by Salil Desai
“True, Motkar, except why doesn’t he kill his wife’s paramour as well who has hurt him equally grievously,” Saralkar remarked. “Why spare him? Why just name him? I mean why did Sanjay Doshi turn inward and not outward? Why kill yourself and not your wife’s lover?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the guts, sir. From what we know of Sanjay Doshi, he seems to have been a timid person, scared of his wife. Maybe it was within his capacity to kill his wife in a fit of hatred and fury, but not Shaunak Sodhi.”
“Mmm . . . you could be right, Motkar,” Saralkar said. “Do you know about one of the most infamous murder cases in the history of crime? Dr. Crippen?”
“No, sir.”
“Mousy little man. Not a real doctor. His wife Cora Crippen was a rather abusive, crude, and large woman who fancied herself as a music hall singer. Would beat him up from time to time and humiliate him. Then one day the worm turned. Crippen poisoned her, then dismembered her body, and buried it piece by piece in the basement. I wonder if Sanjay Doshi would’ve killed himself if he had a basement and dismemberment skills.”
Saralkar smirked and got up. “Okay, got to go. See you tomorrow.”
Motkar nodded, silently wondering where his boss got his macabre sense of humour.
Surekhabai lay down pensively after dinner. Her son, Hrithik, had been gone for two days now. God alone knew where he would disappear for two to three days at a stretch, every now and then. It had become a habit of his over the last few months. Probably loafing around with those good-for-nothing friends of his, up to some mischief.
He had been a nice, sincere, and harmless boy till that day a year ago when the police had picked him up. That experience had changed everything, especially because it had brought him into contact with the goons in the area. Was he eventually going to end up like his horrible father—drunk and idle, blowing up any money he earned?
Hrithik had already joined and left a dozen jobs—as a peon first, then as a mall employee, a delivery boy for amazon.com, and so on.
Surekhabai had lost count and watched with alarm. But what had been worrying was his new-found tendency of flirting with illegal activities since he had joined the nearby ‘mandal’. If her late husband had had one relative virtue, it was that he had never shown any predilection for crime. Probably he had been too lazy even for that, Surekhabai thought uncharitably.
Was her son going to go down that forbidden path, which even his late father had not trodden? There had already been disturbing signs—suddenly he seemed to be well-stocked with money, had become increasingly secretive, and whatever snatches of conversation she sometimes heard when he spoke to his friends on the mobile, sounded ominous.
The cook dialled Hrithik’s mobile number now but the rings passed unanswered. Surekhabai felt sickened in her heart, trying desperately to shoo away the suspicions she wouldn’t admit even to herself. Why had she been so careless?
After making a pass at her, Sanjay Doshi hadn’t merely apologized profusely. Sozzled and panicky he had offered Surekhabai a lot of cash to keep quiet. He had rushed into the bedroom and unlocked the big steel cupboard with his key. Curious, she had peeped into the room and had been aghast to see bundles of cash tumbling out as Doshi in his clumsy, drunken haste managed to dislodge them.
Surekhabai had craned her neck further and so far as she had been able to make out, there were untidy stacks of cash on every shelf in the cupboard, barely camouflaged by clothes. Doshi had put the bundles back hastily, except one wad, which he had rushed out and offered to her as compensation for his attempt to outrage her modesty.
Surekhabai had refused the wad of ten thousand rupees and the wretched man had promptly grovelled and offered two and then three wads, totalling thirty thousand rupees. She had finally relented and taken the cash home and tucked it away for a rainy day.
But Hrithik, perhaps familiar with her hiding places since childhood, had stumbled upon the cash somehow and confronted his mother. Like a fool, she had told him everything—the pass made by Doshi, the bundles tumbling out of the cupboard, and the untidy stacks of cash of a huge amount still lying there.
Her son had breathed fire, vowing to teach Doshi a lesson. Then a few days later Hrithik’s uncomfortable questions had started—about the location of the cupboard, about the layout of the Doshi flat, about security in the society, about grill doors, and the routines of the Doshis.
