by Salil Desai
She looked up at him, then at Saralkar. “Shaunak would certainly have come or at least called, if he had known. But how would he?” Her voice was so soft that Saralkar had to strain to hear.
“It’s been so long . . .” Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Sometimes I wish he’s caught by the police, at least I’ll get to see him before I die.” She raised her dupatta to her face and covered it, crying silently.
Her husband shuffled across to her side and put a hand around her shoulder to comfort her.
“I don’t believe Shaunak has murdered anyone . . . but even if he has I don’t care, I just want to see him once, hold him close . . .” she said in a voice so loaded with grief that it even brought a lump to Saralkar’s unaccustomed throat.
What was happening to him, Saralkar suddenly wondered. Was he going soft and mushy with age? He didn’t have children, had never known what it felt to be a parent or to be separated from a child. And yet the mother of an absconding criminal had stirred hitherto unknown emotions in him that were almost interfering with his job.
Sodhi senior spoke. “Can she rest inside? I can answer all your questions.”
“No problem,” Saralkar said gruffly to disguise his discomfiture.
The old man gently escorted his wife into an inside room. He came out a few minutes later, shutting the door behind him. “Sometimes it all gets too much for her, especially since we lost our daughter too,” Sodhi senior said.
Saralkar felt another twinge. “I’m sorry. You also had a daughter?”
“Yes. She was settled in Canada with her husband and kids. She died last year. Cervical cancer,” the old man replied matter-of-factly, as if that was his way to stop drowning in grief. “When Leela heard you were coming, she was hoping you would have some news about Shaunak.”
He struggled helplessly. “The doctors have given her a year at the most. I wonder if she’ll ever see him again.”
“What is your wife suffering from?” Saralkar asked.
“Abdominal cancer, clinically,” Sodhi senior replied, “but heartbreak really. It’s just taken the form of cancer. My daughter’s death has been a big blow, of course, we could not even travel for her last rites because of my wife’s illness. But it’s Shaunak’s disappearance that has been killing Leela, little by little. I wish I can bring him back for her. I even put in an advertisement appealing to him to come back for his ailing mother.”
Something stirred in Saralkar’s mind. “In a local daily or national daily?”
“Deccan Herald, a local English daily, but it’s circulated all over Karnataka and Delhi. I thought if Shaunak was somewhere in the state or a place like Delhi, maybe . . .” Sodhi senior’s voice trailed off. “No luck.”
“Can I see the advertisement or can you tell me the date of its publication?” Saralkar asked.
The old man walked over to a chest of drawers and retrieved a small folder from it. He handed over a page of the newspaper in which a small 8 x 10 ad was published. It displayed the photo of Leela Sodhi with a short message underneath:‘Your Beeji is very ill. Please come back/contact me. No one will be told.’ A mobile number and address were also given.
Saralkar realized why he had failed to see the lead, even though he had seen the nebulous significance of Deccan Herald. He remembered seeing the ad now, but the photo bore little resemblance to the sad woman he had just seen.
“I-I didn’t put Shaunak’s photo or name or even our names because I didn’t want the police or anyone else to be alerted,” Sodhi senior said apologetically. “And I wanted to assure him he needn’t be concerned that I would hand him over to the authorities or something.”
Saralkar nodded. “So did you get any response from anyone?”
Sodhi senior hesitated. “I just got this anonymous note by post one month later. I didn’t know what to make of it.”
Saralkar took the postal envelope and a handwritten note stapled to it, which read: Can’t contact. Safe. Do you require money for treatment? If so, advertise in the same paper in the 15th February issue. Mention amount required.
“Is this your son’s handwriting?” Saralkar asked.
“No, it’s not written by him. Wouldn’t he at least have asked after her health?”
Saralkar looked at the note again, trying to mentally visualize Sanjay Doshi’s suicide note for comparison. He was fairly sure the handwriting was the same. Whether penned by Sanjay Doshi or his killer, the suicide note and the note Sodhi senior had produced had been written by the same person.
