Three Marketeers

by Ajeet Sharma

  ‘Are you sure she followed him?’

  ‘I think so. Employees here often go that way when they have to attend a dinner meeting together … and forget to mention that in the Movement Register,’ he pointed out frustratingly, ‘only to make our lives miserable.’

  ‘So there’s no entry in such a register for that evening?’

  ‘No entry.’

  ‘Any idea where Jaggi Balraj went?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I want you to get this information from his driver by tomorrow.’ She gave him her card.

  The guard was uneasy again but not forgetting her threat, slowly nodded.

  35

  Godavari Khundar, a tall, thickset, and dark woman was the warden at Fotedar’s Home for Women. With her cheap silvery set of a nose ring, earrings, and bangles, the inmates thought she looked like a bordello queen. They would pray as she walked past them in her khaki salwar-kurta and navy blue canvas shoes, chewing tobacco and giving sidelong looks.

  Daily, Godavari ensured everyone was out of bed by four in the morning and reached the nursery by 4.30. Anyone who faltered was severely punished. There were times when she would beat the offender to a near-coma state with a rough stick she carried like a body part. The most dreadful example was that of a twenty-six-year-old woman, Lata, who tried fleeing the Home. When the security guards caught her near Qutub Minar and brought her back, Godavari took special care of her. That night, the woman was stick-beaten, kicked, boxed, and flung in all directions until she was soaked in blood and the floor resembled a painter’s canvas, marked by a maze of red strokes. When Lata was taken to hospital, the doctors said it was a case not less severe than a road accident. Godavari had conveyed a simple message to one and all: anyone who tried to escape would have her body broken.

  The warden’s most important job, though, was just the opposite—to keep the inmates in good shape, and the reason was not the hard work they were required to do at the nursery.

  Godavari was on her rounds as usual after dinner. Her target tonight was the dormitory that Ira had sneaked into.

  ‘Dormitory number 8, come out!’ she shouted, standing like a cop in the corridor.

  About thirty inmates hurtled out and lined up side by side. Walking with a swagger along the line-up, she examined their faces. ‘Look up.’ She poked a frail woman’s chin with her stick. The woman’s legs shivered inside her white sari as she looked up.

  Godavari sneered and moved ahead. She stopped before a young woman standing in the middle. A nasty smile spread across the warden’s dark, pockmarked face, and her tobacco-stained teeth appeared from behind her lips thick as a leech. ‘What’s your name, princess?’ she asked.

  ‘Jyotsna,’ replied the woman timidly, avoiding eye contact.

  The warden approached her and studied her face—full symmetrical lips and a pair of intense eyes. ‘Tomorrow will be your night out, princess,’ she said softly.

  ‘No! For God’s sake!’ Jyotsna sobbed.

  Godavari swung her stick at her shoulder. Her cheap-metal bangles jingled as her hand moved. A thorny protuberance in the stick ruptured Jyotsna’s skin near her collarbone. She cringed, cried, and bled. As the intensity of the pain increased, Jyotsna dropped to the floor and, before she could beg again for mercy, received a furious kick from the warden in her backbone. Jyotsna howled. No one dared to look down.

  ‘Die, you useless woman!’ screamed Godavari. Straightening her uniform and tying her oily, muddy hair into a bun again, she walked further along the line-up and stopped before another young and slim woman. After spitting out tobacco juice on the floor—it came out like a shower—she asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Kajal.’ The woman knew her fate.

  ‘You get ready for tomorrow night. Meet me for instructions in the morning,’ ordered Godavari, grabbing the woman’s arm and drawing her to her sweaty body. Then letting go of her with a jerk, she said, ‘Listen, all of you.’ She planted a foot on an unconscious Jyotsna’s ear. ‘The next time anyone disobeys, it’ll be a dead body my foot will be crushing.’ She pressed Jyotsna’s ear hard enough to emphasise the point. ‘So, lilies, remember, this isn’t a holiday home, nor am I your sweet hostess. You gotta do what Godavari tells you to do. You hear?’ she shrilled.

  Feebly and faintly, everyone said, ‘Yes.’

  The warden stared at them one more time and left the scene. Total casualties tonight: only one.

  That night it was decided among the six inmates—Jyotsna, Nisha, Meera, Ashima, Latika, and Gayatri—whose conversation Ira had heard and for whom she had left a note under a pillow that it was time they sought help.

