by Vaseem Khan
Chopra patted the little elephant on the head. ‘Good boy,’ he murmured. Ganesha reached up with his trunk and caressed Chopra’s face, like a blind man running his fingers over the features of a friend. ‘Got to go,’ said Chopra. He went to his study and retrieved his rucksack.
Downstairs, he discovered that Bahadur, who was supposed to be at his guardpost, was fast asleep on his cot, still in the centre of the courtyard.
Chopra climbed onto the Enfield and kicked it into life, causing the somnolent guard to immediately awaken, jerking up in a shiver of fright.
As he roared out of the compound in a cloud of exhaust fumes, dawn was breaking. From the nearby Al Noor mosque the sound of Imam Haider’s call to prayer came floating over the city.
When Chopra reached the warehouse, he stopped at the same corner from which he had previously spied upon the man he believed to be Kala Nayak. He waited for twenty minutes, but there was no sign of life. Then he quickly rode his bike to the back of the derelict building directly opposite the warehouse. At its rear he found an old worm-ridden door.
Chopra kicked the door in and rolled the Enfield inside.
Leaving the bike by the door he made his way through the abandoned building, which appeared to be an old printing works. On the scarred, paint-peeled walls Chopra discovered framed, yellowing front pages of the Maharashtrian Weekly Samachar, a newspaper that he recalled briefly flourishing some ten years ago, and just as quickly going bankrupt.
On the third floor, a vast open space where, Chopra imagined, a cramped team of reporters and editors had once sweated and boiled, he set up his folding stool before the enormous, cracked windows overlooking the warehouse opposite. He removed the camera and screwed it on to its stand. He debated whether to clean the windows, which were grimy with decades of dust, but decided against it. He did not wish to alert those below to his presence. He sat down on his stool, took out his notebook, checked the time on his watch and made a note. Then he sat back to wait.
It had been a very long time since Chopra had been on a stakeout. It was not a tactic often utilised by the Mumbai police, simply because the sheer mass of people on the streets at any time of the day or night made a successful one rather a hit-and-miss affair. But he had realised that with no other leads to pursue, his best option now was simply to hope for some luck. He knew that he had seen Nayak and the man in the red hat enter this warehouse. He was betting that one or both of them would be back. At the very least he might get an idea of why they had come here. Even that might provide a clue, something with which to continue his investigation into the death of Santosh Achrekar. In spite of Nayak’s reappearance, Chopra had not lost sight of the fact that he had made a promise to the parents of the murdered boy. Whoever had killed Santosh must be brought to justice.
An hour passed and the sun continued to climb, heating up the room. At 7.04 a.m., Chopra noted the first signs of life.
A short, thin, rat-faced man wearing a blue Indian cricket team shirt with the number eight on the back emerged from the warehouse, stretched himself in a yawn, then stood against the building urinating. A stray dog came limping down the alley. The rat-faced man called the dog over, then, when it came close, kicked it hard on the side of the head, laughing raucously. The dog slunk away, yelping piteously. The man went back inside.
A short while later he returned, this time accompanied by a tall, thickset man with a heavy paunch wearing a garish orange shirt. Both men sat down on old packing crates and took out cigarettes which the thickset man lit using a gold-plated lighter in the shape of a curvaceous woman. They chatted for a while, their voices drifting up to Chopra, who watched them with his binoculars through a gaping hole in the corner of one of the windows. But their talk was inconsequential, of movies, friends, their favourite whores…
After a while, they went back inside the warehouse.
By midday, the abandoned printing works, whose roof was made of tin sheeting, had heated up considerably and Chopra found himself sweating profusely and increasingly uncomfortable. It was as if the rain had happened a long time ago. Mumbai was sweltering again.
Suddenly he noticed a movement from the corner of his eye. Startled, he nearly fell from his seat. But it was only a gecko, come to investigate the intruder. An hour later, the gecko was joined by another, and then another, until a whole family of them had clambered out from their hiding places to arrange themselves on the wall around the windows. Chopra stilled the panic that threatened to overcome him. The sight of the silent lizards made him shiver, but he knew that he had to hold his ground.
