by Anita Nair
The address had been patchy. A door number in Kelesanahalli. Gowda rode his Bullet into the dirt roads that led off the main road. The house was in the middle of a chikkoo grove. A two-storeyed house with peeling paint. An old Maruti van was parked outside and a couple of 100cc bikes.
A few hens scratched in the dirt outside the house and a cat sat sunning itself on a wall. As Gowda rode in through the gates, he saw an old woman go into the house. That would be the landlord’s mother.
Gowda parked his bike and went up the staircase to the first floor. He rang the bell.
Osagie himself opened the door. He looked terrified at the sight of a man in uniform at his doorstep. He hastened to shut the door but Gowda held it back firmly. They looked at each other till Osagie dropped his gaze.
He stepped back and said, ‘I … we…’
‘I can do this standing here or I can come in and do it without your landlord wondering what is going on,’ Gowda said in an even voice.
Osagie opened the door wider and beckoned Gowda to follow him.
Gowda looked around him carefully. The room smelt warm and sweet, of something organic and of food cooking. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon light. Or were they seeking to protect themselves from prying eyes? His eyes drifted to the African masks on a wall. A gigantic bronze plate sat on a table. A window sill was adorned with a row of brass animals. Otherwise it was just another living room with a few chairs and a small rug on the floor.
A young African woman came in from an inner room. She was wearing a white T-shirt, against which her breasts thrust, and a pair of tiny shorts. She had a bandana wound around her frizzy hair and she held a towel in her hand. She was saying something but stopped when she saw Gowda.
‘So this is Adesuwa, your wife?’ Gowda said.
Osagie and Adesuwa glanced at each other. It was Osagie who spoke. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I am Gowda. Inspector Borei Gowda.’
‘We have done nothing wrong.’ The woman’s voice was shrill.
‘Ade,’ Osagie’s deep treacley voice halted his wife’s denial of guilt.
Gowda took a deep breath. ‘I want the two of you to listen to me. I had you looked up…’
Adesuwa opened her mouth to speak.
‘Don’t,’ Gowda said, fixing his gaze on her. ‘Don’t interrupt me.’
He turned to Osagie. ‘Both your wife and you are being watched. One of these days you will make a mistake and the vice squad will pounce on you. But that is not why I am here. What concerns me is your association with my son. I want you to stay clear of my son Roshan. And I want you to tell your friends and associates to stay clear of him. Neither you nor they will sell him any drugs. Do you understand what I am saying?
‘I know that your wife’s visa has run out. I am not even getting into that. But if I discover that you have continued to associate with my son and have sold him drugs, it won’t take me very long to have your wife deported. And then to round up your friends, associates, anyone you have met in the course of your stay here. I will make it impossible for you to live here. I hope I have made myself clear.’
He went down the stairs briskly. There was no certainty that Roshan wouldn’t find another supplier. But he had to do this for himself as much as for Roshan. It was what a father did: watch out for his son.
He called early that morning. But she didn’t take the call. He texted her. But she didn’t respond. She wasn’t Bhuvana then. But at night, she sat in her room and laid out a skin to crawl into. She became Bhuvana, the name she had given him; she became the woman the two of them so wanted her to be.
She pressed the key ever so gently. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Bhuvana?’ his voice asked urgently.
‘Yes, it’s me, Sanjay.’ She said his name as if it were an endearment.
‘I tried calling you this morning. I texted you. You didn’t respond to either. I really was worried. I was going to turn up at your hostel tomorrow.’
A conflagration of feelings. Her fingers gripped the phone tightly.
‘Bhuvana, you’ve gone silent,’ he asked.
‘I can’t talk or text when I am at work,’ she said. ‘They don’t like any of us using our mobile phones. And I’m new there. So…’
‘I understand.’ His voice softened. ‘But you can text a word or two in the lunch break. You have one, don’t you?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I will try,’ she said. ‘This is the best time though.’
