by Vaseem Khan
Chopra had seen many wasted lives over the years. Some were wasted through neglect, some through poverty, some through a simple lack of opportunity. But the most criminal waste, in his opinion, was that begat by the vice of alcohol. He had seen many men laid low by such demons of their own making, and it both saddened and infuriated him.
He looked around the room.
The walls were bare, with peeling whitewash. The only adornment was a single poster, framed in glass. It was for an old Bollywood movie Queen of the Kohinoor Circus, though the names of the actors were not mentioned. Various circus animals were ranged behind a woman in a scanty acrobat’s leotard with a beehive hairstyle, clearly the star of the movie.
He’d never seen the film, but there was something familiar about the woman.
“What are you doing in here?”
Chopra turned to face what he assumed was a young woman, wearing a black burka, her face obscured behind a gauze veil.
“I’m sorry,” said Chopra. “The door was open.” He held up the bracelet. “I am looking for Aaliya Ghazi. Or rather I am looking for the man she gave this to.”
The woman’s hands slid off her hips. Chopra could not be sure, but he sensed she was shocked.
Finally, she spoke. “I am Aaliya. But you are mistaken. That bracelet does not belong to me.”
“The jeweller told me that he fashioned it at your specific request.”
“He is mistaken,” she snapped. “Now please leave before I fetch my neighbours.”
Chopra realised he would get no further by staying. Trying to strong-arm a Muslim girl here would not go down well. Besides, it was not his way of doing things. His intuition told him that something was not right.
That would have to be enough for now.
“Very well,” he said. “I will leave. But I may be back. This is an important enquiry. A life is at stake. It will not simply go away.”
He walked past the woman and out into the night, where he found Ganesha investigating an old tyre with his trunk.
“Come on, boy,” he said loudly, knowing that the girl was watching. “Let’s get back to Andheri.”
Chopra walked back to the van, drove towards the house, and parked around the corner, before killing the engine.
He waited in the dark, hoping the girl would give herself away, or else that the elusive Ali might make an appearance. A thought suddenly occurred to him. When confronted by a stranger in her home, Aaliya had threatened to fetch her neighbours. Most people would have threatened to call the police. Was Aaliya afraid of the questions a policeman might ask?
His phone went off in his pocket.
Cursing, he extricated it from his trousers. “Yes?”
“This is Lal,” said Lal. “You must come to Antakshari right away.”
“Why? What has happened?”
“Something awful,” said Lal, and hung up.
Rangwalla looked around the spacious rear cabin of the limousine, taking stock of his travelling companions.
As the vehicle had made its way out of Marol, headed north, he had learned that the four eunuchs he was accompanying had been at the Red Fort for varying lengths of time, and had all been personally chosen by the Queen for the assignment. They were heady with excitement at the money they would make from a few days of relative idleness. Inevitably, speculation was rife as to the true motives of their mysterious benefactor.
“Well, if you ask me,” said Rupa, a slender eunuch in a purple sari and hooped earrings, “he is probably one of those shy types working himself up to what he really wants.”
“As long as he doesn’t try any funny business,” said Mamta, a large eunuch with a flat face like a shovel, broad and open. “The last one who tried that with me got a pounding.”
Rangwalla could well believe it. Thick muscles corded Mamta’s arms, the biceps stretching the short sleeves of her powder-green sari blouse.
“I never took you for a shrinking violet, Mamta,” said Parvati, a dumpy eunuch with a benign forehead and wide-winged nostrils. She was older than the others, Rangwalla felt, though it was hard to be sure under the layers of make-up.
“It wasn’t that,” countered Mamta. “I had gone there to collect a debt. He thought because I was a eunuch he could humiliate me in front of his friends.”
Rangwalla knew that the use of eunuchs as debt collectors was a recent innovation. After all, eunuchs spent much of their time collecting baksheesh from local businesses in return for their blessings. Sometimes the cash was handed over willingly, more often with great reluctance. But it was always handed over. When one thought about it logically, no one knew more about collecting money from those who didn’t want to pay than the eunuchs.