To calm his nerves he took out his calabash pipe and stuck it into his mouth.
By the middle of the afternoon he realised that he had made an elementary mistake. In spite of his meticulous preparations, he had overlooked two crucial things: food and water. By four o’clock his stomach was rumbling loud enough to wake the dead, and his mouth was parched. But there was nothing for it. He couldn’t abandon his post; he would simply have to put up with it. He heard another sound and turned. It was the limping dog from the street below. The dog approached him warily, expecting another kick, perhaps. Once it realised that Chopra was not about to beat it, it sniffed around his rucksack.
But there was nothing for it to eat.
It sat down on its haunches next to him, silently keeping him company in his vigil.
Nothing else happened for the remainder of the day. The two goons occasionally appeared outside the warehouse, to urinate, smoke or stretch their legs, but other than that the day was uneventful. There was a minor scare when Poppy tried to call him on his mobile. Chopra had forgotten to set the phone to vibrate mode, and the rousing tones of ‘Vande Mataram’, the national song, rang out around the deserted space, which seemed to amplify the sound. Chopra was certain the goons must have heard. But no one emerged from the warehouse to investigate.
He shut off the phone, and threw it into his rucksack.
At 11 p.m. he finally decided to pack up his operation, making his last notebook entry.
He arrived home famished, and immediately sat down at the dinner table, drinking a litre of water while Poppy and Ganesha watched him in astonishment. ‘Where have you been all day?’ asked Poppy eventually. Her tone made no secret of her displeasure.
‘Oh, just doing some things,’ mumbled Chopra vaguely.
‘What things?’
‘This and that,’ he muttered, not meeting her eyes. Poppy watched with a troubled expression as her husband finished his meal and then, with barely a mumbled thank you, retreated into his office.
This and that! thought Poppy. What was the meaning of ‘this and that’!
Her husband had been acting very strangely of late. Of course, she understood that ever since the shock announcement of his heart problem, and the terrible news that he would have to retire early, he had been forced to adjust to major and unexpected changes in his life–but still! He had always been a creature of habit, predictable. He was not a keeper of secrets. Even when he was working on important cases and could not share the details with her, he had still been an open book for Poppy to read: his anxieties, his moments of triumph. But lately he had become an enigma.
Take all the strange phone calls that he had been getting over the past few months, calls that her husband took great pains to conceal from her… And today! Vanishing without a word before she had even awoken. He was a retired man now, so what was he doing skulking around, keeping his activities hidden from her as if they were some sort of state secret! And ignoring her calls when she had telephoned him–not once, but eight times!
If Poppy had not been so preoccupied with her own concerns and the whole business with Kiran’s daughter, she would never have let the matter lie. She would have dragged it out of her husband, and discovered what it was he was up to.
The next day the situation worsened. Chopra again disappeared before Poppy had woken, and only reappeared late at night. He remained tight-lipped and mysterious, even though she compla
ined to him directly that he was acting strangely. He told that her he was ‘tying up some loose ends; can’t talk about it right now’. And then he had brushed past her and locked himself in that infernal study of his.
Her mother had been of no help. Instead of comforting her, she had poured fuel on the fire. ‘Make sure it’s not another woman,’ she had said, articulating the very concern that was eating away at Poppy herself.
‘Of course it’s not another woman,’ she snapped at her mother, who merely gave her one of her pointed looks.
And yet, in spite of her scorn, Poppy was worried. More than worried–she was terrified. Certainly, another woman might explain the secret phone calls, the skulking around. And although Chopra had been steadfastly loyal all these years, now that he was undergoing this incredible upheaval in his life, perhaps he had finally decided that it was time to move on. He was a retired man now. He had time on his hands. Now that he had no work to occupy him, he had time to reflect deeply on his life. He had time to think about the disappointments of his marriage; the fact that the woman he had chosen had borne him no children.