“So did you advertise again on the given date?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want the money . . . crime money . . . and I figured that if it was indeed Shaunak who had arranged to have the note sent to me, he would get restless if he did not see the advertisement on 15th February and anyway try and contact me. Any son would be concerned whether his mother was alive or dead or why I hadn’t advertised,” Sodhi senior replied.
Saralkar marvelled at the impeccable logic and psychology. “So did it work? Did Shaunak or this person contact you again?”
The old man shook his head. “I’ve often wondered if I should’ve put in another advertisement saying that money was not needed but that his mother was dying. Sort of make it clear.” He faltered and was silent for a few seconds, as if gathering his thoughts.
Just as Saralkar was gauging whether to add something, the old man spoke again. “Shaunak loves his mother . . . or . . . or at least he did back then. I . . . I don’t know how things went wrong with him; how he became a . . . criminal.”
For the first time he saw the old man’s eyes moisten. The shoulders had finally slumped as if Sodhi senior had decided to lay down the burden of being strong, at least for the time being.
Saralkar felt himself overcome with sympathy. Why did such things happen to good people? Why did they have to suffer, like this old man in front of him? “Can you tell me how exactly Shaunak got mixed up with Bhupathi and Fernandes? I understand he was doing his MBA, but he dropped out midway . . .?” he asked.
“Yes, after I retired from the Indian Air Force, I decided to settle down in Bangalore, because I got a job here. Shaunak completed his college, and then started working in a company and also applied for the armed forces. Because of his asthma, he expectedly did not get selected and decided to pursue his MBA instead. He chucked his job and enrolled for MBA in a good institute in the city. That’s where he met this girl, a fellow student he fell in love with. She was from an extremely rich family . . . and that’s what started Shaunak’s downward spiral. He got obsessed with earning money and getting rich soon so that he could marry this girl with the consent of her family,” Sodhi senior said. “I don’t know how exactly he met Bhupathi and Fernandes or where but it was probably in the course of his betting activities, which he had taken to as a way to make big money. Since I strongly disapproved of all the wrong turns he had been taking after he met that girl, Shaunak and I were not on talking terms. So I just learnt from his mother that he was starting a business with two partners. I was very uneasy the moment I heard the nature of the business—foreign employment and immigration—but there was nothing I could really do.”
“Did you ever meet either Bhupathi or Fernandes? Did Shaunak bring them home or did you chance to bump into them in his office?”
“No, never.”
“Did your son ever tell you or his mother anything about them?”
The old man shook his head. “Not really.”
“Not even after he was arrested and imprisoned in the employment racket case?” Saralkar pressed on. “Didn’t he express any kind of feelings—anger, frustration, claims of innocence, shame?”
The old man was silent for a few seconds as if figuring things to himself. “To be honest, in the last couple of years just before his disappearance, I hardly seemed to know my son. We lived in the same house, but his work, his life, was all out of bounds for me. Even for his mother for that
matter. Shaunak had completely withdrawn into himself after the girl broke up with him, and seemed to head further down the path of wrongdoing. He refused to discuss anything and if his anguished mother or I tried to still force a conversation upon him about his way of life or various other things, he would simply threaten to leave the house. So we just kept our peace.”
He paused, looking beyond Saralkar, as if introspecting and reflecting rather than talking to someone else. Saralkar chose to wait without prompting.
Sodhi senior spoke again. “. . . especially I didn’t want to probe too much because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing the right thing if I got any confirmation from him, that he was indulging in nefarious and illegal activities. I just prayed he would come to his senses some day and not get sucked in deeper into the morass. But he did. We were not here when he was arrested. We were in Canada, visiting our daughter. We didn’t even know about it for the first month or so. By the time we got information and came back to India, Shaunak had been in prison for nearly six to seven weeks. He even refused to meet us. We finally met him only when he got out on bail much later. But even then, not a word from him. He would just sit there brooding or watching TV. He literally told us nothing, whether he was guilty or not, whether he had done anything criminal or not. We never knew what was going on in his mind.”