“One day we will live in a world where no one will humiliate us.”
As one they turned to stare at the fifth member of the group, a eunuch who Rangwalla found disturbingly attractive—certainly she was the most feminine-looking and in her pale pink sari, in the right light, could have passed for any pretty young girl in the city.
Her name was Kavita and she was the youngest of the bunch.
And then, as one, the others burst out in cynical laughter.
“The poet speaks!” said Rupa.
“When that day comes, my dear,” said Parvati, “you and I will be dust and bones.” She removed a flask from her undercarriage, and took a quick sip, winking.
“And what about you?” asked Mamta, peering at Rangwalla. “Do you believe in paradise too?”
So far Rangwalla had successfully deflected attention from himself. At the beginning of their journey he had pre-empted his companions’ questions by recounting the cover story Anarkali had provided him with, namely that he was an old acquaintance of the Queen—answering to the name of Sonali—who had been summoned to the Red Fort that very morning. The Queen had insisted he go on this trip. He knew that this perfunctory explanation did not satisfy the eunuchs, but so far they had resisted the urge to delve deeper. The Queen had made a decision. Who were they to question it?
Rangwalla was glad he could hide behind this shield of silence. The truth was that his discomfort had grown steadily. He had never been in such close proximity to a group of eunuchs before. His guts coiled each time he inadvertently brushed the eunuch beside him. In spite of his stern words in defence of Anarkali back at the restaurant, he felt that such chivalry was fine at a distance, but this close, he found his fragile principles wilting.
Before he could respond, the limousine ground to a halt.
The driver twisted in his seat, and passed a package through the screen. “The Master wishes you to put these blindfolds on.”
“I told you,” said Rupa. “Didn’t I tell you? The kinky games have started, and we haven’t even reached his mansion yet.”
“It is only because the Master does not wish to reveal the location of his residence,” explained the driver.
“And why not, eh?”
“It is the Master’s wish,” said the driver calmly. “I cannot continue until the blindfolds are on.”
Grumbling, the eunuchs pulled on the blindfolds.
What next? thought Rangwalla, as the limousine moved off.
THE BLOODY EAR
When Chopra entered the Verma home he had not known what to expect. What he did not foresee was Bijli Verma on the sofa, head back, a glass of whisky clutched tightly in her hand.
The former glamour queen looked terrible.
Her hair had been set loose and fell now in a river of onyx towards her shoulders. She had clearly been weeping—her make-up had run, smearing her handsome cheeks with garish swatches of colour. But it was her eyes that really shook him.
They were the eyes of a hunted animal.
Behind the sofa the lawyer Lal paced aggressively, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. Standing by the open balcony doors was Robin Mistry, Vicky’s friend and fellow actor.
“What has happened?” asked Chopra.
Lal, who had been close-lipped on the phone, now stro
de to the sideboard and retrieved something from a silver platter. He walked towards Chopra, then, carefully shielding it from Bijli, showed him the small round tin he was holding.
“A tiffin box?” said Chopra. “You called me here to show me your lunch?”
“What?” said Lal, in confusion. “No! Of course not.” He unscrewed the box’s lid, and tilted it towards Chopra.
Inside, lying on a bloodied white cloth, was the lobe of a right ear; an earring in the shape of a naked woman dangled from it.
“It’s Vicky’s,” Lal said, in a terse whisper.
Behind him Bijli Verma released a soft moan. Mistry sat down beside her, clasping her hand. “It’s okay, Aunty Bijli,” he soothed. “We’ll get him back.”
Lal reached into his pocket and took out a letter.
Chopra unfolded the paper and scanned it.
MIDNIGHT. MADH FORT. BRING THE CASH. COME ALONE. IF WE SEE ANYONE ELSE WE WILL LEAVE HIS BODY FOR YOU TO FIND. IN PIECES.
