The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star

by Vaseem Khan

  Poppy was not often at a loss for words, but this was one of those rare occasions. The woman’s manner had disconcerted her, but now she found herself rallying. “Madam, I don’t know who you are, but you are clearly either insane or labouring under some gross misapprehension.”

  “This is Poppy’s Restaurant, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are Poppy, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is a boy called Irfan who lives here, yes?”

  Poppy hesitated. Sudden alarm shot through her. “Who are you?” she asked, her tone now wary.

  “I am his new tutor,” asserted the woman.

  Poppy gaped at the woman. “Tutor? But-but . . . who hired you?”

  “I hired me,” said the woman. “My name is Usha Umrigar. I would provide you with references but they will not be necessary. I have been teaching for over thirty years; that is all you need to know.”

  And then Poppy realised what had been bothering her. “But you are blind!” she gasped.

  “And clearly you are not. Now, where is the boy?”

  Poppy felt as if she had walked into a surreal plot twist. Of course, it was common knowledge that Poppy harboured dreams of educating young Irfan. But the boy himself had made a mockery of her well-intentioned efforts. Irfan had grown up on the streets, surviving on his wits. He simply did not see the benefits of an education. And the harder she tried, the greater his resistance.

  Over the past weeks a succession of tutors had arrived and left the restaurant.

  Some had simply proven unsuitable to the task, such as Baba Peshwa, an indolent Brahmin who snorted snuff from a lacquered snuffbox, until Irfan had replaced it with chilli powder. And Poppy herself had discovered old Master Madhurao—who was eighty-three and suffered from chronic piles—fast asleep on the veranda where Irfan’s lessons took place. Finally, there had been Haribhai Khot, a pinched-faced man from the south, who, unbeknown to Poppy, had been suffering from marital problems and would pause in the middle of his lessons to launch a furious invective against “woomankind,” much to the delight of Irfan. It was the only time he paid attention.

  “Are you really a teacher?” asked Poppy.

  The woman reached out a hand and found her face. Poppy submitted to the gentle examination. “You seem like a sensible woman,” said Usha eventually. “My understanding is that the boy is not keen on being taught. Let me try. I think he will let me teach him.”

  Poppy heard the sincerity in the woman’s voice. It carried a reassurance that filled her with hope. “I’ll fetch him,” she said.

  When Irfan arrived—clad in his shocking-pink restaurant uniform—he stopped in front of the woman and peered at her curiously.

  “Good morning, Irfan,” said Usha. “I am your new tutor.”

  Irfan’s face crunched into a frown. Something about the woman’s voice… “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  Irfan continued to stare at her in puzzlement… and then it dawned on him. “You’re the Mad Woman!”

  “Irfan!” admonished Poppy.

  “Rumours of my madness have been greatly exaggerated,” smiled Usha.

  “But where did you get those clothes?” persisted Irfan. “And your hair! It’s so clean!”

  “Some very kind people at the local Destitute Women’s Centre helped me. I could have gone there long ago but I wasn’t ready. Now I am. The question is: are you ready for my help?” She lowered her blind gaze towards the boy. “Now, we will study each day for two hours. You will work very hard and there will be no more nonsense. Are we agreed?”

  Irfan looked up at the imposing woman. Then he looked at Poppy. Something passed over his walnut-brown features. Finally, he mumbled, “Yes, madam.”

  “You have a good heart, Irfan, and this is fine. But in this world if you do not have an education you are at the mercy of others. Do you wish to be at the mercy of others?”

  “No, madam!”

  “Then it is settled. Now, why don’t we have a little chat first? Perhaps over supper?” Usha tilted her head towards Poppy.

  “Yes, of course,” said Poppy happily. “I will see to it right away.”

  She walked off, leaving Irfan and the old woman to seat themselves on the veranda and begin their first lesson.

  Her smile lasted only until she reached her office, where she discovered Bijli Verma, accompanied by an ashen-faced Lal.

