by RV Raman
‘4 a.m.?’ Nilay realized for the first time that Moin was wearing the same shirt he had on the previous evening when they had explored the PC in the data room. ‘You pulled an all-nighter?’
‘Yeah.’ Moin shrugged. ‘I’ll be taking some time off later today and again tomorrow. Thought I’d put in extra hours in advance.’
‘Oh yes! Tomorrow is the big day for you. Your computer literacy class is being launched. All the best, Moin. Any more trouble from the guys from the adjacent colony?’
‘Thankfully not. Fingers crossed.’
■
The sun had set by the time Moin reached the mosque, which now had a palpable air of excitement and anticipation about it. A few men and a number of children milled around the gate and the small compound, their attention centred not on the mosque itself, but on a room abutting it. That was where the computer literacy classes would be held.
A Tata Ace truck had just delivered cartons containing computers, peripherals and UPSs donated by several companies, including MyMagicHat. With the tables and chairs inside the room yet to be arranged, the cartons sat outside in the mosque compound. The room had been painted and, for a change, all the lights and fans were in working order.
‘Oi, Moin!’ one of the men called out, as Moin entered the compound. ‘I was hoping that you wouldn’t be late.’
‘How could I?’ Moin asked, feeling pleased and excited. This was his little dream and he couldn’t wait to witness its culmination the next day.
While there were others to handle other tasks, it was he and Najeeb who would have to set up the computers, the local network and the Internet connection. Moin had told the others not to arrange the tables or chairs until he arrived.
He and Najeeb first inspected the new wiring and checked that all the new power outlets and LAN ports were in working order. Once they were satisfied, they began arranging the tables along two walls facing each other. At one of the far corners, where the Internet connection came in, they set a table for the server. Beside it, they placed another table for the printer.
Once the tables were in place, the older boys of the colony began bringing the cartons into the room and placing them on the tables. Soon, all the tables had been loaded and a couple of cartons with LAN cords, surge protectors and other essentials sat on the floor.
‘You can watch, but don’t come in the way,’ Moin advised the eager children who were gambolling about in excitement. ‘And don’t touch anything, especially the wires.’
Najeeb had just opened one of the cartons when some kind of commotion erupted outside. Raised voices and shrill protests were heard. Moin recognized familiar voices pleading with rough strangers who were shouting accusations and abuse.
Thugs from the adjoining colony had come to disrupt the preparations.
‘You!’ Moin called in Kannada to the tallest boy in the room. ‘Run to the police station and tell them what’s happening. Ask them to come immediately. Don’t stop till you get there.’
The boy turned and ran out immediately to do as he had been instructed and Moin asked Najeeb to call the police officer who had offered to help them. As his friend dialled the number, Moin went to the door and looked out. A dozen rough-looking youths from the adjacent colony were making their way into the mosque compound, even as the men from the neighbourhood tried to hold them back. Two other locals were trying unsuccessfully to close the gate. Moin recognized several of the thugs – Richard, Ganesh and some others; they were the ones who had caused trouble on previous occasions. But this time, there was something ominous about them; they seemed intent on creating mayhem.
Moin’s blood ran cold as a second glance revealed that the intruders were carrying hockey sticks and iron rods. Several of them were eyeing the doorway where he stood.
Moin leapt back into the room and slammed the door shut, only to discover that he couldn’t latch it. The new bolts hadn’t been installed yet and the old ones were out of alignment.
‘Throw your weight against the door and hold it shut!’ he called to the boys inside the room. ‘Don’t let them come in!’
Even as the boys, wide-eyed with fear, rushed to do his bidding and put their combined weight against the door, the sound of running footsteps outside was followed by a violent thud, as a couple of brawny bodies flung themselves at the door. Moin shot a glance at Najeeb, who was speaking animatedly into his phone. His eyes then fell on a group of small children, rigid with terror, tears moistening their eyes, backing away to the far end of the room. The oldest of them couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old.
