by Salil Desai
“Hullo, this is Constable Shewale from Pune Homicide Unit. Whose number is this?”
“This is my sister Meenakshi Rao’s number,” the man replied, after a pause, perhaps momentarily taken aback that it was the police calling. “What . . . what is the problem?”
“Where is your sister?”
“She’s not here just now. I’ll ask her to call you back, sir, but can you tell me what the problem is?” the man asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Lokesh Rao. I’m Meenakshi’s older brother, sir.”
“Does your sister know a lady called Anushka Doshi?”
“Anushka Doshi? I don’t know, sahib. What is this about?” the man asked nervously.
“We need to speak to your sister urgently. Ask her to come to the Pune Homicide Unit.” Constable Shewale gave him the address.
“Sir, I’ll ask her to call you first as soon as she is back,” Lokesh Rao replied. “But is there anything specific to be cleared up?”
“Yes. We need to know how she knew Anushka Doshi and why she had called her up early on Saturday morning at around 5 a.m. and also the previous night at 11 p.m.,” Constable Shewale said.
“Okay, sir. I’ll definitely tell my sister to call back as soon as she is here,” Lokesh Rao assured and rung off.
Constable Shewale heaved a sigh of relief. At least he could report some progress to PSI Motkar.
It was an hour later that his phone rang. A husky female voice spoke. “Sir, I am Meenakshi Rao. My brother said Pune Police wanted to speak to me about Mrs. Anushka Doshi madam.”
“Yes. How did you know her?”
“She . . . she . . . I mean I went to her for personal counselling, sir,” Meenakshi Rao replied hesitantly, then asked, “Actually it’s a private matter, sir. Why do the police want to know?”
“Madam, it’s very important. Can you please come to Pune Homicide unit HQ?”
“But, sir, I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You can bring your brother or some other family member along if you wish,” Constable Shewale said. “Or we can come to your residence if you give me your address.”
“Actually, sir, I am not in Pune just now; we are on a trip.”
“Oh! Where are you?”
“Sir, we are near Tirupati. I’ll only be back after seven to eight days. Please ask me whatever you wish to, sir, but first please tell me why you want to know how I am acquainted with Mrs. Anushka Doshi,” Meenakshi Rao said guardedly.
Constable Shewale sighed. “Well, Mrs. Anushka Doshi and her husband were found dead on Sunday.”
“Oh, my God!” Meenakshi Rao shrieked. “What happened?”
“We are investigating the case. Looks like you are one of the last persons who spoke to her. Why did you make calls to her late on Friday night and then again around 5.00 a.m. early morning on Saturday?” Constable Shewale asked. “At such odd times?”
He heard a few sniffs at the other end of the line and when Meenakshi Rao spoke, it sounded as if she had been crying quietly. “My God, sir. She . . . she helped me get over so many of my problems . . . through her unique therapy. Oh, my God! What am I going to do now?” Meenakshi Rao began crying again.
“Madam, please calm down. You may have important information. What therapy are you talking about?”
“Past life regression,” Meenakshi Rao replied. “One suffers in our present birth, because of certain events and incidents and our karmas in our previous birth. Anushka madam helped people get acquainted with their lives in previous births, so that they understand the root cause of their sufferings in the present birth. She helped identify specific reasons and incidents in our past life that needed to be addressed, accepted, and neutralized so that we can free ourselves from suffering in this life.”
Constable Shewale had already heard something similar before, from some of the other clients of Anushka Doshi that he had spoken to. “Okay. So since how long were you undergoing Mrs. Doshi’s therapy?” he inquired, taking down notes.
“About two months, sir, and there’s been a great deal of improvement in my life. My negative feelings have gone,” Meenakshi Rao replied, sounding like one of those people in TV ads who swore by miraculous talismans.
“So why had you called her so early that morning and the previous evening?”
“To activate a particular soul cleansing ritual she had advised me to do. It was to commence at 5.30 a.m. and she had told me to call and confirm the session. If she was ready I was to go over to her house for the early morning session,” Meenakshi Rao explained. “But she told me that we would have to do it some other day as the cosmic vibes and impulses were not right. Also, she said she was upset and her concentration was suffering and so she would not be able to induce the state of deep hypnosis required. So I thanked her and said I would call after I came back from the trip.”
