“What do you mean?”
“Rest of bodies caught up in blaze, there was no trace of kerosene. Not like this one – you can be smelling kerosene even from across room.”
“Suicide?” asked Tanvir.
There was a nod.
“Surely not – it would be such a horrible way to die,” insisted Singh, revolted by the idea.
“You are saying that,” said the Indian policeman, his expression lugubrious, “but actually it is quite a common method of suicide here in India.”
Singh scowled. He was tired. He smelt bad. He was in a police station in India in the company of an arrogant young man. The last thing he needed was cultural variations in suicide methods.
“Let us see the body,” he said abruptly. “If it’s not Ashu, we are just wasting our time speculating as to what might have happened.”
The ACP shrugged a burly shoulder as if to suggest that the body would have been his first port of call but who was he to argue with members of Tara Singh’s family let alone a senior policeman from Singapore? He led the way through a maze of narrow corridors until they came to a room at the back.
A body lay on a steel trestle, covered in a thin cotton sheet. Two blackened stumps, which Singh assumed must once have been feet, stuck out from the bottom. The stink of kerosene and burnt flesh was strong enough to make his eyes water. ACP Patel was fastidiously holding a spotless handkerchief across his nose and mouth. Tanvir looked as if he was about to throw up but when Patel asked him if he needed more time in a solicitous tone, he shook his head.
The ACP walked over to the corpse and flicked back the sheet with the flair of a conjurer. Singh shut his eyes for a moment. Tanvir was made of sterner stuff. He walked closer to the table and looked down at the body. The face was blackened; lips burnt away exposing teeth in a wild grimace. One eye had been incinerated but the other was open and staring. Patches of hair remained on the scalp but most had been destroyed by the flames. An ear remained intact and untouched and was devastating in its incongruity. A small gold earring with a red stone glimmered on the lobe.
ACP Patel cleared his throat. “Are you able to identify body?”
Tanvir nodded once and then cleared his throat and spoke. “Yes, this is my sister, Ashu Kaur.”
“Are you sure?” asked Patel, looking at the grotesque parody of a human being on the table.
“Yes, those were her favourite earrings, you see.”
Six
Singh, trying to spare Tanvir further unpleasant details, whispered his questions to the ACP while the brother was in the washroom – as if the stench of death could be erased through the application of soap and water.
“A death in unusual circumstances – there will have to be an autopsy.” Patel’s tone was apologetic and his intention clear. Singh was to convey the regret of the police to Tara Singh that his granddaughter would not be coming home yet.
“But please tell Sardarji Tara that it is a formality only and we will release the body for burial as soon as possible.”
“Will you investigate the death?”
“Of course! But between us it is quite clear the girl is killing herself to avoid marriage. We will close file as soon as possible to avoid further embarrassment to family.”
“You know about the marriage?”
“Who doesn’t, Sardarji? Everyone in Mumbai is invited. This will be causing a huge scandal.” He shook his head.
“You don’t think it could be foul play?”
ACP Patel looked shocked, his jowls dragged upwards by his arched eyebrows. “Naa, naa! She just had frozen feet, you know? We will soon be finding evidence of an unsuitable boyfriend, I am quite sure of this. I just hope he hasn’t been killing himself too. Perhaps they were thinking that they were like Romeo and Juliet?”
“Call me if you find anything,” suggested Singh, eager to avoid any further Shakespearean parallels, and scribbled his Indian mobile number on a piece of paper.
“It will be my great pleasure,” said ACP Patel and sounded as if he meant it.
The sound of footsteps signalled the return of Tanvir and both men dropped the subject with tacit agreement.
In the car, he agreed with Tanvir that they would not reveal the extent of the damage to the body. “My mother and grandfather are not strong enough for such knowledge,” Tanvir muttered and Singh had nodded his great head in acknowledgement. No close relative should have to go through such an ordeal. Singh had taken a strong dislike to the deceased’s eldest brother quite early on in their acquaintance but he had to admit that the man had courage.