“Did he ever talk about Rahul Fernandes or how he had cheated and double-crossed him and Bhupathi? Did he hint at taking revenge?” Saralkar asked a little more bluntly this time.
Old man Sodhi’s reply was surprisingly sharp. “I wouldn’t put it past Shaunak to have killed a man. Anger, money, revenge can drive anyone to kill. Initially I couldn’t get myself to believe the worst, but over time . . . I’ve wondered. Otherwise why did he flee like that, if he was innocent? I have, of course, never told his mother that.”
Once again Sodhi senior’s candidness impressed Saralkar. He was about to ask the next question, but Shaunak’s father was not yet done.
“Mind you, there is one thing which always bothers me, though. Shaunak wasn’t feeling well that day. He’d been having asthma attacks and had been coughing and wheezing quite badly. Perhaps you know how cruel the Bangalore weather can be to asthma patients. Shaunak’s asthma had only got worse in prison and it had taken a toll on his overall health. His mother even asked him why he couldn’t stay home if he was feeling so unwell that evening. But he went . . . and never came back.”
Saralkar nodded. “And what bothers you is that you think in his condition he wouldn’t have been able to do what he did?”
“Yes, I mean . . . to think of him having the strength to kill someone while wheezing, coughing, breathing heavily . . .” The old man left the sentence hanging.
“But they were two of them. Bhupathi was with Shaunak and together they could easily have overpowered Fernandes who was quite drunk,” Saralkar pointed out. “In fact as you already know, when the police finally found Fernandes’ body where Bhupathi and your son had buried it, your son’s inhaler and hair band were also found, which he probably dropped.”
“That too had puzzled me,” Sodhi senior replied, “because my wife had also lamented after he left the house that evening that Shuanak had forgotten to take his inhaler and might need it later. She even tried calling on his mobile. So how could it be Shaunak’s inhaler that was found with Rahul Fernandes’ body? I mentioned this to the inspector. In fact the inhaler that was found was of a different strength than the one Shaunak used regularly.”
Saralkar made a mental note of checking this discrepancy. Moving to the present, he said, “It’s possible that Shaunak might have killed again. Bhupathi and his second wife were found dead in mysterious circumstances in Pune recently,” and watched the old man’s reactions carefully.
Sodhi senior seemed to stiffen a little. His palms, which had been clasped together, and were resting between his thighs, were unclasped and now clutched the edges of the diwan he was sitting on, as if to steady himself. His eyes had inadvertently strayed towards the door leading into the inside room where his wife lay, as if to check she had not suddenly materialized and chanced to hear this revelation about their son.
“He’s killed his other business partner too, after so many years?” the old man asked hoarsely.
“Seems quite likely by the look of things.”
“Has Shaunak been caught?”
“Not yet.”
The old man stared at Saralkar for a few seconds, then said in a gravelly tone, “If Shaunak’s killed again, Inspector, then he’s beyond hope, beyond redemption. I hope my wife does not have to know.”
Saralkar nodded. “Will you then please inform me immediately if Shaunak tries to get in touch?”
The old man spoke again. “Of that, you have my word, Inspector.”
And Saralkar believed the aged, dignified Sikh.
It had been a particularly hectic day and as he sat making his daily case report, PSI Motkar once again marvelled at how often the investigation of one case led to the unearthing of a different crime altogether.
Hrithik Dhond, for example, had been picked up as a suspect in the Doshi case, but it had instead revealed his involvement in a burglary, which would perhaps have remained undetected otherwise, if Hrithik hadn’t been forced to account for his whereabouts on the day of the Doshi murder and thereafter.
Faced with the prospect of being charged with murder and his mother being dumped in jail, Hrithik Dhond had first admitted to threatening the Doshis. “Sir, that bastard tried to molest my mother! When my mother told me, I lost it and wanted to beat Sanjay Doshi black and blue,” Hrithik had said morosely, “but which son wouldn’t?”
“Go on.” Motkar had prodded.