A man needed a son; Poppy knew that. Particularly a man like Chopra. But she hadn’t even been able to give him a daughter. And while before, his dedication to his work might have papered over this missing part of his life, what was there now to invest his days with purpose and meaning?
Her husband had clearly decided that he had had enough.
There was another woman out there, Poppy felt certain; another younger, prettier woman, who had sunk her claws into him, who was making him promises of a son, many sons, a whole cricket team’s worth of sons!
What kind of woman was she? A scheming witch, no doubt. Maybe someone like Mrs Gopaldas from the tenth floor, who was always telling Poppy how lucky she was to have such a handsome husband, so virile in his police uniform, completely unlike her own husband who was such a… such a… such an accountant!
Poppy sat on the sofa and wept. Suddenly she felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up and found the face of the little elephant looking at her with grave concern. Ganesha brushed the tip of his trunk over Poppy’s face, lightly wiping away her tears. ‘You don’t understand, do you, Ganesha?’ said Poppy miserably. ‘How could you? It is a woman’s lot to endure pain and suffering in this world; always the woman’s lot.’
Poppy thought once again of her plan to become the mother of Prarthana’s baby. Suddenly, the plan, the wisdom of which she had been debating endlessly with herself, almost to the point of abandoning it, seemed now to represent the only way to save her marriage… if it wasn’t already too late.
Kiran and Prarthana had now both agreed. Indeed, Kiran was pestering her to get on with it. All that remained was for Poppy to deliver the news of her ‘pregnancy’ to Chopra. Each time she thought of it she felt an unwillingness rising up inside her. How could she possibly lie to her husband, particularly such a lie as this?
But now she realised that she would have to act. She had to tell him, convince him that all was not lost if he chose to stay with her.
Yes. She would tell him. Soon. As soon as she could. Very soon.
QUEEN OF THE NIGHT
On the third day of his stakeout, Chopra finally got his breakthrough.
It was late in the evening, and dusk had fallen. It had been another tiring day, but this one had been relatively eventful.
Some time in the afternoon, Chopra had watched the two goons leave the premises and wander off down the alley and out of sight. His heartbeat had quickened immediately. Before he had time to change his mind, he hurried down from his hideout and made his way across the alley. His senses were on red alert. Hefting his service revolver, he advanced into the shadowed entrance of the warehouse. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Proceeding with caution, he opened the door and entered.
He found himself in a largish space, within which he could see a number of barred iron cages; they reminded him of the cages he had seen at the Byculla Zoo. In one corner of the room, a sort of photographic studio had been set up, with an expensive, professional-looking camera perched on a tripod, a complicated lighting rig, and a backdrop screen.
For a moment he felt completely disoriented. He had expected to find contraband: narcotics or illicit weapons. What were these empty animal cages doing here? And then it hit him! Something he had recently read in one of his policing journals… This set-up looked for all the world like the sort of thing that those involved in the poaching and animal trafficking trade might use.
Was this what Nayak was up to? Chopra knew that the poaching trade had, almost unnoticed, become big business for organised criminals in India. As certain species became rarer and rarer, there were fortunes to be made by those unscrupulous enough to treat animals as commodities to be slaughtered for their material value. Newly minted billionaires in the superheated economies of the East were willing to pay huge sums for a tiger’s claw or penis, or rhino horn, or, worst of all, elephant ivory. (Chopra had read that a single rhino horn could fetch four hundred thousand US dollars.) Often, these rare animals would die simply to provide the essential ingredient for some primitive recipe; a shaman’s charm to promote virility, or a cure for illnesses ranging from gout and snakebite to demonic possession.
Chopra stood in the silent room for a moment, gathering as many impressions as he could. Then he remembered that he had his camera with him. He quickly snapped off a number of photographs of the silent cages before moving on.
The rest of his expedition proved fruitless. The other rooms on the ground floor of the warehouse were empty, except for one that had clearly been set up as sleeping quarters for the two goons. A quick trip to the next floor up showed that it was unused: cobwebby and deserted.