THE PEOPLE’S JUDGE
“This was delivered by courier?”
“Yes,” confirmed Lal. “A different one to the first. Again they left no leads for us to pursue.”
“And there has been no phone contact?”
“No,” said Lal.
“So we have no way of knowing if Vicky is even still alive,” said Chopra, lowering his voice.
“No. But that is irrelevant,” said Lal. “We must comply with their wishes.”
“Very well. Do you have the cash?”
Lal beckoned him to follow.
In the study, two black flight bags sat on a desk. Chopra flipped back the lid of one of them. Inside were bundles of five-hundred-rupee notes.
“Two crores, just as they asked,” said Lal.
Chopra buckled the lids on both bags. “You know there’s a good chance they’ve killed him already, don’t you?” He stopped short of laying out his theory regarding P. K. Das and his organised-crime backers, and the insurance scam that would ultimately necessitate Vicky Verma’s death.
“Just don’t say that around Bijli. Do you know she got him those earrings for his twenty-first birthday?”
Chopra tried to imagine how he might feel if a kidnapper mailed him a part of someone he loved, Poppy, Irfan, or little Ganesha. No wonder Bijli Verma was in the state that she was.
“Mistry shouldn’t be here,” he said eventually. “The more people who know about this, the greater the danger.”
“It is not by my choice,” said Lal. “Between you and me, I don’t trust that boy.”
Chopra picked up on something in the lawyer’s voice. “Why not?”
Lal hesitated then plunged on. “He and Vicky have been friends for a long time, that much is true. But they are also bitter rivals. Mistry was originally cast for the lead in The Mote in the Third Eye of Shiva. But at the last moment the producer changed his mind and insisted on Vicky instead. I think Bijli had something to do with that. At any rate, Vicky and Robin had an almighty fight about it. The matter went to fisticuffs. They made up afterwards, of course. Mistry claimed he had just had a bit too much to drink. Bijli asked P. K. Das to get him a part on another movie, some low-budget number. They’re filming in Studio 16, next door to the main Mote set. Robin pretends to be happy for his friend, but I am certain he is secretly jealous. I don’t trust his ‘Aunty Bijli’ routine one iota.”
At that precise moment the door opened and Mistry entered. “I want to go with you,” he said, looking at Chopra.
“No,” said Chopra firmly. “The note was clear.”
“I’ll hide in the back of your van. They won’t even know I’m there.”
“I cannot take the chance. We cannot jeopardise Vicky’s life.”
“Of course, it would work out well for you if Vicky didn’t return at all,” said Lal.
“What?” said Mistry, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” muttered Lal.
Chopra noticed that the old man’s eyes were bloodshot and his usually immaculate widow’s peak had become ruffled. For a lawyer Lal was taking all this very personally, he thought.
Chopra checked his watch. “Madh Fort is a long way from here. If I am to make it on time, I must leave now.” He picked up the flight bags and went back into the living room.
Bijli Verma pushed herself to her feet as he entered.
Chopra saw that she was clutching a photograph in her fist. She held it out to him. It showed an adorable little boy, posing in a cowboy outfit. “He has been my whole life. I cannot express what he means to me. Vicky himself wouldn’t understand what he means to me. I would gladly give myself to them if it would save him.” She drew herself up. “Bring my son back to me. Please.” The note of pleading struck Chopra deeply. He understood, once again, that in spite of her aloof and fiery public persona, Bijli Verma was a devoted mother, like any other.
“I will do everything in my power,” he vowed.
Then he turned and left.
THE MASTER’S HAVELI
Rangwalla and the eunuchs disembarked from the limousine, pulling off their blindfolds.
Then they stood and stared at the imposing mansion rising up into the moonlit darkness before them.
The manse was a haveli, a typically north Indian rural palace fashioned from yellow sandstone, with overhanging jharokha balconies, exquisite floral corbelling, and intricate frescos rolling over the upper elevations. Ropes of wisteria and hydrangeas climbed the walls. From various points brass lamps cast soft haloes of light.