“I-I didn’t want it to happen again. I wanted to protect my mother. So I just went to their flat and warned him,” Hrithik Dhond had replied.
“How did Sanjay Doshi react?”
“He denied the incident at first, then later he began apologising and said it wouldn’t happen again.”
“So why did you go to his place again and again?”
“I didn’t go again,” Hrithik Dhond had wailed.
“You mean the matter ended there with just one visit?”
“Yes.”
“So how come you were seen on other occasions, even shouting and arguing with both Sanjay Doshi and his wife Anushka Doshi?” Motkar’s voice had hardened. “What were you doing, Hrithik? Paying the couple a courtesy call?”
“But, sir!” Hrithik had whined again.
“Quick, quick,” Motkar had said snapping his fingers impatiently, almost enjoying his new role as the rough and ready officer. “You were trying to extort money from Sanjay Doshi, right, for his conduct with your mother? Come on, out with it!”
Hrithik Dhond had nodded shamefacedly.
“Ah, the cat’s out of the bag. And when you tried the extortion stunt too many times, Doshi told his wife and they refused to pay you any further?” Motkar had demanded. “Right?”
“No, he had told me to come and take the money from his house one day, since his wife was going to be away. She turned up just as Sanjay Doshi was handing over some money to me, and demanded to know what was happening and who was I. The idiot panicked and gave some weird reason of me being some creditor’s man. The lady got suspicious and it led to a big argument. She snatched back the money from my hands and threatened me not to come again.”
“Is that why you decided to have your revenge by murdering the Doshis and looting their money?”
“No! Sir, I really had nothing to do with the murder. I told you I wasn’t even here . . .”
“Again we are back to square one,” Motkar had sniggered. “So where were you if not here? What were you doing? Who was with you? Where did you get all the money found on you? I want all details of your whereabouts right from Saturday to this morning. Start talking if you want to save yourself.”
Hrithik Dhond’s face had become indescribably taut and tense, as if
he knew he was walking into a trap. “On Saturday, I and three others burgled a flat in Vishrantwadi area and immediately fled Pune. That’s why I cannot have murdered the Doshis!” he blurted finally.
“What?” Motkar had been taken completely by surprise. “Whose flat? Tell me more.”
“It’s . . . it’s a flat where I had undertaken painting work two months ago. I-I made a duplicate of the key and bided my time. The family moved in last month and we kept a watch. Last Friday they left for a weekend trip, so we took the opportunity and burgled it on Saturday afternoon.”
PSI Motkar had gazed at the cowering Hrithik fixedly, trying to figure out if it was just a ploy to get off the hook. “Are you saying you are a part of some gang of burglars?”
Hrithik had nodded wretchedly and then out tumbled details of his brief criminal career and the burglary in question, all of which Motkar had immediately sent for checking to the Crime unit and the police station concerned.
That such a burglary had indeed occurred in Vishrantwadi was confirmed right away but the rest of the story would need thorough verification, right from tracing Hrithik’s accomplices to forensic evidence. Till then Hrithik would remain in custody, but as far as Motkar was concerned, he had been effectively ruled out as a suspect from the Doshi murder case.
PSI Motkar finished his report and sat back with a yawn. He knew he had to go for the drama practice, but felt distinctly disinclined to do so. Nor was he feeling like going home. In fact, he realized with a start, he would’ve liked nothing better at the moment than to discuss the case with his boss. The realisation depressed him. Was he also turning into a workaholic like Saralkar? Was his personality undergoing a change? Was he becoming a different version of himself or simply a copy of Saralkar in parts? Was he getting obsessed with cases, crimes, and criminals to the exclusion of everything else?
Motkar got up from his desk. It was time to leave if he wanted to freshen up and have a bite before reaching drama practice. He put his papers into his drawer and glanced at Saralkar’s desk as he walked past it. There were a couple of new documents and letters. Nothing that could not be seen tomorrow. And then his eye fell on a pink envelope. Who sent pink envelopes to policemen? It certainly couldn’t be something official. Nor was it a greeting or invitation card.