‘Shall I come tomorrow to your hostel? It’s a Sunday. You won’t be working, will you? We could go for a coffee and tiffin. Do you like masala dosas? I know some really nice places…’
‘No, no,’ she cut in. ‘My brother, I mean, my cousin was really annoyed when I left last evening without waiting for him. He’s going to pick me up every evening, he said. And I have to go to their home tomorrow. I am to spend the night there. Monday is a holiday…’
‘Oh yes, Independence Day. I forgot,’ he muttered. Then, after a pause, ‘Is this cousin married?’
She smiled at herself in the mirror. ‘No, and…’
‘And he sees you as his would-be.’ Sanjay’s voice was harsh with resentment.
She nodded. In the mirror she saw the girl she had become. Tremulous creature, but so needing to let him know that he was all she wanted. ‘He’s behaving as if I am … But,’ she paused, knowing he would seize on that pause.
‘But you don’t like him?’
‘I don’t,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He’s a short man. You know how short men are! But it’s not that he is short or has curly hair and sometimes a squint. What I don’t like is the way he is. So full of himself. So full of pride.’
He sniggered. ‘Most short men are. As if to make up for the lack of inches.’
‘So you see…’ she murmured.
‘Shall I come to your hostel on Tuesday then?’
She caught her breath in a little gasp. In the mirror, she was the girl flustered. Eyes wide, lips parted, her fingers fluttering to her mouth.
‘No, no, you mustn’t … He has spies everywhere. They’ll tell him. And he’s dangerous!’
‘What, that little peanut?’ He laughed aloud. ‘You really think I would be afraid.’
She could imagine him flexing his muscles. She felt a wave of tenderness. He was a little boy after all.
‘Please, you mustn’t underestimate him. He has connections. He knows all kinds of people. I won’t talk to you again if you take silly risks.’ The woman in the mirror pouted.
‘Fine. But how am I to see you?’
She put her hand on her hip. Decisive girl. ‘I’ll call you. Maybe on Friday evening next week. He said he is busy most Friday evenings. Which is why he was late yesterday.’
‘Does peanut have a name? I don’t like you referring to him as though he is your bloody husband.’
She giggled. ‘Chikka,’ she said.
‘Perfect for a peanut. Chikka!’
He told her of his day. She told him of her imagined day. They progressed to endearments and jokes. Then he sang her a song. She held the phone to her ear and forgot about all that life tormented her with.
She was still smiling when she put down the phone.
‘Who were you talking to?’ Akka demanded from the door.
Shutters came down in her eyes.
‘No one,’ he said, reverting to being who he was.
Akka stood there looking at him. ‘You will get hurt,’ the elderly eunuch said. ‘You know you will. Then why?’
‘How can I help myself?’ he asked. He placed the phone down on the dressing table and leaned towards the mirror. In there was the girl Sanjay had fallen in love with. In there was Bhuvana, who had tossed caution to the winds and made a gift of her heart.
SUNDAY, 14 AUGUST
Roshan watched his father chew his breakfast thoughtfully. ‘What’s wrong, Appa?’ he asked.
Gowda looked up from his plate of idli-sambar and
said nothing.
Roshan’s face fell. ‘Is it me, Appa? Have I done something wrong?’
‘No, no…’ Gowda shook himself out of his reverie to answer his son. ‘Nothing to do with you, Roshan. Just troubled by a case I am working on.’
And the fact that this thing with Urmila was getting a little too hot to handle. It was like holding a hot potato. He didn’t want to let go, but it would burn his fingers if he didn’t.
Gowda saw Roshan’s face clear and felt something akin to guilt wash over him. At what he had done to turn his son into this fragile creature so afraid of his censure and so needy of his approval.
‘Appa, the driving lessons,’ Roshan said. ‘Can we postpone it for the next time? I have to go back later today.’
Gowda had forgotten all about the offer he had made Roshan. He closed his eyes in an attempt to pull himself together. What am I? If I were to draw up a chart about myself, what would it say? Lousy cop. Lousy father. Lousy husband. Lousy lover…
‘Appa, you are not upset, are you? But my classes start on Tuesday and I need a day to organize things,’ Roshan added, seeing his father’s face cloud.
Gowda reached across and patted his son’s hand. ‘When you come back next time, we’ll start. You just need a couple of hours behind the wheel and you’ll be fine. It’s simple. Any fool can do it. It’s no rocket science.’