To Rangwalla’s eye, a sense of languid ruin enveloped the place.
As they waited, stunned into silence, surrounded by the noises of the night—the croaking of crickets and bullfrogs, the whisper of bat wings, the slither of snakes through the long grass that surrounded the haveli on all sides—they saw someone approaching through the mansion’s entrance arch. The figure was stooped, emaciated, dressed in a white kurta and dhoti, a black Nehru jacket, leather sandals, and a black pillbox hat. Wire-framed spectacles sat on his nose above a peppery moustache. A smudge of crimson was prominent between his eyebrows, a red-bound ledger tucked under one arm. He swung a bamboo cane ahead of him as he limped along.
He stopped under the arch and scrutinised the new arrivals. “Welcome,” he finally said, in a thin voice. “My name is Premchand. I am the munshi of this estate. You will follow me. The driver and the watchman will bring up your suitcases.”
Rangwalla looked around and saw a shape melt from the shadows. A white-haired old man in a beige kurta and white dhoti shambled towards the limousine swinging a kerosene lamp: the watchman.
They followed the munshi—the estate’s secretary—through the archway and into the first of two courtyards. The outer courtyard was dark and deserted. In the inner courtyard a number of rope charpoys were scattered around a covered well. A giant tonga wheel leaned against a crumbling brick wall, beside a water butt. A wooden swing-seat hung from the branches of a tamarind tree. Three peacocks, two colourful males and a drab female, milled about, pecking at invisible grains of rice on the tiled floor.
Premchand led them into a large, ornately decorated reception room, from which rose a double-spiralled marble staircase to the upper storey.
As they ascended the staircase, Mamta’s voice cut through the silence. “Who is this Master? We have a right to know.”
“The Master is the Master,” said Premchand cryptically. “He has contracted your services for the next few days. That is all you need to know.”
“But why won’t he show his face?” queried Rupa belligerently. “And why doesn’t he want anyone to know where he lives? Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Premchand stopped on the landing, and swivelled on his feet. He gazed down stone-faced at the eunuchs as they clustered on the steps below him. “The Master is paying you handsomely for your time, not for your curiosity. If you wish to leave, the driver will take you back now.”
The eunuchs exchanged glances, but no
further protests were forthcoming.
“Very well,” said the munshi, and turned away.
They were each shown to a separate bedroom.
Rangwalla looked around his lavish quarters, a more opulent place than he had ever slept in his whole life. A jack-arched ceiling soared above the chequerboard floor. The bed was fashioned from teak, with a carved headboard depicting a pivotal battle scene from the Mahabharata. In the corner a walnut wardrobe stood next to a clawfooted table inlaid with camel bone. Overhead, a mahogany-bladed ceiling fan swirled the warm air; fretworked shutters covered the room’s single window.
Rangwalla threw open the shutters and looked out onto a vista of fields.
A warm breeze rippled the broomcorn and wheat. In the distance, moonlight reflected from a sinuously curving river and, beyond that, the lights of what was presumably a village.
Rangwalla locked the door, then sagged against it in relief. He lifted off his wig—which had been making him itch all evening—tore off his sari, kicked off his sandals, and showered in the en-suite bathroom. Then he changed into a pair of shorts and his habitual string vest before stretching out on the bed, sinking into the deep, feather-filled mattress.
Closing his eyes, he contemplated a very strange and disturbing day.
For the millionth time he questioned his own sanity.
What in the world had possessed him to take up this assignment? He wasn’t Chopra. He loved his boss dearly but the man was an oddity. He had ideals. Rangwalla came from the streets and knew that ideals were a luxury that ordinary men could not afford. The best way to get your head shot off was to stick it above the parapet. As a consequence, he now possessed a lifetime’s experience of knowing when to retreat while pretending to move forwards. Which made it all the more galling that he was now doing exactly the opposite.
Perhaps that was the difference between being a policeman and a private detective, he thought, sourly.