  Poppy’s instinctive delight at seeing the famed actress—of whom she had long been a fan—evaporated as Bijli said, angrily: “I asked for Chopra. Who are you?”

  “I am his wife,” replied Poppy stiffly, taken aback. “And he is not here.”

  This seemed to incense Bijli, and the actress began pacing the room, her sari swishing around her ankles. “Where is he? Where is that rogue? What has he done with the money? Where is my son!”

  Overcoming her shock, Poppy drew herself up. No one shouted at her in her own restaurant, not even a legendary screen goddess. “My husband informed me that he was working for you. But that is all he told me. I have no idea what money you’re talking about, or where your son is. And if you don’t lower your voice, I’ll have you thrown out,” she added hotly.

  The two women glowered at each other, the air crackling between them, Lal careful to stay out of the way lest he be inadvertently incinerated.

  “Yesterday, your husband left my home with a considerable sum of money,” Bijli eventually ground out. “He was supposed to deliver it to the men who have kidnapped my son. But he never called back, and Vicky has not been returned. I want to know where Chopra is. I want to know where my son is.”

  Poppy felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her knees trembled, but she refused to buckle before this woman, despite her worst fears being realised… So this was the mysterious case her husband had been working on! What, in God’s name, had he got himself into?

  She examined Bijli’s face, looking behind the anger, sensing the worry that consumed the former actress. A mother’s worry. Poppy sighed. “I don’t know where he is. He didn’t come home last night. He won’t answer his phone.”

  From her expression, Poppy saw that it was Bijli’s turn to feel the earth tremble below her feet. “But—but he promised me,” she said hoarsely. “He promised to bring back my son.”

  They stared at each other, the mutual anger leaking away, until Poppy guided her to the sofa. She ordered tea, and listened as the whole sorry tale spilled from the distraught Bijli, her sense of alarm growing by the second. The words of her colleague Malhotra came back to her now: the notion that a raging fanatic had targeted Bijli, and might have crossed paths with her husband, was almost too much to bear.

  “Don’t you think we should involve the police now?” asked Poppy. “I mean, your son is still missing, and now so is my husband. You say he took a ransom to exchange for your son. If he hasn’t returned, and hasn’t contacted you—or me—then something has gone badly wrong. I know my husband. He is the most honourable person I have ever met. If he had accomplished his mission he would have brought Vicky back to you, safe and sound.”

  Bijli stared at her, perhaps weighing the sincerity in her eyes. “I believe you,” she said eventually. “But what am I to think? Your husband has vanished. I sincerely hope that no harm has befallen him, but I cannot risk involving the police. The kidnappers have expressly forbidden it. All I can do is hope that somehow there is a reasonable explanation for what has happened. But I am afraid, deathly afraid. I can’t move forwards and I can’t move back. Not until I know Vicky is safe.” She hovered on the edge of tears.

  Poppy, who was being eaten alive by her own worry for Chopra, squeezed her hand. “We must be patient. We must be brave.” Her insides trembled as she willed herself to believe these words.

  A clamouring sounded outside the door to the office, and then, suddenly, it swung back, and Chef Lucknowwallah backpedalled into the room, waving a ladle around and yelling, “Ho!
Ho! You can’t just barge in here! Who do you think you are?” He was followed in by a gang of thickset, unsavoury-looking men.

  The largest of these—wearing a dark Nehru jacket and sunglasses—spotted Bijli Verma, and brought his palms together in greeting. “Ram ram, Bijli. How are you today?”

  “Pyarelal?” said Bijli, rising to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I must ask you the same question. Should you not be tending to your son? Ensuring that he rises from his sickbed and returns to the set as soon as possible?”

  Bijli’s eyes narrowed. “Did Das send you to threaten me? Have you been following me around?”

  “Not at all. We are merely concerned friends of Vicky.” His mouth slithered into a smile. He turned to Poppy. “And how is Mr. Chopra?”

  It was Poppy’s turn to glare. She had instantly sensed the menace emanating from the big man. “What concern is that of yours?”

