by Piyush Jha
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After the customary exclamations at Samir's troubles and the shedding of some tears, Aunty Gladys had laid out the red carpet for him. She had fed him chicken-and-spinach quiches and fresh Hungarian cake. Samir had initially protested, as he was anxious to know his past, but then, he realized that he had not eaten anything since the biscuits and water offered to him by the drug smugglers. He quickly gobbled up as much food as he could. Aunty Gladys made him wash down all the goodies with an ice-cold bottle of raspberry soda. Samir gladly drank the sweet, medicinal-tasting liquid and was grateful for the sugar kick it brought, along with its fizz.
Wiping his mouth and burping the last of the bubbles away, Samir was ready to hear his story. Gladys recalled how she had first met Samir, a newly married, young, up-and-coming leather goods entrepreneur. He had entered into an arrangement with her to rent the upper floor of Gladioli Cottage, the house that her dead husband had lovingly built for her. Samir had promised to restore the crumbling cottage to its former glory, and buy it in the future. Aunty Gladys had been happy, as she didn't want to sell the house to developers, who had been eyeing Sherly Village like a pack of hungry wolves. Samir and his pretty young wife, Bahaar, had moved in and brought a ray of sunshine into the widowed Aunty Gladys's lonely life.
Aunty Gladys had especially taken to Bahaar, Samir's young nymph-like wife. Bahaar had come into Samir's life on one of his business trips to Delhi. As a sales girl at a five-star boutique, she had sold Samir a designer tie, then a shirt and a suit. She would have sold him the entire shop, were it not for good sense prevailing on him at the last minute. Samir had asked her out on a date then and there. The initial spark between them had turned into a raging fire that could only be doused by marriage. For a while, after marriage, they had lived a quiet and happy life in Gladioli Cottage. The only disturbance that Aunty Gladys suffered due to them was the sounds of their incessant lovemaking.
And then, Babri Masjid was demolished. The secular foundations of Mumbai were rocked, riots erupted and chaos ruled.
One night, Samir had been summoned urgently to his factory in Dharavi to address some worker-related issues. He wouldn't have gone, had it not been for the large order of leather gloves that had to be executed for an American client. He ventured to his factory that night, never to return again... till this day.
Everyone had thought he was dead. Burnt alive. Bahaar had been heartbroken. She had mourned him intensely, refusing to go out of the house for months. Then she had told Aunty Gladys that she could not bear Samir's absence anymore. She had decided to go away as she couldn't live in Gladioli Cottage without Samir any longer. The home they had built together reminded her too much of him. Aunty Gladys had understood, had wished her well when she left. It had been almost nineteen years since then and Aunty Gladys had never heard from, or seen her, again.
Aunty Gladys paused in her story and wiped her eyes. A stunned Samir took a sip of water. She then picked up where she had left off.
Ten years later, she had succumbed to the machinations of a developer and Gladioli Cottage had turned into Gladioli Apartments. She had been relegated to her first-floor apartment, whose only respite was the balcony, where she spent most of her day. As for Bahaar, no one knew where she lived. However, a few years ago, Gladys's younger son, who was visiting from Canada, had bumped into Bahaar in Colaba one day. She had told him that she lived close by but didn't give her address. Samir's business partner, Rishi, who lived in Delhi and used to visit him and Bahaar every now and then, had also called on the phone once to check for some mail, but had not left any number to call back on.
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Dense grey smoke. Orange flames licking at his feet. Through the black haze beyond, a face appeared. Rishi. He seemed tense. Scared. 'Let me help you,' he said. He grabbed Samir by the shirt collars and dragged him through the blackness.
Outside, there was a cool wind blowing. Breathing would have been easier were it not for the cloth stuffed inside Samir's mouth. A hanndkerchief! He tried to spit it out, but couldn't. He drew in as much fresh air as he could through his nostrils.
Rishi looked back at the factory. He looked around. There was no one else. But there were voices coming from inside the factory. Angry. Violent. Ready to kill. Rishi suddenly noticed a truck parked nearby.
He dragged Samir to the truck, heaving him into the dark empty back of the truck. Samir lay flat on the vehicle's cold metallic floor.
Blackness. Blackness. Blackness.
