle’s son and I’ll take care of the rest. The attendant here is a Muslim. I’ll have him wrap the body in a white cloth so you can do the ghusl without having to take the kafan off.’

  Gowda took out his wallet and pulled out two thousand-rupee notes. ‘I know this will not be enough but this is all I have with me now.’

  Mohammed’s eyes filled. ‘You are a good man, Gowda sir. Our religion teaches us to take care of orphans. We are promised the companionship of the Prophet in jannat. But that you should do this…’

  ‘Do you think there are separate heavens for Hindus and Muslims, Mohammed?’

  ‘I have embarrassed you,’ Mohammed said quietly. ‘I just want you to know that God, yours or mine, wherever he is, in my heaven o
r yours, will remember this. Like he will not spare the devil who did this to Liaquat. Liaquat was a rascal. He was silly and unscrupulous at times. But he was a boy. No one deserves to die like he has. Were they men or beasts?’

  Gowda patted the man on his shoulder.

  ‘Someone will have to tell Razak,’ Mohammed said, as they finished the formalities.

  Gowda ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I will have that organized, Mohammed,’ he said on a whim. ‘Ask around, will you? See if anyone remembers anything from that night.’

  He watched as Mohammed and the remains of what was once Liaquat drove away in the hearse.

  Gowda felt a strange desolation wash over him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost four. Santosh would be back with the photographer’s statement. Not that either his or Michael’s statements were going to provide any leads.

  Gowda scrolled down the contacts in his phone.

  ‘Ashok,’ he barked. ‘I want you to look up something for me.’

  ‘How about a hello first?’ Ashok’s indignation bristled through.

  ‘Hello, Ashok. How are you? How are the babies and the missus? What about your grandmother? Oh, and I forgot, her cow? How’s the postman, and the vegetable vendor?’

  ‘Gowda, give it a rest.’ Ashok sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tell me everything you know and can find out about Chicken Razak.’

  ‘He’s in jail. Why?’

  ‘The truth is, Ashok, I don’t know. I may be wasting your time and mine. But until I have the information you can give me, I won’t know…’

  ‘Next week then.’

  ‘No, tomorrow,’ Gowda retorted.

  ‘What?’ Ashok yelped.

  ‘Will be there at four. See you then,’ Gowda said and walked to his motorbike.

  He stood looking at it with a small smile. When nothing seemed to go right, when everything else failed, when he felt old and wrung out, looking at his bullet brought him succour. God, how he loved this bike!

  The world could keep its Harleys and R1 Yamahas. It was only the Bullet that did it for him. Make him feel as if it were an extension of himself. From the smooth curve of the petrol tank to the unflinching tiger-eye lamp that threw light into nooks and corners of the alleyways to the beast-like growl of the 500cc engine producing 41.3Nm of torque.