His reward: the light in the boy’s eyes.
‘Appa, I’m sure you will be able to crack the case,’ Roshan said, clasping his father’s fingers.
Gowda looked away. How easy it was to be loved if only one could learn to show love. Was that where he went wrong? Keeping it all locked within?
He had been right to not confront Roshan. Perhaps when their relationship was on a stronger plane, he would. But until then, he would pretend he didn’t know that Roshan smoked up.
‘I used to smoke grass in college,’ Gowda said suddenly. ‘My friends and I did an occasional joint.’
Roshan frowned.
‘But I knew when to stop. I didn’t want it to take over my life.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Roshan asked carefully.
Gowda shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just felt like I should.’
When his mobile rang, Gowda reached for it gratefully. When his mind churned, and the debris from his past and dilemmas of his present turned into a whirling frothing mass, the call of work was an escape from making sense of his life. From needing to address the mistakes and perhaps mend them. Gowda knew it was cowardice, but he didn’t want to go down that path. One day he would. For now, he barked into the phone. ‘Yes Santosh, tell me…’
Roshan watched his father’s expression change from his habitual blandness to incredulous horror.
‘Yes, of course,’ Gowda murmured. ‘I’ll come right away.’
Roshan spooned a dollop of chutney onto his plate. ‘So you have to go?’ he asked, as his father put down his mobile phone.
Gowda nodded. ‘What time is your bus?’
‘I’ll find one at the KSRTC bus stand. I think there is a bus every hour to Hassan. So don’t worry. I’ll find my way home.’
Gowda flinched. Home. The boy saw Hassan as home. And not this house where his father was. ‘Oh,’ he said quietly.
Probably realizing what he had said, Roshan smiled and added, ‘I’ll come back home when I have a three-day weekend. Will you give me driving lessons then?’
Gowda stood up. He walked towards the boy and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I will. Now you take care. And study … and come back soon.’
Roshan stood up and hugged his father. Gowda was startled by the unexpected hug. He didn’t speak but hugged him back.
Gowda’s phone beeped. He sensed it was Urmila. She had taken to texting him early.
‘Do you need any money?’ Gowda asked. Then, opening his wallet, he pulled out a 500-rupee note and gave it to the boy. ‘Buy a book or some music…’ he said. Please not any dope. Please. Please.
Gowda stepped outside the house and checked his message. GM darling, r we meeting 2da? she had asked.
GM U, will let you know, he texted furiously. His text language wasn’t as adept as hers. Until Urmila, he had used texts rarely. He watched the text float away and looked up. Roshan was watching from the door. He swallowed and swung his leg over his Bullet. He turned on the ignition and the dthuk dthuk sound filled the silence that stretched between father and son.
Santosh had called to say that the control room had reported a murder at Dodda Banaswadi. A young man with a slit throat. ‘I thought you should know. Maybe it has some connection to our case,’ Santosh had said, unable to hide his excitement.
At the station, Santosh was waiting.
‘We’ll go on my bike,’ Gowda said. ‘There’s a spare helmet in the station. Ask Byrappa. He’ll know where it is.’
Santosh pulled the helmet on and perched on the Bullet. After his 150cc bike, this felt like sitting on a horse. A sound, sturdy horse that wouldn’t miss a step. No matter how bad the roads were or how the traffic pressed upon them.
There was a crowd gathered outside the house. Two police vehicles and a posse of policemen were keeping it under control. The wireless in one of the Boleros crackled. Gowda parked the bike and the two men walked towards the group. One of the policemen saw the three stars and the red-and-blue ribbon on the outer edge of Gowda’s shoulder straps and nudged the others. They sprang to attention, saluting. Santosh felt a flush of pride. No matter what he may think of Gowda, the man had a certain presence.
‘Sir, Inspector Lakshman’s there,’ the constable said. ‘Upstairs. At the crime scene.’
Gowda nodded at the constable and unlatched the gate. It opened with a long drawn out creak. A bike was parked to the side of the house and a flight of stairs led up to the first floor. Gowda climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he turned to Santosh and gestured for him to follow.