  Gayatri volunteered to sweep and mop the Admin Block floors. At 5.30 the next morning, with a thick broom in her hand, she crossed the reception area and entered the chairman’s office. She reached for the telephone, read Ira’s number scrawled on her left palm, and dialled.

  36

  The second innings of the twenty-first match, between Rajasthan Bravehearts and Bangalore Bulls, was about to start. Already, a couple of records were shattered in the year’s IRL edition. A New Zealander, representing the Bengal Tigers, took six wickets in a match and in another, a Delhi Hounds Australian batsman scored record-breaking 178 runs, the highest individual score in all Twenty20 matches.

  Ramesh Choksi watched every match for two reasons: one, to check the placement of Festi’s commercials, and two, to follow Freedom’s manoeuvre. By now, he had understood Karan’s move. He was airing his ad during every alternate match, before the start of the second innings.

  Kabir Raja appeared on Choksi’s television screen thirty seconds before the first ball of the second innings was bowled by a left-arm fast bowler of Bangalore Bulls.

  Choksi knew it was a new Yodel commercial.

  It opens to a long shot of Kabir sitting on what looks like an old, unpolished bar stool. He is wearing a tight black T-shirt emphasising the muscular shape of his body, and sweatpants. In the background, there is only white space. He looks serious with a furrowed brow and speaks to the camera as it takes a close-up of him. ‘I have something to share with you. Earlier, I only drank something that lacked real fizz … a drink that was flat.’ He pauses. His lost-in-thought eyes look sideways. Then he says, ‘A man is known by the company he keeps. I believe he is also known by what he drinks.’ He smiles. ‘I have discovered a new drink.’ He turns and stretches a hand to the white space behind him. Facing the camera again, with a Yodel Orange in his hand, he says, ‘This is Yodel. A righteous drink. A drink that makes me feel I’m in good company.’ He raises the bottle, as if he were raising a toast, and drinks from it, making loud gulping sounds. Slowly, the scene fades out and the logo of the brand fades in with a large-font message below it. A deep voice in the background reads it, ‘Choose Yodel. Choose the righteous one. Yodel Orange, Yodel Lemon, Yodel Cola.’ There is no jingle.

  Choksi cursed, grabbed his phone, and dialled Dushyant Gujral’s number.

  ‘What happened, Ramesh? Why so angry?’ asked his wife, her mouth full of a bite of pizza.

  ‘Hi, Dushyant,’ he spoke into the phone, muting the TV.

  ‘Yeah, Choksi, what’s the latest?’ asked the CEO.

  ‘You watching IRL?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The joker has aired another commercial.’

  ‘You mean Jaani?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  Choksi described the commercial. ‘He’s saying our drinks lack real fizz and are flat.’ There was no reaction from the CEO’s end. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Choksi, I’ll call you back.’ Gujral ended the call abruptly.

  Choksi never got a call from him that night.

  In the morning, he entered Gujral’s bright and sunny glass cabin. ‘We should file a case now, Dushyant.’

  ‘On what basis?’ asked Gujral.

  ‘Unethical advertising … disparagement …’

  ‘What’s so unethical about
it?’

  ‘He’s defaming our company and maligning its image.’

  ‘We still don’t have a strong case here.’ Gujral dismissed Choksi’s concern as usual and tapped the touchpad of his laptop. ‘Don’t bother. Consumers won’t understand the ad unless they are aware of Kabir’s grudge against us.’

  ‘Boss, who’s not aware? The nation knows we terminated the contract with him after he was jailed. In my own residential area, even the school-going kids remember the controversy. Jaani’s commercials are going to make people believe that we ill-treated the star. People, who also happen to be our consumers, will believe Kabir Raja, the superstar. Think about our image, Dushyant. Raja is making us look like culprits, as though we shot him in the back.’

  ‘Oh, that we did.’ Gujral laughed sneakily. ‘Don’t blame Kabir. Jaani is the man. But, as I have been saying, the day we go after him, his objective would be met. The media, too, may jump in to his advantage and give his company and brand free publicity.’

  ‘It’s not only about Jaani anymore. It’s also about us pitted against the megastar.’ Choksi fidgeted in his chair.

