by Anita Nair
Ibrahim paced in the narrow space. Four steps this way, four steps that. Hot air filled his ears, he was beginning to feel nauseous. He stopped and leaned against the shelf. The hands of a giant clock crawled in his head. A second. How slowly a second moved to the next!
An eternity later, India on the jaw appeared at the doorway.
‘Come with me,’ he said, leading the way back to the dining room.
Ibrahim’s eyes lit up. Perhaps the man called Gowda had returned. He hurried after the man. Then his feet stilled. On the dining table was yet another packet of biriyani. A wave of nausea gushed up his throat. He clamped his lips shut.
‘Time to eat!’ India on the jaw jeered, gesturing at the parcel.
Ibrahim continued to stand at the door.
‘You have a choice. Tell us what you know or we’ll keep stuffing biriyani down your throat every hour. It is all in your hands. Or should I say, all in your mouth. Speak or swallow!’
Ibrahim didn’t know when he felt his will break. Was it after the fourth or fifth packet of biriyani? Was it when he couldn’t take any more the ache in his legs, the pain in the small of his back, the pressing need to lie down, to rush to the kakoos and shit what seemed to be a mountain of turds building in him? All he knew was he held up his hand and croaked, ‘Enough. I’ll tell you what I know.’
She stared at the phone, unable to make up her mind. He had called thrice already and she had let it ring, unwilling to press the reject button, unable to take the call and speak to him. She sat with others who didn’t know that she existed. She sat with others who wouldn’t understand anyway.
‘I don’t like this,’ he had said. Her Sanjay.
‘I don’t like meeting you in stealth. We are both young and unmarried. So what are you afraid of?’ he had said last Friday, taking her hand in his. ‘You have such pretty hands,’ he murmured, caressing it. ‘Such soft skin, like a bird’s wing.’
Her heart was a trapped bird in her chest. The fluttering of wings filled her ears. What could she say? She had been rash and foolish to take it this far. She slid her hand out of his.
‘Now that I am staying at the hostel, I don’t have vessels to scrub or clothes to wash. So my hands would be soft.’ She tried to inject the flatness of everyday into the sibilance of his sweet nothings.
‘I have to go,’ she said abruptly.
‘I’ll drop you at the hostel,’ he said. And then at the gate, ‘there’s a new film releasing next week. Shall we go for it?’
She had nodded, knowing that she would have to find an excuse when the time came.
And here he was, calling again and again, to ask her to go with him on Friday evening.
She would have sold her soul to do any of those things women of her age did with little thought or planning. To sit on the back of a motorbike clinging to him. To walk in a park with him. To step into the light and let him see her untouched by the shadows. Maybe, one day she could. There were operations that would allow her to be herself. But what would she do until then, trapped within a man’s body?
And Sanjay, would he accept her once he knew the truth? He had put her on a pedestal and all it would take was one long look to dislodge her from it.
The mobile trilled again.
THURSDAY, 25 AUGUST
The corporator frowned. He had taken to standing at the window of an upper room from where he had a clear view of the gate. The house was built like a fortress. No one could get in by scaling the walls. But the gate was an opening and since he was the corporator of a ward, there were always people coming in to see him with a petition, a complaint, a request, a bribe.
Ibrahim’s whisper of surveillance had spooked him. He had been careful all along. It was one thing to evade the eyes of the Lok Ayukta and its fierce guardian, Justice Santosh Hegde. He had made sure that all his amassed property was in the names of Chikka and his two sisters. If there was a raid, all they would come up with would be the expected. There would be some things for them to find. To keep himself completely clean would make Hegde smell a rat. And he was very good at sniffing out rats, the corporator knew. If there was a raid, there would be a minor scandal, some rubbish in the media and then time would spread a cloak of forgetting … but the Crime Branch mounting a surveillance was something else. If they found out what was really going on, everything that he had worked so hard for would come to an end. So, to see Ibrahim at the gate in less than forty-eight hours was a matter of concern.
The corporator rushed down.
‘They grabbed me,’ Ibrahim stated baldly. ‘They grabbed me last evening.’
‘And?’ The corporator sat in his chair, betraying no evidence of fear or anger.
Ibrahim swallowed. ‘I resisted. I resisted for as long as I could. They wanted to know about our association. I did what we had talked about all along. I told them the truth. But they didn’t buy that.’
Ibrahim paused. His throat constricted. What would Anna say when he knew?
‘Once upon a time those bastards would have tried to beat the confession out of me. I would have been able to handle that. I would have passed out … but this … this was inhuman torture. Which shaitan mind could have thought it up?’
The corporator listened without interrupting.
‘In the end, I broke down, Anna, I didn’t have the will to go on, hold on … so…’
‘So?’
‘So, I had to give them a name. I said I knew nothing but there was someone who did. Someone who knew about the entire operation. I gave them the new boy’s name. He is the only one who won’t squeal because he knows nothing. All the others will,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Which means we will have to wait a bit to send out the next consignment. Another pigeon has to be found.’
Anna nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t speak.
‘I had no option, Anna…’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to Mysore on some work. He has a job. He’s a certified AC mechanic attached to a service centre.’