Surekhabai had grown increasingly alarmed, sometimes rebuffing him, sometimes warning him to keep away, her uneasiness growing by the day. And now the Doshis were dead and her son hadn’t come home for two days, untraceable and incommunicado. What was she to make of that? “Oh God!” she prayed. “Let it be just a coincidence. Let him come back today.”
Her mobile sprang to life almost immediately as if God were a telephone operator who immediately patched her through to her son.
“Hullo, where are you, Hrithik?”
“What’s it?” her son replied rudely. “Why are you calling?”
“Why haven’t you come home since yesterday?” Surekhabai demanded shrilly.
“Work,” Hrithik replied laconically.
“What work? Where are you? Who is with you?”
“Don’t bother me, I’m busy. Can’t talk now.”
“Hullo . . . hullo . . . Don’t cut the phone!” Surekhabai shouted. “Tell me when are you coming home? Tonight?”
“I’ll come when I come,” Hrithik replied.
“What kind of work keeps you away for two or three days?” his mother asked angrily.
“Don’t poke your nose into my business, okay?” Hrithik warned and ended the call, leaving Surekhabai none the wiser or calmer.
Cool down, she told herself. She was unnecessarily letting her fears run away with her. He had sounded his usual self. There was no reason to think Hrithik was in any way involved with the death of the Doshis. How could he?
Hadn’t the police said Doshi had killed his wife and then himself? So why was she freaking out and connecting the disappearance of her son to the tragedy?
Of course, perhaps she should have informed the police about the stacks of money she had seen. But chances were that the police had already found and impounded all that cash. That’s why she had gently hinted about her pending wages. Surely they wouldn’t grudge her that.
PSI Motkar knew he was late for drama practice. He opened the door of the practice hall as noiselessly as he could and slunk inside. A scene rehearsal was in full progress. PSI Motkar bit his lip when he realized it was a scene featuring his character. A constable with a dialogue sheet in hand was standing in for him.
No one seemed to have noticed his entry. The dialogues between the main characters, a volatile couple, boomed. One spouse said to the other, “Dammit! How did you become me and me become you? What’s this? I feel like the man in Kafka’s Metamorphosis who wakes up to find himself turned into a cockroach.”
“Are you saying being a woman is like being a cockroach?” the other spouse thundered.
Before the scene could proceed further, one of the actors muffed his lines and the rehearsal ground to a halt. The lead actor requested a break for a quick cigarette. The rest of the cast and crew also trickled out of the hall, some of them waving or acknowledging Motkar as they passed him. Hands on his hips, the director shook his head and turned around. His eyes fell on Motkar. “You are an hour late,” he said sourly.
“Sorry, Walimbe, got a new case on my hands. Husband killed wife then committed suicide,” Motkar replied, offering his excuse.
Walimbe made a face. “So what’s new, Motkar? Come on, even we have cases. I don’t understand why you have to suck up to your boss so much!”
Motkar just gave a conciliatory smile in response. “Nothing like that. Should I go over my lines with you?”
Walimbe still hadn’t been placated. “Only if you have rehearsed them at home and ironed out the mistakes you kept making yesterday.”
Motkar felt a little twinge of guilt. He hadn’t made
any effort to rehearse at home, but he bluffed away. “Yes, yes. You’ll notice the difference. Okay, should I start?”
Walimbe nodded grudgingly. “Go on.”And sat down on a chair.
Motkar cleared his throat, glanced at the first dialogue on the sheet and began. “Hey, please don’t start fighting again. Amruta . . . er . . . Yogesh, it’s . . . sorry . . . just a twenty-four-hour transformation . . . er . . . metamorphosis.”
Walimbe cut him short. “What is this, Motkar? You can’t hum and haw like that, boss. I told you, first learn the lines by heart, damn it.”
Motkar squirmed, feeling like a junior artiste being rebuked by some prima donna. Damn it, what had he got himself into? How was he ever going to get through this ordeal?
“Give me two minutes, Walimbe,” he said meekly and began practising his dialogues in earnest.