The truck started moving. Samir opened his mouth to shout but no sound came out. He opened his eyes wide. Weak. Blackness again. Samir had rolled to one side of the moving truck. He grabbed at the canvas siding of the truck and pulled himself up. Through the peephole of the driver's cabin, he could see the driver concentrating on the black road. Samir tried shouting again but no sound emanated from his mouth. The handkerchief. Samir pulled out the hanky and...screamed.
The driver heard him. Shocked, he spun around. Through the peephole, he saw Samir's bleeding face and was aghast. The truck swerved. The driver had lost control. It spun off the road and Samir was violently thrown out of the truck. Blackness again.
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'Rishi...Rishi saved my life,' said Samir, coming out of his thoughts.
Aunty Gladys was staring at him, a glass of water ready in her hands.
'Thank God you're fine. I thought you were having a stroke.' She handed the glass to him. He drank till the last drop.
'Sorry...my memory comes back in flashes'
Aunty Gladys smiled benevolently. 'Would you like to eat something more, son?'
Samir shook his head.
'Where can I find Rishi, Aunty?' he asked.
Aunty Gladys shrugged. 'I wish I could help you, Samir, but, like I said, I have no contact at all.'
Samir nodded, a little dismayed. 'I have to find Bahaar. Today is her birthday'
Aunty Gladys smiled. 'You'll have to go and search in Colaba. Wait.' She walked into an inner room.
She emerged a few minutes later and handed Samir a thousand-rupee note and some change. Samir started to wave away the money, but she pressed the notes into his hands.
'This is all I have right now. Please take it. I wish I could come with you, but I haven't gone out of the house for months now. I am scared. The world has changed'.
'If you are scared, think how I might be feeling,' said Samir, pokerfaced. 'I've not been out for nineteen years,' he laughed, a hint of mischief in his eyes. Aunty Gladys looked at him, serious for a few seconds, then burst into laughter. Samir glanced at the cash in his hand and studied the thousand-rupee currency note. 'One thousand rupees in one note? Wow! India has really progressed.'
Aunty Gladys was rueful. 'It will buy you as much as a hundred-rupee in 1993.'
Samir made his way to the door.
'Aunty Gladys, thank you for your kindness. Its value is greater than ever today.'
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Raghu's SUV turned off Carter Road and entered the Sherly Village area. He held a computer printout in one hand, with track points showing the movement of Radheshyam's mobile phone over the past few hours. Raghu was looking for the last point that Radheshyam had stopped at in Bandra. He stopped his SUV right in front of Gladioli Apartments, got out and stood in the middle of the road, looking at all the buildings around, wondering which one Samir and Radheshyam had gone into. A curious watchman called out from behind a closed gate, 'Saab, please don't park in front of our gate.' Raghu gestured to him to come out, but the watchman was hesitant. Raghu walked towards him and fished out a brand new hundred-rupee note from his wallet. He flashed it in front of the watchman.
'Did two men on a motorcycle come here a couple of hours before? One man was in a white hospital uniform.'
The watchman gulped, his eyes shining. He quickly reached out and pocketed the hundred-rupee note. 'Yes, saab. I tried to stop them, but Gladys madam called the one in the hospital uniform to her place. The other one left on the motorcycle. Saala la
fanga.'
Raghu was excited. 'Who is this Gladys? Where is the man? Is he still with her?'
The watchman eyed Raghu's wallet. Raghu sighed, pulled out another hundred-rupee note and handed it to the watchman. 'He left about an hour ago for Bandra station, saab. I know, because I got the autorickshaw for him from the naka,' said the watchman.
Though disappointed, Raghu was not ready to give up. 'I want to meet this Gladys.'
The watchman now retracted behind the iron gate. 'That I cannot do, saab, until I have her permission.' Raghu took out a thousand-rupee note this time. The watchman almost salivated. His hand darted out but before he could take it, Raghu had grabbed his wrist. 'Open the gate first,' Raghu hissed into his ears. The watchman gulped and unlocked the gate.
The watchman locked the gate behind them and whispered. 'I will take you to her, but I will say that you are from the BMC.'
Raghu nodded.