Anna looked at his fingernails. ‘We have to make sure that he disappears.’
‘But it would still come back to you if something happened to him.’
‘Not if it’s made to look like one of the others got to him first. A pawn in a gang war. That would divert their attention elsewhere.’
Ibrahim nodded. He knew what must be done. He had to make amends and sometimes that involved an offering. God had intervened and provided that other Ibrahim a ram instead of his son Ishmael as the sacrificial animal. But no one had intervened for the ram. And so it would be for the new boy.
It was almost eight in the evening when Gowda stumbled home. It had been a long day of routine police work that didn’t allow him to sit quietly with the scattered findings of the case. To try and put it together, he needed to map it in his mind. But how was a man to do that when his desk was piled with nonsense like the stray cattle menace, a burglary at a construction site nearby from where a load of metal rods had gone missing, a complaint about a wedding hall that routinely played loud music. In the end Gowda had decided to deal with those petty cases before he set his mind to work on what seemed to him to be no case at all.
Gowda kicked his shoes off in the veranda. He peeled away his socks and flung them on top of the shoes. Eventually, he would have to put the shoes away on the shoe rack and carry the socks to the laundry basket in the work area adjacent to the kitchen. Or they would stay there till morning, till Shanthi arrived to bring order into his home and life. And he didn’t like her doing that. She did enough already. Gowda stared at his shoes and socks. Then, with a sigh, he bent and put the shoes on the rack. He opened the door and walked in, holding his balled socks.
The house was airless and smelt a little like unwashed socks. Gowda uttered an expletive under his breath. It bounced off the walls and came back at him. He opened the windows. The breeze wafted in, bringing with it the fragrance of jasmine. At one end of the veranda, Shanthi had planted a jasmine creeper. It had finally begun to bloo
m. Gowda breathed in the fragrance. And it came to him again, that hairslide with the withered jasmine attached to it. It probably had been part of a string of jasmines. The string had fallen off or had been cleared to leave no evidence, and only this had slid into the fold of the sofa-cum-bed.
Gowda went around the house switching on lights and the geyser. First a bath and then the rest, he told himself, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and drinking deeply from it.
A man was entitled to a few minutes with himself.
He stood under the hot shower, feeling his fatigue drain away. He peered at the showerhead, feeling the spray sting his upturned face. If it wasn’t for Urmila … He hadn’t been able to speak to her all day. She must be furious. He heard the phone ring. No, he wasn’t going to rush for it, he told himself as he ran the towel between each toe. He put on track pants and a T-shirt, splashed some cologne on himself and combed his hair carefully. Where are you off to? He smiled at himself. All spruced up like a bridegroom!
Gowda poured himself a rum and topped it with Coke. He carried the drink and phone to the veranda, sat down in his chair and only then allowed himself to take a look at the phone. Three missed calls.
Two from Santosh and one from Urmila. She had sent three messages as well:
Tried calling u. Call back.
Where are u?
???
Gowda looked at his phone thoughtfully.
He sipped his drink. He walked to the edge of the veranda and plucked a jasmine. He held it to his nose and inhaled the fragrance.
First the call to Urmila. He heard out her tirade patiently. There was little he could say to defend himself except that he was in the middle of a case.
‘You always are, Borei.’ She sounded cross. ‘Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with a bank clerk? Someone who finishes work at half past five and isn’t preoccupied with work even when he is with me.’
Gowda frowned. There it was. The L-word again. He twirled the jasmine by its stalk. ‘You knew I am a policeman…’
‘Is there something I can do to help?’
‘Not really.’
‘Is it those murders?’ she asked. ‘You still don’t have a suspect?’
Gowda grunted.
‘My neighbour in Sussex, a behavioural psychologist, used to help the police there with criminal profiling. Do you want me to write to him? He could help you. The human mind must be the same, no matter where it is located,’ Urmila offered.
He could hear soft tinkly music playing in the background. He imagined her sitting in her living room, holding the phone in her hand, her legs elegantly crossed at the ankles. She would have the table lamps on and perhaps a glass of wine by the laptop on the table. What was he doing with a woman like her? Or, more accurately, what was she doing with a man like him!
‘What?’ Gowda asked.
Urmila told him again. ‘Give it a shot. You are groping in the dark as it is. He is very good, Borei,’ she added, her voice soft as satin in his ears.
‘How old is he?’ Gowda asked suddenly. Who was this doctor? What did he mean to her?
‘He must be sixty,’ Urmila murmured. ‘Why? How does it matter?’
‘I was just curious.’
‘I’ll write to him now and tell him you will be in touch,’ she said. ‘So when do I see you?’
‘Soon.’
Mamtha’s call had shaken him. Yet he was unwilling to let Urmila go. He didn’t want to lose her but didn’t know where to take their relationship. One of these days she would demand that he make a decision. What then?
‘Soon, Urmila,’ he said again. ‘Let me just catch my breath. Give me the doctor’s email id.’
One more call. Santosh. Gowda’s mind was a sodden sponge, heavy and incapable of absorbing anything more. He decided to ignore Santosh’s call. If it was truly urgent, Santosh would land up at his doorstep, he told himself.