  Gujral thought about it for a while. Then he asked, ‘Did you trawl for information on his investors?’

  ‘I did. There are two. But the major one is Windlyn Capital, an investment firm in London. Its chairman, Dan Zabar, is a successful Indian in the UK, who has funded several ventures in Europe, Asia, and Africa and formed associations with some of the most influential people in the businessworld.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Gujral.

  ‘Nor had I. And that’s because we aren’t entrepreneurs.’

  Gujral wondered how to handle the menace called Karan Jaani. The situation was getting serious … But was litigation a solution?

  Choksi was relieved to see that, this time, his boss was somewhat disturbed about the situation.

  37

  The security guard at Balraj Tower managed to get the information from Balraj’s driver. He then called Nazia and informed her that, on the evening of April 10, Balraj went to his construction site in Gurgaon.

  She reached there one morning and met the site manager. ‘It’s about the progress at your site,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, for that, you need to go back to our corporate office on Barakhamba Road,’ suggested the manager.

  ‘I have already met your CEO. I need to assess things here too.’

  The manager squirmed. ‘Well …'

  ‘Homebuyers are crying for possession and worried about their money.’

  ‘We haven’t been able to finish a single flat so far. As you can see,’ he pointed to the buildings visible through a stained and muddy windowpane, ‘these are only frames standing at present.’

  ‘The buyers are also worried about the quality that will come out,’ said Nazia, not looking outside.

  ‘We were about to finish a sample flat for our buyers when the court issued the stay order. A room in it is ready, though.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  They walked out of the dusty office and reached the furnished room in which Balraj and Fotedar had met a few weeks ago. The manager opened the unpolished wooden door and led the news reporter in.

  Nazia noticed the marble floor and furniture. It is impressive, she thought, despite the lingering dust. ‘When will it be ready for the buyers to see?’

  ‘Not before the stay is lifted.’

  She went to the balcony and saw a dented Tuborg beer can lying in a corner. After shooting quick glances around, she returned to the room. ‘What’s the price of this flat?’ she asked, as the site manager removed a water bottle from the refrigerator and filled a glass for her.

  ‘Seven thousand rupees per square feet. Wait till the stay is lifted. The rates will hit the sky.’ He served her water. ‘Can we go back now?’

  As they reached the ground floor, she saw something lustrous lying under a muddy container, which rested on a low iron stand. Without wasting any time, she took out a handkerchief from her bag and dropped it near the container. The manager, walking ahead, did not notice the act.

  Once they were out of the building and the site manager felt relieved that he could see her off, she said, ‘I think I dropped my kerchief there. I’ll go and get it.’

  Nazia entered the building again, went to the container and picked up her kerchief and the item lying near it. It was a silver bracelet. The name engraved on it was Niranjan Fotedar.

  Sitting on the couch in her apartment with a cup of tea in her hand, Nazia examined the heavy bracelet. It had thick and broad links and a broken clasp. She wondered who Niranjan Fotedar was. Was he the one with Jaggi Balraj that night at the site? Not necessarily. The bracelet could belong to a homebuyer who visited the site some other day and lost it there.

  Running the tip of her thumb on the smooth links of the ornament, she recalled what the unknown caller mentioned on the phone that night: ‘I, just now, heard a conversation between two very dangerous and powerful men who want to kill the promoter of a start-up.’

  Nazia opened her laptop, logged onto Google and typed ‘niranjan fotedar’ in the search bar. She got only three matching results with the full name. After she had noted down the details, she searched on Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter. She got roughly the same results on the three sites.

  She typed ‘leena goswami murder’ in the search bar, and that was not for the first time. The matching results were many. She clicked on one she had not seen earlier and landed on a blog created in Leena’s memory. The language was emotional and expressed the pain her demise had caused to those close to her. Nazia found out that the blog account was in the name of someone called Sameera Bali. There were several condolence messages from friends, colleagues, and relatives. Nazia came across two familiar names among them: Jaggi Balraj and Shigeru Yamazaki.

  She left a message on the blog: ‘May your soul rest in peace, Leena. Sameera Bali, could you please contact me?’ She left her email address after the message.

  38

  When Gayatri phoned Ira Bhat from Fotedar’s office and informed her how the Home was hell for the inmates, Rishi contacted Kanwaljeet Singh Bagga for an urgent meeting at his home in Green Park.