“Did she elaborate on why she was disturbed?”
“No, sir,” Meenakshi Rao said. “Although I knew that all was not well between Anushka madam and her husband.”
“She confided in you?”
“No, no. Just something I could make out from their behaviour with each other. I mean I never liked the look of her husband and there always seemed to be some tension between them . . .”
“I see. We require your statement. When are you coming back to Pune?”
“Seven to eight days, sir.”
“That long? Try to come back earlier and report to us as soon as you reach. In the meanwhile, if my senior wishes to speak to you, we’ll call on this number,” Constable Shewale said. “Please tell me your travel schedule over the next few days.”
“Sir, from Tirupati we are going to Hyderabad and then . . .” She continued telling him about her plans.
Constable noted down the details. “And where will you be staying?”
“We’ve not done any advance bookings in hotels, sir.”
“Who’s with you?”
“My brother and his family.”
“What about your own family? Husband, children?”
“I am unmarried, sir,” Meenakshi Rao replied.
“Okay, please give me the mobile number of your brother,” Shewale said.
“His phone was stolen at Shimoga ST stand, sir. We have lodged a police complaint at Shimoga and deactivated the number. But I will be available on this number, sir.”
“Okay, madam,” Constable Shewale said. “One final question. Why weren’t you answering the phone over the last two to three days?”
There was the briefest of pauses and then Meenakshi Rao explained, “Sir . . . I normally don’t take calls from unknown numbers, and especially now that I am travelling. Just now also only because my brother was there he took the call.”
Constable Shewale again repeated that his boss might want to speak to her and then called off. All that needed to be done now was to double-check Meenakshi Rao’s details with the service provider, get her address in Pune, confirm she stayed there, and that she was indeed currently out of station. Finally, he would need to ensure that her current location was really in Tirupati.
That’s exactly what Motkar instructed Shewale to do, when he briefed the PSI a few minutes later.
Kunika Ahuja stared at the blank sheet of paper before her. She had no idea how she was going to crisply and concisely write the anonymous note to the police. She had discarded the thought of making an anonymous phone call; she was sure the police would be able to trace it back to her. The only options she had were to call from her own mobile or landline or her shop landline. All these could be easily traceable as well.
If she called from the phone of a neighbour or acquaintance, that too would eventually lead back to her. She couldn’t think of a single telephone booth that operated nearby or indeed anywhere in the city. And even if it did, anonymity was not possible because hardly anyone used PCOs these days. So the PCO owner would definitely remember.
Kunika had then cunningly considered requesting a stranger and c
alling from his or her mobile. But that too wasn’t without risks. What she had to say to the police would be time consuming and no stranger was likely to let her use the phone for a long call. And in any case he or she would be hovering around, making it difficult for her to tell the police what she wished to.
Most importantly which number would she call on? The Police Control Room number, 100, was obvious, but the thought made her uneasy. Maybe she might even lose her nerve.
That’s when she decided it would have to be an anonymous note. And now the snag was how to compose one and how exactly to word it. Was she to summarize her ordeal or just give vague tips of Anushka Doshi’s wickedness? For example, would the police pay any attention if she just wrote: Anushka Doshi was a dangerous woman who used the gimmick of past life regression to harass and snare women for nefarious purposes. I narrowly escaped from coming to harm, because of some sixth sense. She definitely had sinister and criminal intentions. Maybe the couple’s death was a result of her unscrupulous activities. Please examine this angle.?
Kunika Ahuja thought it would suffice. She was not interested in furnishing details of what she had faced and undergone. She just wanted to alert the police about the evil side of Anushka Doshi, in case they didn’t already know it. Investigating it further was their job, not hers.
She put pen to paper and began writing the note.
“I am so sorry, sir, for doing a bad job,” PSI Motkar said, his face inconsolable with embarrassment. “All this information should really have been unearthed by me from the Doshi flat and Mrs. Tambe.”