Saralkar opened his eyes and immediately sensed that he had overslept. He turned around to take a look at his mobile, resting on the bedside table. It showed 8 a.m., much later than usual. He wondered when he too had stopped using a table clock, like most people. Mobiles had almost made clocks redundant.
The fleeting lamentation about clocks was brushed aside by the fact that his head felt slightly heavy. He shook it gingerly to make sure it wasn’t too bad. Could it be a symptom of elevated BP? Saralkar felt intensely irritated with himself for thinking like that. There could be several explanations for the heaviness—acidity, oversleep, hangover, migraine, blocked nose—all of which he had experienced some time or the other. Why then did his brain have to immediately think of BP?
He dragged himself out of bed, not wanting his mood fouled up by just that stray doubt.
His wife was performing yogasanas in the drawing room. Fitness had come to Jyoti Saralkar a year ago, just like religion gets to some people suddenly, one fine day. And with Shilpa Shetty like gusto she had taken to it.
Saralkar could never understand why people chose to contort and torture their bodies thus or for that matter jog or skip or go to the gym. He had never felt the least bit like doing any of it.
His wife had just finished another asana when she noticed him. “I thought you were taking the day off,” she said.
“Why should I do that?” he asked with his trademark morning grumpiness.
Jyoti didn’t argue. “I’ll make tea,” she said, getting up and folding her yoga mat.
“Why didn’t you wake me up at my usual time?” Saralkar asked.
“You looked very tired yesterday,” she replied simply.
Saralkar grunted and retreated to the washbasin to brush his teeth. The dull grogginess above his left eyebrow had still not gone away ten minutes later, as he took his first sip of the tea.
“What are those pills Dr. Kanade gave you?” Jyoti asked quietly.
Saralkar cursed himself inwardly. “Why do you snoop around in my pockets?”
“Well, if you don’t want me to stumble upon your secrets, be more careful while putting your trousers for wash,” Jyoti retorted in a calm voice.
Saralkar glared at her then looked away.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Jyoti persisted.
“He just gave me some headache pills.”
“I saw the prescription also. He’s scribbled your BP readings on the top corner. 160/110.”
“So why are you asking me if you already know?”
“But why didn’t you tell me yourself?”
Saralkar shrugged. “What’s there to tell? Dr. Kanade gave me the pills and asked me to come back after three days. It’s not as if I’ve been diagnosed with hypertension or something. It may just be a temporary spurt.”
Jyoti’s palm glided across to his forearm and squeezed it. Her touch felt nice and soft and comforting but he was damned if he was going to tell her that or put his own palm on hers. The idea of doing anything remotely romantic rebelled against his self-image.
“You should take a break,” Jyoti said.
“Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m perfectly okay!” he replied, conscious even as he said it, of the heaviness on his temple. It was probably going to get worse as the day wore on, he knew.
“Investigating all these murders and being with criminals and violent people does you no good,” Jyoti said. “I am sure that’s the main cause of your stress.”
“Nonsense! I spend more time with you than with criminals,” he replied gruffly.
Jyoti didn’t take the bait. She was silent for a few seconds, looking at him anxiously, caressing his hand, before saying, “Can’t someone else investigate that Doshi couple case?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jyoti.”
“Let Motkar handle it by himself, no,” she coaxed.
“But why?’’ Saralkar snapped.
“So you can take rest!” Jyoti said. “I’ll also take leave for two days.”
“And do what? You also want to take rest?”
“No, I’m just bored of the daily routine. Let’s go to a movie, shop a bit, eat out . . . you can take a nap in the afternoon. It’ll be such a change,” his wife said, suspiciously big-eyed.
Saralkar felt alarmed because the whole prospect of spending two whole weekdays without doing any police work was so alluring. He was just about to grunt non-commitally to give himself time to think about it when she spoiled it all by speaking again.
“. . . and tomorrow let’s get you entire check-up done.”
Saralkar looked at her scornfully. “I knew there was a sting in the tail somewhere. No, thanks. I’m going to work.”
He began taking bigger, determined gulps of tea, which had become lukewarm by now.