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In comparison to other local railway stations in Mumbai, Bandra station in the mid-afternoon is not very crowded, However, Samir, who had arrived after a bumpy ride on the autorickshaw, was still taken aback by the number of people standing in front of the ticket counter. Not sure which queue he should join, he stood in a corner of the ticketing area but was still jostled by people hurrying to join one queue or the other. Finally deciding that he would risk it, Samir stepped forward and joined what seemed the shortest queue. After a long few minutes, he got his turn at the counter. He fished out the thousand-rupee note. 'Churchgate' he said. The man behind the counter pointed to a sign above. The sign read, 'Please tender exact change.' Samir was about to request the ticket-seller to make an exception in his case when the irritated people standing behind him started making a noise, asking him to leave the queue and not waste everybody's time. He was pushed aside by a clucking, no-nonsense lady in a polyester sari. He stood by the side of the queue, not knowing what to do, till an old man took pity on him and said, 'Go to a food stall and buy something. They will give you change.'
Samir thanked the man and headed inside to the platforms. As he walked towards the food stall, a man with an open tin canister on his head rushed past him, spilling some of its contents on Samir's hand. It was some kind of cooking oil. He rubbed his hands together to get rid of the greasiness but realized that he had just transferred the slick oil onto the other hand. He looked desperately around for some water to wash it off with, but all he could spot was a crush of people. Then, in a far corner of the platform, he noticed a sign for a lavatory and walked towards it.
Just as he was about to enter, a man lounging by the door raised his leg across, barring the entrance. Samir stopped, confused. The man gave him an imbecilic smile. Samir stared back. The moronic smile turned into an impatient look as the man asked, 'What? Is it your first time here? Give me ten rupees'
Samir still did not understand what the man was talking about. 'Ten rupees for what?' he asked.
The young imbecile sneered at Samir. 'For using the toilet, of course.'
'But it is free, isn't it?' asked Samir.
'Where have you been, Uncle?' the young man snarled. 'Nothing is free in this world. Soon we will start charging you to breathe. Don't take it personally, its just business.'
Samir decided that he had had enough of the young halfwit and his attempt at extortion, so he pushed past him and headed into the lavatory. This took the young man by surprise and he called out from behind Samir, 'Hey! Stop!' But Samir kept heading into the lavatory, taking care not to slip on the dirty wet white tiles. He bent at a washbasin and toggled the tap. In the meantime, the young man had come up behind him and grabbed his shirt. Samir spun around. While trying to steady himself, he slipped on one knee. The man's grip on his shirt broke, but he lunged at Samir again. This time, Samir instinctively raised his hands in defence. The man's hands connected with Samir's and he grabbed at them to pull Samir forward. The oil smeared on Samir's hands acted as a lubricant and the young man's grip slipped. He went careening in the other direction with the force of his own backward momentum. His foot slipped on the slick floor and he fell backwards. His head connected with the edge of a washbasin. The crack of his skull reverberated within the empty environs of the lavatory. Immediately, he was rendered unconscious. He might have survived this skull fracture, had he not fallen on the floor head-first, at such an angle that his neck snapped on the spot.
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Rishi was shouting, papers spilling out of his agitated hands. His aristrocratic features were contorted with anger.
The papers were some sort of account statements. He was obviously not happy with them, as he threw them in the air and walked out in a huff. Samir called out to him. Rishi turned and walked back, stopping almost an inch away from Samir's face.. 'This is not personal, its business,' he said.
Samir slapped him in response.
A shocked Rishi stood still, unsure of how to react.
Looking at his downcast face, Samir hugged Rishi, begging forgiveness. It was personal. After all Rishi was his own—more than his business partner—his cousin, his blood.
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Samir walked towards the young man's prone body, shaking. Bending down, he shook him. The man was still. Samir rolled him over and his lifeless eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. A scream from behind him dragged Samir's attention away from the dead young man. A boy stood at the entrance to the lavatory, his wide eyes fixed on Samir, his mouth spewing incoherent, shocked words. Samir rushed towards the boy in an attempt to pacify him and explain what had happened. But the boy, ran back to the milling crowd on the platform, shouting his first coherent word: 'Murder!'
Samir emerged on the platform to be greeted by a host of accusing eyes. Scared, he put up his hands, 'It was an accident,' he shouted to no one in particular. Two men rushed past him into the lavatory. A few others started advancing towards him. Samir made a dash for the far end of the platform.