Saralkar had just finished briefing him about his visit the previous day. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Motkar,” he responded wryly to his assistant. “It happens. Investigation is all about going over the same ground again and again, in the hope of chancing upon something new that escaped us earlier.”
He had rarely known Motkar to be emotional, but as of now the PSI seemed to be almost quivering with self-loathing. “No, sir,” Motkar said with scorn that appeared to be directed at himself. “I just wasn’t up to the mark, because I just accepted it as a straightforward case of a spouse’s murder followed by suicide.”
“It might still be just that,” Saralkar observed. “The only thing is, it’s much more complicated and so we need to be absolutely thorough in ascertaining it’s not a double murder.”
Motkar nodded slightly, probably still unable to forgive himself. Saralkar decided it was time to shift focus. “Are you just going to stand there kicking yourself or will you brief me about any progress at your end?”
It acted upon Motkar like a mahout’s jab to the pachyderm in his charge. “We’ve managed to establish contact with the person who made calls to Anushka Doshi at odd times on Friday and Saturday,” he replied brightening up visibly.
“That’s good! Who did this mysterious caller turn out to be?”
“A woman named Meenakshi Rao, one more of Anushka Doshi’s past life regression clients,” Motkar said and briefed the senior inspector about Constable Shewale’s telephonic conversation with the woman.
“Hmm . . . I thought you had managed to trace the elusive Shaunak Sodhi finally,” Saralkar remarked.
“No, sir, but we’ve also been able to identify one of the fellows who posed to be Sodhi in the land registration documents,” PSI Motkar said, now upbeat. “A petty conman called Mobin Ghatwai, with a police record of minor offences—petty forgery, fraud, cheating, that kind of a thing. Hopefully we will be able to nab him soon. There’s someone keeping a tab on his regular hangouts and house.”
Motkar showed him the document in which the faded Sardarji had posed as Sodhi. Saralkar felt doubtful they would get anything out of the man in the photo, principally because old, sozzled, petty crooks rarely asked questions while taking part in petty deceptions or offences such as impersonation. Many times they wouldn’t even have a remote idea. But then, Saralkar had been in the force long enough to know that sometimes breakthroughs came from unexpected quarters and the most unexpected people.
“Good, looks like we are finally making some headway,” he remarked.
PSI Motkar’s mobile interrupted whatever he was about to reply, because the ringtone was unimaginably ghastly. It had a child’s voice bleating shrilly, ‘Papa the phone’s ringing, Papa the phone’s ringing’ and getting shriller with each ring.
PSI Motkar’s shocked face said it all. “I’m sorry, sir! My kid may have changed the ringtone.” Embarrassed beyond words, the PSI quickly took the call, “Hullo? Motkar here. Yes, Shirke?” He stole an awkward glance at Saralkar, looked away, and then once again turned to his boss, this time the embarrassed expression on his face turning to an alert one, as he listened. “Hmm . . . Hmm . . . Mumbai. Okay. Okay . . . okay. Get the manager along. Yes . . . Saralkar sahib is also here.”
Motkar disconnected, his sincere little face taut with excitement. “Sir, Shirke may probably have traced the locker, the key of which we had found in the Doshi flat!”
“Where is it? Which bank?”
“Probably the Suburban Bank branch in Sanpada, Mumbai.”
“What? What’s Shirke doing in Mumbai?”
“No, no, sir. Shirke was visiting branches of all banks in the Kothrud locality. He had gone to the Dahanukar Colony branch of the Suburban Bank also this morning and while making inquiries an assistant manager at the branch, Abhay Dalvi, recognized Sanjay Doshi’s photograph. He had been posted in the Sanpada branch of Suburban Bank earlier and has just recently been transferred to Pune in the Dahanukar Colony branch,” PSI Motkar elaborated. “Abhay Dalvi said that Sanjay Doshi had opened an account and taken a locker in the Sanpada branch about a year and half ago. Dalvi even remembered Sanjay Doshi’s name. Apparently he visited the Sanpada branch twice or thrice during the year. Shirke’s bringing Dalvi over.”