“Any idea why your sister would have done such a thing?” he asked.
“None whatsoever,” replied Tanvir, “but this is going to break Tara Baba’s heart.”
♦
Indian families tend to respond to death, even that of the old, with uncontrolled exhibitions of grief. Even Sikhs, who are taught to view death as an opportunity for a soul to reunite with its maker, are not averse to a little loud mourning.
It was not surprising therefore that the death of a beautiful young woman just before her wedding provoked scenes that would usually have caused the inspector to seek refuge elsewhere. His wife, however, insisted that they stay at the apartment even if it turned into an all-night vigil. This wasn’t exactly the rest-cure his doctors had recommended, dashing around Mumbai identifying burnt-out corpses. But when Singh saw the upright posture of Tara Singh as he sat quietly in a chair accepting condolences, he felt that he owed it to the old man to stick around for a while. His mission to find the girl had not lasted very long. She’d been found. Not hiding out with some boyfriend to avoid the upcoming nuptials but a ravaged creature on a steel trestle table. In his mind’s eye, he could see the twinkling ruby in her ear.
Lost in thought, the inspector hadn’t noticed Tara Singh walk over to him. Now he looked up and met the tired eyes of a grieving old man.
“Walk with me for a moment,” said Tara and the inspector nodded his head in acquiescence.
Tara Singh led the way onto a small balcony with ornate balustrades painted a light blue. They both looked out over a fairyland of lights. Mumbai was as awake at night as during the day. Silhouettes of buildings and cranes framed the horizon. A full yellow moon hung low in the sky like a Chinese lantern. Faint sounds of laughter, sirens and traffic drifted upwards from the streets. All cities had the same rhythm at their heart, decided Singh. Under the blanket of night, one could feel at home in any metropolis in the world. Especially one like Mumbai where, at this time of the year, the humidity wrapped itself around his shoulders like one of his wife’s shawls and reminded him of Singapore.
“I cannot believe that she killed herself.”
Singh had expected this opening gambit so he was not surprised. The intentional taking of life was hardest on the bereaved. They had to acknowledge that all the love and affection and material goods showered on the victim had not been sufficient to tether that person to life. Suicide was like an accusation of failure to those left behind. A kick in the gut or the teeth.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the policeman automatically. He didn’t think that Tara Singh would find comfort in platitudes but it was all he had to offer. It might even be true. Who could comprehend the state of mind of someone who’d committed suicide? Singh, who loved life despite his constant grumbling and saw it curtailed by violence far too often, knew that he did not have the imagination to place himself in Ashu’s shoes.
“I’m telling you that I knew Ashu. She was like a daughter to me. There is no way she would have killed herself – and in such a way.”
“The police seem quite sure,” he replied.
“The police in India are like a river, Inspector Singh, always taking the path of least resistance.”
Singh decided to save the metaphor for an occasion when he could use it on Superintendent Chen.
“She was a scientist,” continued Tara. “She was always very rude about what she called the Indian fon
dness for drama. I can imagine that, if she had a terminal disease, she might take a practical way out, with sleeping pills. But this self-immolation? It’s completely out of character.”
Singh didn’t answer because he could not agree but his silence spoke volumes.
“You don’t believe me? You didn’t know Ashu so I can’t blame you. But I’m determined to get to the bottom of this.”
“I can understand that.”
“Will you look into it for me? Exactly what I asked you to do when we thought she was missing, investigate? But this time you’re looking for an explanation of what happened.”
“Will it really make you feel better to know why she did it?”
Tara Singh raised his cane and pointed it at Singh’s chest. “I have never shirked from the truth and I will not do so now.”
Singh, who had taken a prudent step backwards when Tara Singh wielded his cane like a weapon, now watched the old man smash it down on the balcony railings. It shattered into pieces, fine jagged splinters visible at the breaks.