  Pyarelal’s smile widened. “My concern applies to all matters pertaining to Vicky. And my understanding is that your husband is now, shall we say, an involved party?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And my husband isn’t here.”

  “That is a shame,” said Pyarelal. He tapped a heavy hand against the side of his leg.

  “Look, if you don’t get out of here right now I’ll call the authorities,” interrupted Lucknowwallah.

  “No!” said Bijli.

  “No!” echoed Poppy.

  “We were just leaving,” said Pyarelal, flashing another menacing smile. His men backed out of the room. Pyarelal turned as he reached the door. “Isn’t it strange how easily people seem to disappear in this city of ours? Ram ram.” He left these final words hanging threateningly in the air.

  “Who was that?” asked Poppy, once the door had closed.

  “A man I don’t trust, who works for a man I don’t like,” replied Bijli. She turned to face Poppy. “If your husband contacts you, will you call me?”

  “Of course,” said Poppy. “And if he contacts you first, you must call me.”

  “And if he contacts neither of us, then what shall we do?”

  The two women stared at each other. “One thing is for sure,” said Poppy, forcing out a grim smile. “Neither of us is the type of woman to stand by and do nothing.”

  Bijli nodded tightly. “In that you are right. If anything happens to my son, I will tear this city apart.”

  “And if anything happens to my husband, I will be right there by your side.” Poppy led Bijli to the door. “In the meantime, I will pray for both his and Vicky’s safe return.”

  “I don’t believe in prayer,” said Bijli. “But I thank you anyway. Let us hope God listens to you, because he surely stopped listening to me a long time ago.”

  A VIOLENT ENCOUNTER WITH THE PAST

  If Chopra had thought that his trials for the day were over once they had returned from the quarry he was mistaken. After a meal of thin lentil soup and stale chapatti, he was informed by his cellmate Iqbal Yusuf that they were now required to spend the evening assisting in the quartermaster’s storeroom. “My previous cellmate used to assist there too,” explained Yusuf. “You will take his place.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I’ll tell you another time,” said Yusuf, not meeting Chopra’s eyes.

  The storeroom was located at one end of the enormous compound, together with a cluster of whitewashed administrative buildings.

  Working with a dozen other prisoners Chopra helped unload sacks of grain and lentils from the incoming delivery trucks under the gimlet eyes of the quartermaster, a broad, flatfooted prisoner with greasy hair and double chins wearing another of the black uniforms denoting rank within the dubious prison hierarchy. He couldn’t help but notice that baskets of vegetables and fruit were among the provisions, and yet such fare had been noticeable by its absence in the prison canteen at lunch.

  His stomach growled.

  “When do we get those?” he asked.

  “Never,” said Yusuf. “The quartermaster sells the good produce on. We get the refuse that’s left over.”

  An hour later Chopra found himself stacking shelves inside a dimly lit storeroom. Cockroaches skittered across the cool stone. After the dust and heat of the quarry it was almost pleasant in here. For the first time in hours his churning thoughts settled, spiralling inevitably towards his predicament.

  But before he could dwell on the matter he heard the door creak open behind him.

  He turned to find a big man with a stubbled jaw hulking in the doorway. His eyes dropped to the knife clutched in the man’s fist. A spear of alarm embedded itself in Chopra’s chest. “I have no feud with you, friend,” he said, his heart pounding.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, friend,” said the man, stepping forward. “You don’t recognise me, do you? Well, I recognise you, Chopra. I knew you the moment I set eyes on you in the quarry. If I hadn’t been chained up I would have finished you there and then.”

  Chopra squinted at the man. The beery face was beginning to look familiar. “Rastogi,” he said eventually.

  “It is good that you remember me. It is important to know who is about to end your life.”

  Chopra ransacked his memory.

  He had arrested Rustom Rastogi ten years earlier. Rastogi had been an enforcer for a local gang. Back then he was rumoured to have killed half-a-dozen men. But it was for the murder of his young wife that he’d finally been convicted. Rastogi had stumbled home drunk one evening and his wife had refused his advances.

  That was all it had taken.