‘Come here!’ he called to them and strode to the far corner that was empty.
He made them all gather in the corner and dragged a table in front of them to serve as a shield. Behind him, Najeeb was pushing another table forward and positioning it in front of the one Moin had set up to form a double barricade.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Moin reassured the children in Kannada. ‘The police will be here soon and those men will run away. Just stay behind the tables and you’ll be safe.’
A loud crash, accompanied by cries of shock and dismay, came from behind him, as the goons at the door overpowered the boys and burst into the room. Behind the thugs came a couple of local men, bravely trying to prevent the attackers from wielding their hockey sticks and iron rods.
‘Run!’ Moin shouted to the boys who had been trying to hold the door closed against the toughs.
Even as he spoke, the first hockey stick smashed down on an unopened carton sitting on a table. The next moment, other cartons in the room had become targets. Glass shattered as a thug turned his attention to the only cupboard in the room. One of the two local men who were trying to stop the attackers from doing further damage fell to the floor with blood streaming down his face. Elsewhere in the room, there was an audible crack as an iron rod crashed into the other man’s arm.
‘Why?’ Moin yelled in disbelief and anguish. ‘Why are you doing this? Stop! Stop it!’
By now, the boys had fled from the room and two more local men were rushing in to the rescue. They carried stout sticks, one of which crunched into the back of a thug’s head, sending him crashing to the floor. Another couple of local men entered the room and a pitched battle began. Another thug fell, clutching his face.
His back to the tables shielding the whimpering children, Moin gaped at the mindless violence, trying to make sense of it. Then he noticed a stranger entering the room. The man was dressed in a loose-fitting green kurta and matching pyjamas. A white crochet prayer cap sat on his head. The man seemed to have no interest in the melee and quickly scanned the room until his gaze had come to rest on Moin. With his eyes riveted on him, the stranger strode forward, crossing the floor in long strides. When he was barely a couple of feet from Moin, the man drew back his arm. In his hand was a long, narrow dagger, about half an inch wide at the base, its point wickedly sharp.
With his eyes still locked on Moin’s face, the man thrust his arm forward, sliding the stiletto effortlessly into the left side of his target’s chest. Other than a momentary prick, Moin felt nothing. When he looked down at his chest, however, his eyes widened in disbelief; the man was still holding the stiletto pressed into his chest and moving its hilt repeatedly from side to side.
Searing pain erupted inside Moin’s chest as the razor-sharp blade sliced through vital tissue. The next moment, the man had withdrawn the gleaming maroon blade. He tossed a quick glance at Moin’s face, now contorted in pain, and turned to leave.
The pain in Moin’s chest was turning into a dull ache and the point where the stiletto had entered his body was becoming numb. Even as his vision began darkening around the edges, he was aware of Najeeb rushing up to confront his assailant. In retaliation, the man slashed the stiletto in a wide arc, catching Najeeb on his left arm and across the width of his chest. Najeeb recoiled in pain and fear. Seizing his opportunity, the man ran out of the room.
He had been there for less than a minute.
The whimpering of the children behind Moin had turned into terrified sobs, but try as he might, he couldn’t make himself turn around to comfort them. As he felt his body collapse and slide to the floor, a maelstrom of thoughts assaulted his mind. The loudest and most persistent of them was a question: ‘Why?’
Through his darkening vision, he saw the goons staring at him with shocked expressions before bolting from the room. Najeeb, his arm and chest bleeding profusely, was kneeling before him. Tears streamed down his face. Moin heard someone behind Najeeb shout, ‘Ambulance!’ and ‘Police!’
He wondered why, for his mind was refusing to accept what his eyes had just witnessed. He realized he had been stabbed, but certainly not fatally. So fine a blade couldn’t possibly kill a person, unless it was used to slit a throat. He should be okay, he told himself. He hoped he would have sufficiently recovered by the following morning to launch the computer class. He couldn’t understand the grief he saw on Najeeb’s face, not even when his whole body went numb and darkness descended upon his world. Somehow, he felt happy that the face he saw before him was that of his childhood friend, the face of one who was almost a brother.