The night was still. The breeze had stopped. A dog howled in the distance.
The couple upstairs had gone away for a week. To Goa for a holiday, they had said. The dog had been put into a boarding kennel for that period. Gowda made a face. He was actually missing its high-pitched bark and the sound of its scampering overhead.
Gowda finished his drink and went back in.
A solitary dinner, a dreamless night. That was all he wanted now.
FRIDAY, 26 AUGUST
Stanley was still at work when Pradeep came in. He looked up at his assistant, who stood hesitating by the door.
Pradeep touched the birthmark on his jaw. A brown birthmark that looked like the shape of India. ‘I have some bad news, sir.’
Stanley raised an eyebrow.
‘The man Ibrahim told us about…’
Stanley waited, and then asked, ‘Yes, what’s happened to him? Fled the place, has he?’
‘No, sir. He’s dead,’ Pradeep mumbled.
‘What?’ Stanley’s voice cracked.
‘We went to pick him up yesterday. But his roommate said he’d gone to Mysore and was expected this evening. So we went back. He had been hacked to death in his room.’
‘So, the corporator got to him,’ Stanley said grimly.
‘Sir, I don’t think the corporator had anything to do with it. Looks like he was also involved with the sand mafia in some way. You could make out that it was Nepali Ricki’s work.’
‘Kukri?’
‘Yes, thrust into the abdomen and turned. Triangle-shaped wounds. The intestines were hanging out and his signature: the right wrist chopped off. It was gruesome.’
‘I thought Nepali Ricki had retired,’ Stanley said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.
‘Who knows with these fellows, sir?’ Pradeep ran his fingers through his hair, trying hard not to reveal his disappointment. All those days of work had come to naught. They would have to start all over again. ‘What about the surveillance, sir?’
‘We’ll keep it going for another forty-eight hours. And then we’ll see.’ Stanley began walking to the door. ‘Let’s go. I might as well see the crime spot.’
She stared at her phone again. Where was he? She messaged him again, but he wasn’t responding. Was he angry with her for not taking his calls on Wednesday night? But she had explained it to him later that night, saying it wouldn’t be possible for them to go to the movie. And he had seemed to understand. They had arranged to meet on Friday night as usual.
‘You have to make up for my disappointment,’ he said.
‘I’ll buy you an ice-cream.’ She smiled.
‘I am not six years old to be appeased by an ice-cream or a balloon,’ he whispered in her ear. She shivered.
‘What else can I give you? I don’t have too much money … maybe when I get my salary!’
‘You can give me something. It won’t cost you anything, but will mean everything to me,’ he murmured.
‘What is that?’
‘A kiss…’
‘Oh Sanju … you shouldn’t talk to me like this,’ she protested.
‘Well, that is the only thing that is going to make up for not going to the movie with me…’
It was quarter to eight. He hadn’t called all day. There had been an early morning text, but nothing after that.
What if he’d had an accident? He rode the bike too fast, she had told him. But he had said he was in control. ‘And I am careful, Bhuvana. Would I risk my life after having met someone like you?’
Or had he given up on her? Why bother with someone like her? Someone who seemed to have so many terms and conditions about how to manage their relationship when he could find himself a girl who was more compliant?
She sank her head in her palms. She couldn’t think of a life without him.
Where was he? When were they going to meet?
Akka stood at the door. ‘The girls want to go out.’
She stared at Akka wordlessly.
‘Are you still waiting for him to call?’ Akka asked.
She didn’t have to answer. Akka
could read her face.
‘You should be more careful next time,’ Akka said, looking at her distraught face.
‘But Sanjay is a good man.’
‘Is that his name?’ Akka walked away.
Men, they were all the same. Akka was right. In the end she was left with nothing but the taste of ashes in her mouth. She wasn’t going to sit here waiting for him. He can go fuck himself, she told herself. If he didn’t want her, she didn’t want him either.
There were others who wanted her. A soft giggle escaped her mouth. In their arms, she would once again be Bhuvana, the beautiful one.
SATURDAY, 27 AUGUST
Chikka sipped his coffee and watched Anna. He had never seen him scour the newspapers so carefully. What was he looking for? The sheet crackled with his impatience as he flipped it. He saw Anna pause at each page. He saw him scrutinize the page carefully.
‘What is it?’ Chikka asked. The morning had dawned cool and grey. Almost every evening the clouds gathered into a grey mass and then the skies opened up. A stinging sheet of rain that filled up the drains, turned roads into streams and held up the traffic.
‘Here,’ Anna said, thrusting the newspaper towards him. ‘I can’t find it. You look for it. It’s a murder report involving Nepali Ricki.’
Chikka frowned. He knew better than to ask his brother questions.
‘I just need to make sure that Ibrahim kept his word,’ Anna said, yawning. ‘The fool got caught by the crime branch.’
Chikka’s eyes widened. ‘And…’
‘He had the good sense to give them a name. A new recruit. And so, to divert attention, the new boy had to be dealt with.’
Chikka scanned the newspaper carefully. The Kannada broadsheet his brother favoured had almost a quarter page, including a small photograph of the crime scene, devoted to the news item.
‘SAND MAFIA CLAIMS ONE MORE’