  Bagga admitted he was always aware of the sexual exploitation at the Home but could never speak up against the crime. He revealed that the warden was the one who, on behalf of Fotedar, controlled the entire operation and sent the women to his special guests. To avoid any interception of funds from Jammu and Kashmir, Fotedar had to keep the ministers and officials from the state happy. Every week, someone from the state would visit the Home and spend a night with a woman of Godavari’s choice.

  ‘Mr Bagga, you should have told us earlier about all this.’ Rishi was outraged. ‘Are you involved too?’

  ‘I am a God-fearing man, Rishiji, but had I confronted Fotedar, I would have risked my life. He’s a dangerous man and I have a family to take care of.’

  ‘Disgusting,’ snapped Ira. ‘Say family and get away with everything. Are you with us now or not?’

  Bagga, by now, had realised that Ira was much more than a colleague to Rishi Verma. ‘I’ve always been with you, my dear friends. Do you think I was unaware about what both of you were up to? I was always aware and never came in your way, because—’

  ‘Because you wanted me to give your son a job in my company. Am I right?’

  ‘For God’s sake! I don’t care whether my son gets a job in your company or not. I never came in your way because I was happy about what you were doing for these women … something I could not do. May the Almighty bless both of you, but be very careful in your operations.’ Bagga wiped the tears from his eyes.

  ‘Thanks for your concern.’ Ira was still angry. ‘Has Dr Sapru been aware of all this?’

  ‘She has been.’

  ‘Couldn’t she too ever speak up?’ asked Rishi.

  ‘She once spoke to me about it. I … uh … hushed her up.’

&nbs
p; ‘Mr Bagga, here’s our plan,’ said Rishi, ‘and your chance to make amends.’

  A week later, before Godavari’s evening meal was sent to her room from the mess, Jyotsna sneaked into the kitchen. Not letting anyone see, she sprinkled some powder from a small glass vial into a bowl of dal served in the warden’s plate.

  By the time the inmates finished their dinner and were back to their dormitories, Godavari was sound asleep. She was hardly able to finish a chapati. Ira’s chosen women—Jyotsna, Nisha, Meera, Ashima, Latika, and Gayatri—ran to different dormitories and announced that their warden had been drugged into a long sleep and that an urgent assembly was called by the visitor, Rishi Verma, in the basement hall of the hostel. Many women, who had seen Rishi earlier, smiled as his name was mentioned. The exhilarating news that the warden was not going to wake up until the next morning caused a euphoric chanting of victory slogans by all.

  It was 10 p.m. and all 219 inmates huddled together in the hall that could accommodate not more than a hundred. It was a hot night in the month of May. The hall did not have a fan and everyone was sweating.

  Bagga climbed the small podium and addressed all: ‘Our time has come. For long, I painfully watched the torture suffered by you. I confess, I could not speak up against the cruelties. Fortunately, we have these two God-sent angels with us,’ he swept his hand towards Rishi and Ira, ‘who have vowed to rescue each one of you from this hell.’ Every woman in the hall looked at the couple. ‘You might have seen Rishiji moving around the campus, doing his job. Some of you have even met Iraji at the nursery. Without taking more time, I request Rishiji to speak to you.’ Bagga stepped down from the podium and nodded at Rishi.

  Rishi reached the podium. ‘Hello, dignified ladies,’ he said. There was a look of admiration on more than two hundred faces. ‘I would like to tell you who I am and why I’ve been visiting this place in the past few months. I, along with two others, manage a beverage company called Freedom in Delhi, though not as diligently as you are managing the nursery here.’ Bagga smiled at the comment. ‘Now the reason why we are here.’ Rishi pointed to Ira and himself. At that time, Dr Radhika Sapru entered the hall from an entrance behind the podium and stood beside Bagga. Rishi continued, ‘The company supports this Home by donating funds for your welfare, of course, without any selfish motive. We wanted to leave things with the management here but we had our sad learning. The Home management has only exploited you. We are aware about what happened outside dormitory number 8 and similar incidences of violence in the past.’ In a firm tone, he stated, ‘We, the representatives of Freedom, have vowed not to let this happen anymore. For this, I need your support.’ There was silence in the hall. ‘Trust us! We’ll do anything to provide you protection.’ He read the faces. ‘Do we have your support?’