His last vision was that of his best friend’s grief-stricken face.
Chapter 15
Dhruvi rapidly blinked away the tears in her eyes as she stared down at Moin’s lifeless body. The anger and grief that had welled up inside her were difficult to contain. But in such a situation, it wouldn’t do for a police officer to reveal any feelings that could be construed as weakness. She was as human as the next person, but emotion was the last thing she should betray now. Her role demanded it.
She had known Moin for only a few days, but had quickly grown to like the simple, amiable guy. The way he had gamely consented to playing his part in trapping Harry, despite his considerable apprehensions, had found favour with her. Gautam had thrown Moin into the deep end, so to speak, but the young man had bravely taken up the challenge. He had been amateurish, but that had acted in their favour – Harry had been completely taken in.
Unbidden, Harry’s face, contorted in fury, rose in her mind.
‘You will not get away with this, Moin Aziz!’ he had snarled from behind bars. ‘You are going to pay for it.’
Dhruvi’s attention was caught by the sight of Alex striding into the room. He approached her and spoke softly into her ear.
‘The mob that attacked the mosque, ma’am,’ he said. ‘They’re hiding in the local MLA’s house.’
‘MLA?’ Dhruvi’s gaze snapped to her assistant’s face. ‘What’s he got to do with this? Is there a political angle here?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Alex’s morose face was pensive. ‘The thugs in the next colony have the MLA’s ear. The local strongmen – one of whom is the mob’s boss – owes allegiance to the MLA.’
‘I see… Is this a communal attack? Something to do with targeting a community and its mosque?’
Alex shook his head slowly. ‘Too early to tell.’
‘Okay.’ Dhruvi turned and strode out of the room towards the police car, with Alex following her. ‘I’m going to speak to the MLA.’
‘Ma’am, wait!’ Alex’s lugubrious face erupted into a rare display of anxiety. His arm shot out to grasp Dhruvi’s, but stopped short. ‘We should think this through. The MLA is a very…er…crude man. He was the local strongman before he got elected. Anything could happen if you entered his house at this time of the night.’
‘I can handle myself, Alex.’
‘He has strong political connections too.’
‘So?’
Dhruvi spun around to face her deputy. The scar on her forehead had gone white, but she made no attempt to hide it. They had just reached the police Innova.
‘It might just be worthwhile speaking to the ACP first, ma’am.’
‘And what will the ACP do at this time of the night?’ Dhruvi’s eyes were steady, but fiery. Not waiting for Alex to hazard a guess, she went on, ‘He’ll ask us to wait. He will want to consult higher-ups and we’ll end up waiting the whole night and cooling our heels.’
‘Yes, ma’am. But on the other hand, you don’t want to stir up something the higher-ups would give anything to avoid, do you? It might just be wiser to speak to them first – at least, where politicians are involved.’
‘And give the thugs time to regroup? And the MLA to concoct a story and prepare witnesses? No, Alex, time is of the essence. We should strike while the iron is hot.’
‘But, ma’am, you know what the DCP thinks of women officers tackling situations where they might be putting themselves in physical danger.’
She flashed a quick smile at her assistant and jumped into the Innova.
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
She dialled a number from her mobile as soon as they were in the car. It was a contact at one of the major Hindi TV news channels. As Alex listened, aghast, Dhruvi quickly gave a brief account of the attack on the mosque and on Moin’s death and asked the person at the other end to get to the mosque with cameras and an outdoor van.
As soon as she had hung up, she called a local Kannada news channel and repeated the conversation.
‘Things are in motion, Alex,’ she said with a slight smile, pocketing her mobile phone. ‘The news will be public in an hour.’
‘The DCP will not be pleased if this gets out of hand, ma’am,’ Alex moaned. ‘He will have my hide for it.’