“Okay, you do the check-up when you want. Let’s just do all the other things today at least. Come on, I’m bored,” his wife said, trying to make amends.
“No, I can’t. I’ve got work,” he replied.
She knew and he knew that he wouldn’t change his mind now. A few seconds of silence followed and just as Saralkar was about to get up and leave the table, Jyoti asked softly, “Why did the man do it?”
She usually never displayed much curiosity about his work, so Saralkar was surprised. “Apparently his wife was having an affair and she also mistreated him,” he answered briefly.
Jyoti raised her eyebrows. “Really? You mean he was a battered husband?”
“Looks like—”
“So you think he killed her in self-defence that day and then committed suicide?”
“Could be, but it’s not as straightforward as it looks. The paramour’s missing,” he said. “That’s why I need to go.”
Jyoti nodded thoughtfully, and then asked, “I wonder why men are either tyrants or weaklings.”
Saralkar grunted. “Because they are always under siege.”
It was the perfect provocation, but yet again Jyoti did not take the bait. Instead she asked, “Okay, what should I cook for lunch today?”
“Anything will do,” Saralkar replied and went off for his bath. As he turned on the shower, something about his wife’s last poser reminded him of two basic questions he should’ve asked Doshi’s cook: ‘What did she usually cook for them every day?’ and ‘What language did the couple use at home?’
He made a mental note.
Constable Shirke had laid out the copies of the five property agreements, provided by Somnath Gawli, turned to the page depicting signatures, thumb impressions, and photos of the seller and buyer.
“Three different people appear as Shaunak Sodhi, sir,” Constable Shirke observed, his thick index finger jabbing on three different photos in the five documents.
Senior Inspector Saralkar and PSI Motkar studied the photos, then looked at each other. PSI Motkar was first off the mark. “Probably one of them is the real Shaunak Sodhi. The others? Fake.”
Saralkar cast his eyes over the photos again. The documents had been photocopied not from the original agreements but from their photocopies. The photos therefore looked smudgy and patchy. While it was just possible to make out that the photos were o
f different people, the features were not very clearly visible.
One version of Shaunak Sodhi was a bald, bespectacled, clean-shaven, middle-aged man with drawn lips and high cheekbones. The second one was a complete contrast—long hair and side locks, a full moustache and beard; he looked like a street thug. There was an earring pierced on the top half of his ear. The smudging around his eyes, nose, and mouth made the features difficult to discern. The third photo was that of a washed-out Sardarji—pushing seventy, eyes drooping, face wilting, wearing a much used, faded turban.
“Yes, one of them could be the real Sodhi, but which one?” Saralkar said at long last. “And anyway why the hell would Sanjay Doshi be purchasing and selling land in the name of his wife’s paramour?”
“Sir, as Gawli said, the game was to get the best bargain directly from the seller and cut out the commission payable entirely. Sanjay would scout out the land using Gawli and then buy it in Sodhi’s name so that none would be the wiser,” PSI Motkar said.
“Of course I understand that Sodhi was a front, Motkar,” Saralkar said irritably, “but were he and Sodhi equal partners in the land dealings? And if they were, then was Sodhi the white money component and Sanjay Doshi the black money guy? Also if that was the case, why do we have different people impersonating as Shaunak Sodhi and signing documents at three different registration offices? So was he the mastermind or was it Sanjay Doshi? Because Sanjay and his wife are dead and it’s Shaunak Sodhi, the wife’s paramour and husband’s partner, who’s disappeared.”
There followed a rather long pause, as if the three policemen were waiting for each other to break it. Saralkar had closed his eyes because it almost hurt to keep them open.
PSI Motkar finally spoke hesitantly. “Sir, by any chance do you suspect that Sanjay Doshi did not murder his wife and kill himself? That Sodhi had something to do with it?”
Saralkar massaged his forehead, his eyes still shut. The heaviness had graduated to a dull throb travelling across his skull, like a planet across its orbit. “Yes, Motkar. I’m wondering whether this is a double murder and not a homicide cum suicide. And till we find the mysterious Shaunak Sodhi, he is on top of my suspect list.”