Tara Singh tried a small smile but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
The inspector found his voice as he knelt down on the floor and picked up the larger pieces. “Anger is just one small part of grief,” he said and then wished he hadn’t sounded like someone on the Oprah Winfrey show.
“So, will you do it?”
“I’ll need access to family, friends and workplace. The husband-to-be as well.”
Tara Singh drew his hand across his eyes but nodded once more.
“And you may not like what I find,” he added.
“I see that.”
Did he? wondered the inspector. After all, all roads might lead to a tyrannical grandfather.
“All right then,” said Singh reluctantly. “I’ll investigate Ashu’s death.”
♦
“Have you gone mad?” demanded Mrs. Singh.
His wife’s voice had the incisiveness of a scalpel when she was on the warpath.
“Bad enough you agreed to look for that girl when we thought she was alive – but now what are you hoping to find?”
“The truth?” he suggested and immediately regretted engaging in conversation.
“The truth? How will you find the truth?”
It was a good question, thought Singh, although he suspected that his wife had uttered it in a purely rhetorical, quite possibly metaphysical, manner.
“Anyway,” she continued, pacing the floor of their hotel, “we all know the truth. The silly girl killed herself. I can’t believe that anyone in my family would do such a thing. After they found her such a good husband as well.” Mrs. Singh wrenched her hair into a bun with such force that he suspected she had pulled some hair out at the roots. It explained the sudden tears in her eyes.
“Tara Singh doesn’t believe it was suicide.”
“What does he know?”
“He knows Ashu…”
“So also the brother – but when I spoke to Tanvir he thought Ashu must have done it.”
The inspector looked up with interest. “Really?”
Mrs. Singh nodded curtly, reluctant to be drawn into a discussion on the merits. Her husband knew from experience that she much preferred to harangue than to converse. “He doesn’t know why – maybe she got second thoughts about the wedding and was too afraid to tell the family.”
“What about the mother and younger brother? What do they think?”
“Too upset to say. But I am telling you it was suicide.”
Singh remembered the stubborn chin and sighed.
Mrs. Singh was getting into her stride. “The problem with you is that you like showing off. Always thinking you should investigate this murder, that murder. Then suddenly missing persons also you want to find and now suicide you want to investigate!”
“I thought you’d appreciate my trying to help your family.”
There was a loud snort in response. “What is the use of finding out why she did it? It won’t make anyone feel better! Better to forget as soon as possible.”
Singh had a sudden clear memory of Tara Singh’s stricken face when Tanvir had broken the news of Ashu’s death. “I don’t think there will be much forgetting in that household.”
“Yes, they are very unlucky. Probably the sons will struggle to make good marriages now. Even the handsome one.”
The inspector assumed that it was Tanvir’s looks which had won her approval. The pimply, skinny Ranjit would never have qualified for the epithet.
“Why would that be?” he asked.
“What for pay a big dowry if the family is cursed?”
“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“First the father, now the daughter. It’s too much.”
“What happened to the father?”
Mrs. Singh looked faintly pleased that she had the inside scoop on the family history and, more importantly, her husband was showing some interest in her gossip for a change.
“Killed!” she said dramatically.
“What do you mean, woman?”
“In the riots in Delhi after Indira Gandhi was shot. Gangs attacked their colony because there were a lot of Sikh families there.”
Mrs. Singh sat down on the plush chair by the window and gazed out at the Gateway. Her tone was troubled as she continued. “They doused him in petrol and put a burning tyre around his neck. The whole family saw it. Tanvir was about seven and for a long time he would not speak. Ashu and the youngest boy were too young to remember…”
Singh switched off the television. His appetite for cricket and room service had diminished in the face of these latest revelations.
Perhaps the daughter had chosen this particular method to kill herself because of her memories of the past. Had it been some sort of bizarre homage to her long-dead father?