'Stop!' one man yelled from behind him, but Samir had no intention of doing so. He ran up the stairs to the footbridge that was not very crowded at the time of the afternoon. Unfortunately, he ran headlong into a railway police constable who was coming from the other side. The constable saw the agitated men behind Samir and registered the scared expression on Samir's face. He reached out to grab Samir, but Samir ducked. The constable lost his balance and went rolling down the stairs. Samir continued his flight up the stairs. As he reached the bridge, he turned and ran towards the eastern side of the Bandra station. Luckily for him, a train had just come in and deposited a large number of commuters on the far eastern platform of the station. Samir merged into a bunch of commuters who were climbing up the stairs. Cutting through them, he ran down the stairs to the platform. When he reached the platform below, he hopped into the stationary train. Not stopping to look behind, he jumped onto the railway tracks on the other side. He searched for a gap in the metal fencing that separated the railway tracks from the Behrampada slums. Finding one a few hundred yards ahead; he quickly jumped through it and entered the slums. He ran headlong through narrow, maze-like gullies and came to an abrupt stop as he tripped over a man who was huddled near a door. A high-pitched voice cried out, 'Teri jaat ka baida maru!'
Samir turned his face to see that the man was a bag of bones. He had a thin, bony face that was scrunched up in agony as he rubbed the spot on his chest where Samir's foot had connected. As Samir lay on the ground, gasping for breath, he looked the man up and down, incredulous.. His bones stuck out through his T-shirt and his ribs could easily be counted. Still in pain, the man now shook a thin fist at Samir's face. 'I will break two for every bone of mine that you have broken,' he shouted at Samir. 'I will break your jaw with one punch. I have watched Dabangg five times'
Samir couldn't help breaking into laughter at the living skeleton's threats.
'Sorry. I am very sorry, bhai,' said Samir, placating him.
'That's right. I am a bhai. A gangster, Gardullah bhai.' The emaciated man proclaimed.
Samir lowered his head in obeisance. 'Please forgive me, Abdullah bhai,' he said.
'Not Abdullah, Gardullah,' said the man. 'Gardullah, the king of all the garad, all the smack in Bandra East. Not pansy stuff like marijuana or fancy-vancy cocaine, but hardcore, pure, fully-adulterated brown sugar.'
Samir raised an eyebrow. 'You are a drug smuggler?'
Gardullah sneered. 'I am bigger than a drug smuggler. I am a drug user. I have used every drug known to man and nothing has happened to me. See,' he pointed to his body.
Samir looked him up and down once more. 'Yes, I can see,' he said with a straight face. Suddenly, Samir remembered what he had been up to, before he ran headlong into Gardullah. He did some quick thinking. 'Gardullah bhai, please help me.'
'What is the matter?' asked Gardullah.
'There was an accident, it...it...wasn't my fault. People are after me.'
Noting the urgency in Samir's voice, Gardullah motioned Samir to follow him. 'Come on, I will show you a place to hide.'
A grateful Samir followed Gardullah through a maze into an open garbage dump. Samir held his breath as a rancid stench rose from the dump to his nostrils. Gardullah stopped in front of a section of a giant pipeline with pieces of metal welded onto it. He understood their purpose only when he saw Gardullah expertly use these metal pieces as handholds and footholds to clamber over the giant pipe. Gardullah hopped onto the pipeline with his lithe frame. As Samir too crawled on top of it, he saw an empty space that lay between the two adjoining sections of the pipeline. Gardullah had used the space to create a living area that could comfortably accommodate two men. As Samir eased himself into the space, Gardullah threw a ratty cushion at him, motioning him to use it to rest his back against the hot metal pipe. He smiled and said, 'Welcome to my Pipe Star Hotel.'
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Raghu's SUV cut through the crowd of autorickshaws buzzing around Bandra station. He had spent the last forty-five minutes pretending to be a BMC water inspector who was trying to improve the water supply in Sherly Village and seeking the advice of prominent residents of the area, one of them being Aunty Gladys. She had been very kind and, thankfully, garrulous. In between her water woes, she had also passed on details of how she had met a man whom she had believed to be dead for almost twenty years. In a somewhat sketchy manner, she told Raghu all she had told Samir. Raghu had come to the quick conclusion that he had to now follow Samir to Colaba. He left, after thanking Aunty Gladys profusely for her hospitality and her expert ideas about improving the residents' water supply. As he headed towards the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, somewhere near Mount Mary, he received a call from Inspector Pandian. The call was regarding a message received over the police wireless about a madman, attired in hospital clothes, being involved in some sort of murder incident at Bandra station. Raghu could not believe that this could be Samir, but decided anyway to investigate this. He turned his vehicle towards Bandra station.