‘No, he won’t. This is my decision – despite your advice to the contrary. Now, stay in the car while I go in alone.’
‘But, ma’am –’
‘Give me fifteen minutes. If I don’t come out by then, come in or raise hell, whichever you prefer.’
A few minutes later, Dhruvi was walking up the front steps of a large independent house, surrounded by tall, whitewashed walls. Rough-looking men hanging around the gate tossed curious glances at the young woman in uniform.
Dhruvi stepped into a spacious hall where sofas and chairs were arranged in groups. Only one of these was occupied by an enormous moustachioed man with a stern, unforgiving face. He was dressed entirely in white. On the table beside him sat a plate of fried chicken and a glass half-full of an amber drink. Behind the seated man and around him stood four other men, servile in manner and visibly uneasy at the intrusion by a uniformed female police officer. The door closed behind Dhruvi.
She joined her palms together in a brief namaste and introduced herself to the seated man in Kannada. The MLA on the sofa didn’t reciprocate her gesture. Instead, his gaze swept down from her face, pausing at her chest, waist and hips as it unhurriedly took in the rest of her. Then it sauntered back upwards and came to rest on her face again.
‘I have come to talk about the incident at the mosque,’ Dhruvi said in Kannada, standing erect and ignoring the man’s lecherous gaze.
The MLA picked up a piece of chicken from his plate and chewed it leisurely, his expression betraying a mixture of surprise, amusement and disdain.
‘You are a young and inexperienced police officer,’ he drawled, choosing to continue the discussion in Kannada. ‘You can make a fine woman officer, you know. But you must be careful. And make the right friends too. You have your whole career ahead of you.’
‘That’s why I’ve come to you,’ Dhruvi replied politely, adopting a formal tone. ‘I’ve come to ask for your help in investigating the incident. And I offer help in return.’
Surprise flickered on the pitted face.
‘And what help do you offer?’ he asked slowly, his calculating eyes studying her face anew.
‘The incident is very recent and still fresh in people’s minds,’ Dhruvi replied. ‘Nobody, apart from us and the affected people, knows the details. By “nobody”, I mean nobody in the government and no other political leaders. If you so choose, you could be the first leader to receive this information. After all, the incident happened in your constituency.’
There was interest in the man’s eyes now. Without taki
ng his gaze off her, he took a swig from his glass and nodded. He still hadn’t invited her to take a seat.
‘Go on.’
‘A group of at least a dozen men attacked the mosque,’ Dhruvi began. ‘Ganesh, Yellappa, Rahman, David, Arun, Satish and Richard – these are the seven names I have so far. I’ll have the other names shortly. There were 40–50 witnesses to the incident. Some of them took photographs with their mobile phones and some shot videos. The police are gathering photos and videos. The available evidence will be substantial, leaving us in little doubt as to the identities of the culprits.’
The MLA’s face had frozen at the mention of the names and the men standing behind him shifted uneasily.
‘Two TV crews are already at the spot,’ she lied. ‘The first, a national Hindi channel and the other, a Kannada channel.’ She had deliberately chosen to mention a Hindi channel because of the MLA’s lack of familiarity with that language. ‘They are filming the crime scene and interviewing witnesses as we speak. I would not be surprised if the news is broadcast within an hour. I thought you might want to be kept informed about that.’
The MLA’s face was a mask of anger now. He drained the contents of his glass as his eyes flicked to a man standing at the door behind Dhruvi. A servant took away the glass to refill it.
‘As I said, we know the identities of those who attacked the mosque,’ Dhruvi concluded. ‘Not only that, we also know where they are right now. And the last piece of news is that one man – a mild-mannered, well-liked young man called Moin Aziz – was killed during the attack. Not just killed in the general melee, but deliberately targeted and murdered.’
Dhruvi stood motionless, her feet planted slightly apart, her gaze fixed on the MLA. She had shocked him into silence, but there was no saying how he would react once he recovered. That was the first part of her plan. The second was soon to come. She waited for his reaction.