It seemed a most unlikely choice for a modern Mumbai woman with a good job and an MBA waiting in the wings.
“If Tara Singh had not rescued them, the family would have been finished.”
“It’s not exactly the lap of luxury, that apartment.”
“He didn’t want to spoil them – make them forget their roots. But he did pay for all their education. And they all work for him except that youngest boy who is still in university.”
The policeman nodded. He was being churlish to suggest that the old man had been anything but generous.
Mrs. Singh’s voice took on a conspiratorial note. “They say he agreed a big dowry with the boy’s family – for Ashu.”
“Do people still pay dowries in this day and age?”
“Of course they do. Even Sikhs who are not supposed to by the teachings of the gurus. Nowadays the boys are asking for more and more. They want money and jewellery and property and washing machines.”
“Washing machines?” Singh was baffled.
“Any electrical item. Everyone is wanting one to show off. Even if they still give the clothes to the dhobi wallah. He irons also, you see,” she said, making a vigorous motion with her right hand. Mrs. Singh – the method actor.
So technology had not yet mastered all the skills of that wiry man in the dirty lunghi with a pile of clothes on his head. Singh was suddenly glad. To his surprise, he realised that India was getting under his skin. Already, he was feeling defensive about the old way of doing things.
“I guess Tara Singh can afford a big dowry,” said Singh, looking around at his opulent hotel surroundings.
“Yes, but some of the fathers are taking loans from moneylenders, losing their homes, anything to get the girls married.”
“I don’t remember getting anything from your family,” complained Singh.
“What you get depends on who you are and what you have,” said Mrs. Singh tartly.
Singh retreated from the argument hastily. He tried to imagine a world where sons were auctioned off to the highest bidder, prime ministers were assassinated, men were murdered in front of their families by angry mobs and y
oung girls killed themselves in dramatic fashion to avoid arranged marriages.
He suddenly felt guilty that his own father had left the Punjab looking for a better life so many decades ago. Singh had grown up in Malaysia and then Singapore. A quiet existence without the vicissitudes of life in India. Singh Senior had settled down to serve his colonial masters with genuine enthusiasm, sent his children to English schools and made it quite clear that their future would have to be forged in this new world. And Singh had done reasonably well for himself. He had a job which suited him down to the ground. Not even Superintendent Chen could deprive him of the satisfaction of a killer tracked down and a victim avenged. It was true that he was not wealthy like many Sikhs of the diaspora including his own brothers-in-law. They had become professionals, husbanded their earnings, invested in property and were now busy cultivating expensive habits and speaking of their Indian heritage with the pride of those who did not have to deal with the bureaucracy, corruption and grinding poverty on a daily basis.
Did he feel any vicarious pride in India? It was difficult to say. He wore his turban out of habit. It was more security blanket than religious symbol. He ignored all the teachings of the various gurus and avoided the gurdwaras. He was not the tall warrior of Sikh legend but a short stout man with a limited wardrobe who struggled to reach his shoelaces in the morning. Indeed, it was quite possible that he adopted the turban as an exercise in irony. On the other hand, especially in Singapore, he’d always been aware that he was not part of the homogenous majority seeking after the status symbols of life: cars, condominiums and club memberships.
But he didn’t belong in India either. As far as the population of Mumbai was concerned, he was just another tourist to be fleeced, a foreigner without the necessary survival skills for the big city. Which raised the question – why had he allowed himself to be bullied into taking this case of the suspicious suicide of the beautiful bride? Perhaps it would give him some insight into India, a sense of belonging or at least an understanding of the family history. He grinned, causing his wife to look at him in surprise. That was a rather ambitious proposition. Failing any insights into India, there was still the Taj, the food, the cricket and unexpected sightings of well-preserved Ambassadors. Quite likely, that would have to do, decided Singh, and reached again for the room service menu and the television remote control. In the absence of cigarettes, these would have to be his emotional crutch.
A Curious Indian Cadaver Page 8