Chopra realised that the two caretakers of the warehouse might be back at any second. He turned on his heel and raced back down to the ground floor, out of the warehouse, and back up to his hideout. He fell onto his stool just in time. Laughing and clapping each other on the back the two goons came sauntering down the alley, bottles of beer in their hands.
The only other noteworthy incident of the day was a phone call Chopra had made to the vet Dr Lala. He had realised that in his single-minded pursuit of Santosh Achrekar’s killer, he had allowed himself to become remiss in his duty to Ganesha. A follow-up with Lala was overdue.
Chopra dialled the vet’s number. He found Lala preoccupied with a schizophrenic Pomeranian, the pampered pet of a noted Bollywood heroine. The Pomeranian accompanied his mistress on all shoots, and had lately begun to attack her male co-stars in what the actress claimed to be fits of rabid jealousy. She explained, with perfect sincerity, that the Pomeranian was the reincarnation of her first husband, who had died in a tragic accident some years previously. Lala had been tasked with curing the pooch’s violent tendencies. Four major Bollywood films were on hold until he could do so, as the actress refused to film without her beloved pet by her side.
Lala apologised for not having called Chopra himself. There was good news. The medical analysis of Ganesha had not turned up anything untoward. Aside from his subdued demeanour, and a certain undernourished aspect to his physique, the baby elephant appeared to be in pretty good health.
Lala had more good news. He had spoken to his friend in Visakapatnam. As luck would have it, a place was available for a baby elephant in the sanctuary run by his friend. Lala had been busy. In three days’ time a truck would arrive to take Ganesha to his new home.
Chopra was struck by mixed emotions. He felt glad that the problem had been so swiftly resolved. But at the same time, he could not suppress the twinge of guilt that assailed him. ‘Are you sure that this sanctuary is a safe place for a baby elephant?’ he asked Lala.
‘I have been there myself,’ the vet confirmed. ‘It is ideal. You have my word.’
By the time night descended Chopra was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. The previous three days had taken their toll. He was tired and his body ached; muscles that he did n
ot even know existed had been crying out their protest. He was also acutely aware of the frosty reception that awaited him at home. But he could not share what he was up to with Poppy. She would not understand.
She had been after him to retire since the day they had discovered that he had an ailing heart. If he told her that he was camped in a derelict building, opposite a cabal of hardened gangsters, waiting for the notorious crime lord he was supposed to have killed nearly a decade ago, she would have a fit. Once Poppy got a bee in her bonnet about something, it was hard to make her see reason. She would never understand that this was something he simply had to do, no matter where it led him, no matter even if it consumed him.
And all the time that Chopra was thinking about Kala Nayak, he could not stop thinking about the murdered boy and his mother, who, even now, was waiting for justice, waiting for him to fulfil his promise. In a way, that boy had become Chopra’s own son; he had to know why Santosh Achrekar had died; he had to find those responsible, even if that trail led him into dangerous waters.
And then, just as he had all but decided to go home, the roar of a motorbike cut into the alley. The man in the red beret had reappeared.
As Chopra watched, the man parked his bike and dismounted in front of the entrance to the warehouse. It was a new bike, a Hero Honda, bright red, with painted black chevrons and gleaming chrome spokes. The man in the red hat lit a cigarette, then called out.
A few minutes later the two men stationed in the warehouse emerged. The bigger one scratched his hairy belly; the shorter one rubbed sleep from his eyes. The man in the red hat loomed over the shorter one, then slapped him in the face, knocking him to the ground. He kicked him in the stomach a couple of times until the man curled into a ball. He flicked his cigarette at him, then turned his attention to the other thug, whose own drowsiness had evaporated in a hurry. As Chopra watched, the man in the red hat forced him to his knees, reached into the waistband of his jeans and took out an automatic pistol. He forced the barrel of the pistol into the paunchy man’s mouth, then growled something into his ear which Chopra could not catch.