  Clearly, Rastogi held a grudge.

  The former gangster advanced. Chopra backed away.

  Rastogi charged. Chopra plucked a tin from the shelf beside him, and flung it at the demented prisoner before leaping sideways. The can ricocheted off Rastogi’s skull, eliciting a howl of rage. Chopra crashed into a shelf, taking it down with him, tins raining down on him as he fell to the floor.

  He thrashed about, struggling to regain his feet, but his efforts were cut short by a heavy foot that lashed into his ribs, then his stomach.

  The air went out of him.

  Coughing and wheezing, Chopra fell back, spots flashing before his eyes. A shadow blurred in and out of focus above him.

  “I am going to enjoy this,” hissed Rastogi.

  Chopra heard the shuffle of bare feet across concrete, and then a shriek. He saw Rastogi fall back, clawing at his eyes. The knife clattered to the floor.

  “Come on,” hissed a voice in Chopra’s ear, as he was hauled upright.

  Iqbal Yusuf placed Chopra’s arm around his shoulders, then limped him out from the storeroom.

  Behind them Rastogi continued to thrash around on the floor, weeping pitiably.

  “What did you… do to… him?” Chopra gasped.

  “Chilli powder,” said Yusuf. “You’d be surprised how many uses one can find for the stuff.”

  That night Chopra lay on his bunk replaying the events of the day. His muscles fluttered with fatigue. The back-breaking labour of quarrying rocks had exhausted him. The punishment inflicted by Rustom Rastogi added a secondary chorus of pain—his body registered its protest with each trembling breath.

  Iqbal Yusuf, having brought Chopra back to his cell and palpated his ribs with his fingers, had assured him that no bones were broken. Fetching a coconut shell wrapped in old newspaper from beneath his bunk, the old man had smeared a thick paste over Chopra’s bruises, making his nose twitch violently at the smell of turmeric.

  In the hours since the attack Chopra had learned a great deal more about prison life from his cellmate, none of it good. The only note of optimism had been Yusuf’s reassurance that Rastogi would not tell anyone else that he had recognised Chopra.

  “How can you be sure of that?” Chopra had asked.

  “Because he wants to kill you himself,” replied Yusuf, matter-of-factly.

  Chopra wondered just how long the old man had been at Go
uripur. Yusuf’s brow crinkled with the effort of recollection.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I gave up counting years ago. I remember, a month after I was sentenced, they shot Indira.”

  Chopra was aghast. “But that was thirty years ago! Surely you have served your sentence?”

  Yusuf shrugged. “One year, thirty years. What does it matter to me now? What would I do even if they released me? I have nowhere to go.”

  Chopra realised that the old man had become so thoroughly institutionalised that he would be unable to function in the real world, a world that had changed beyond recognition since he had entered the penal system. “What did you do?” he asked at last. It was the question he had been putting off.

  He was not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

  Yusuf fell silent. When he finally spoke his voice was weighted with a deep sadness. “I was a younger man, then. They called it a crime of passion, but that wasn’t true, not really. It was a crime of revenge.

  “I murdered a man. In cold blood. He was the son of a district collector, a boy, no more than twenty. He attended the same college as my daughter. She was my only child. When we had her something went wrong and we were told we could have no more children. She meant everything to me. So what if I didn’t have a boy? She was as good as any boy in my eyes. Clever, beautiful, and the sweetest nature imaginable. I always used to say to her, God must have been in a good mood the day he made you. She told me she was going to become a politician. She was going to change things. Help run this country right.” Yusuf paused as the eye of memory took him deep into the past. “He was a very charismatic boy, the collector’s son. My daughter was not impressionable, but he made an impression. He convinced her of many things. That her cause was his cause; that he too wished for change. I discovered afterwards that it was all lies. He was well known for it. It was a game to him.” Yusuf sighed. “And after he had taken what he wanted, he abandoned her. He had promised marriage and my daughter believed him. When she realised he had betrayed her—that she was left with nothing but the mark of her shame—she confronted him.