‘The upstairs portion was designated for tenants. For a small family,’ the landlord was explaining as Gowda arrived. He was sitting on a chair, ashen-faced, still unable to believe that a murder had been committed even as he and his family had eaten their dinner, watched TV and gone to sleep downstairs. ‘And Kiran was a good boy. His uncle’s a friend of mine and so I didn’t worry too much that he was a bachelor. He was well-mannered, god-fearing, and no habits … if you know what I mean,’ he added. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand who could have done this to him. And why?’
Gowda looked around. The first floor was a large terrace on which two rooms had been built with a provision to build further. A few potted plants stood on the side of the terrace that faced the road. To the rear was a clothesline from which hung three T-shirts, a shirt, a pair of trousers, two undies and a towel. There was a tap, beneath which was placed a plastic bucket.
A coir doormat sat outside the door. WELCOME, it said. As Gowda watched, Santosh walked towards the door.
‘Don’t,’ Gowda called out.
‘Sir?’ Santosh stared.
‘Don’t wipe your feet on the mat,’ Gowda muttered.
‘I wouldn’t have, sir,’ Santosh said slowly. ‘I know you think I am an idiot, but even I am not that much of an idiot.’
Gowda didn’t speak, but had the grace to look ashamed when Santosh stepped back and waited for him to walk into the crime scene first.
The room showed no signs of struggle. Books on the table. A helmet on a rack. A pile of ironed clothes with an electric iron still plugged in. The small kitchenette had a few vessels and a row of jars with some essentials. The gas stove had been wiped clean and a kitchen cloth had been draped over the counter to dry out.
There was a small built-in wardrobe. Gowda used a handkerchief to hold the handle as he opened the door. He examined each shelf methodically. A stack of shirts and trousers in one, and on another a couple of sweaters. The third shelf held sheets, pillow cases and towels. Placed on the bottom shelf was a pair of black shoes. The other section of the wardrobe had a ha
nging rail and a small shelf above it. The rail had a few hangers from which hung a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans. There was a camera on the rack above and a shirt box. Gowda pulled out the shirt box. A small pile of porn magazines sat in it.
Gowda’s eyes shifted to the victim. His sneakers were thrown to the left of the bed, his trousers and underwear were another puddle of colour, suggesting that he had taken everything off in a hurry. His shirt lay half across the bed as though he had pulled it off in a rush. The young man sitting on the chair was naked except for his socks.
His throat had been slit. But, as with Kothandaraman, he exhibited just about every classic sign consistent with strangulation by ligature. Eyes open, distended eyeballs, dilated pupils, signs of haemorrhage in the cornea and skin around the eyelids, forehead and face; the protruding tongue that was almost dark brown while the lips were blue. Some signs of bleeding from the nose and ears and bloody froth from the mouth. There was a well-defined ligature mark on the neck at an oblique angle. Bruises and abrasions and a deep cut-like wound where the ligature had cut into the skin. The hands were clenched and his penis was semi-erect. He had peed and shat himself in that final moment.
And once again, there it was, the wound on the cheek. Skin tattered, tissue ground into, the bone broken. Around the edges of the wound, the skin was broken and irregular. In fact, apart from the raw smell of putrefaction and the contorted features of the young man which bespoke an expression of shock, horror and the knowledge of impending death, the rest of the room was perhaps as he had always kept it.
Investigating Officer Inspector Lakshman looked up and sprang to attention.
Gowda nodded. ‘I have had two murders in my station precincts in the last one month. Same mode of death as this one. We thought we would take a look if you don’t mind,’ he said, including Santosh in his inquiry.
Santosh stepped forward. Gowda was making amends, he realized.
Inspector Lakshman too had once passed through that great university of real-life police science called Gowda’s tutelage. Before Gowda had chewed him up alive, Inspector Lakshman had been transferred. So he looked at Santosh with a great deal of sympathy, and some envy. You might want to smash Gowda’s face with a blunt object, but you couldn’t help admire the man. He turned investigation into a fine art and there were times such as this when he wished he had spent more time with Gowda. He would have learnt how exactly to go forward.