Senior Inspector Saralkar was elated enough to thump his fist on the desk. “Looks like today’s going to be our day, Motkar,” he growled. “You and Shirke leave for Mumbai along with Dalvi. Get the details and check the goddamn locker. I’m sure we are going to find Sanjay and Anushka Doshi’s secret buried in there.”
“Yes, sir. Are you also coming to Mumbai?”
“No, Motkar, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this evening,” Saralkar replied, almost immediately regretting the admission.
“Doctor? Anything wrong, sir?” Motkar asked with concern.
“I’m fine, Motkar,” Saralkar replied haughtily.
“But then . . .?”
“C’mon, Motkar, can’t a man go to a doctor, without the whole world wanting to know why?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that you didn’t look well yesterday so I thought . . .”
“You thought what, Motkar?” Saralkar snapped.
“Well, I mean . . . these days it’s advisable to get oneself checked for BP or diabetes . . . after forty. . . so I was wondering,” Motkar faltered.
“Well, you thought wrong, Motkar, I was just going for a vaccination.”
“Vaccination, sir?” the PSI exclaimed with incredulity.
“Yes, Motkar. I never got chicken pox when I was a kid. Don’t want to get it now, that’s why I am getting a vaccination,” Saralkar replied insouciantly. “Want to join me?”
Motkar was too surprised and speechless to reply.
‘White coat hypertension’ was one phrase among the many that Saralkar had become acquainted with during his Internet research on blood pressure, a few days ago. Apparently, it referred to the phenomenon of higher BP recordings of a patient, resulting from the mere presence of a doctor. The implication being that some people with otherwise normal BP got so stressed out by a visit to the doctor that it resulted in a spike in their readings.
Dr. Kanade never wore a white coat, nor was he wearing one now as he pumped the sphygmomanometer again, tightening the arm cuff on Saralkar’s left arm, just below his shoulder.
No, Saralkar thought to himself, he wasn’t going to let the doctor’s presenc
e psychologically affect his BP. He silently willed himself to have a lower BP.
“Okay, sit up now,” the doctor said.
Saralkar began to pull at the Velcro fastening of the arm cuff.
“Wait. Who asked you to remove that?” Dr. Kanade rebuked mildly, readjusting the cuff. “We need to take one more reading sitting up.”
He pumped the sphygmomanometer as Saralkar forced himself to remain calm and not think hard thoughts about the doctor. A whole minute passed before Dr. Kanade finished taking the readings and unshackled Saralkar from the instrument.
“I suppose it’s normal now, isn’t it?” Saralkar asked.
“Better than last time but still on the higher side,” Dr. Kanade replied.
“What’s the reading?”
“140/90.”
“So, it’s okay, right? Last time it was 160/110,” Saralkar said, getting down from the doctor’s examination table and sitting across his side-desk.
Dr. Kanade regarded him tolerantly. “Look, it’s lower because you took the tablets. Without them the readings would probably have remained higher. And it’s still above normal, which is 120/80. It appears you might need to be put on daily medication. Get all those tests done first.” He began scribbling on his prescription pad.
“But . . . but . . . are you saying I have chronic high BP? Why should I have it?” Saralkar protested, a frown beginning to form on his face.
Dr. Kanade cocked a glance at him. “Why wouldn’t you have it? You are overweight, you are in a stressful job, you probably smoke or drink or do both—”
“I don’t smoke,” Saralkar interrupted indignantly.
“So what? You don’t exercise, you probably eat the wrong kind of food, you have short temper. So there’s every bloody reason for you to have high BP,” Dr. Kanade sneered and resumed his prescription writing.
Saralkar spluttered for words. “But . . . but isn’t BP hereditary? Both my parents never had it!”
Dr. Kanade finished writing the prescription and slid it across the desk to Saralkar. “Your parents probably didn’t even know they had it. Times were different. There was little awareness and people didn’t go to doctors for routine check-ups. Anyway, get all these standard tests done. And I am referring you to another doctor, whom you should consult after getting the reports.”